Waking two hours before dawn,
my young grandson and I,
The old stagecoach Inn was
dark and silent, squeak
of floorboards underfoot the
only discernible sounds.

A crowd of deer bounded away
off the green front lawn as we
sleepily made our way to the truck.

A bright yellow full moon was on
descending ebb, in a star clustered
sky, allowing just enough light,
to light our way by.


The high desert two lane road was
fully deserted, only our headlights
pierced the darkness. Within seconds
they began to appear, darting from
both sides of the narrow road, as if on
a mission, hypnotically attracted to our
headlights I assume.  At 60 miles an hour
almost impossible to miss.
But, god knows I tried. "Thump, Bump!"

"Thump, bump!" Another bunny under my
wheels, swerving not really mattering, miss
one hit two others. Jackrabbits and cottontails,
as if Kamikaze inspired, eight or ten at a time
from both sides of the road darted headlong
trying to cross. Fast as they were some did not
make it.

We stopped counting the carnage near 100 hits,
no way to tally the many we missed.  No joy in
keeping score of the newly departed. By the time
we reached the Alvord Desert, the ride transformed
into a 25 mile surrealistic trip. Who could have
known there could be so many?

Blood on my tires and my soul, I did not intend.

Out on the vast dry white, hard caked, once long
ago lake bed, now desert, we sat watching the new
day's sun rising up from behind the distant eastern
mountains. This quiet inspiring moment having
been our goal of intention.

All the while, I was distracted from the
magnificent scene before us, as I kept
seeing and hearing the repeated echoes of;
"Thump, Bump! Thump, Bump! Oh no,
not another!" In my guilt ridden brain.  
Why they do it I can not say, compelled
perhaps, like moths to a flame.

He was a man
A lizard
The one that crawls out of its skin
Camouflaging ‘till it’s sweating the rocks

Keen on what it wants, what it feels
That very moment
Is all that matters, all that fills
Him

His fibs
were a well-tailored fit
But he bit his own head off too often
and stood empty

Like a wishing well
or an abyss,
The pit in which I threw my dreams in
But he couldn’t fit the sentiment

Wishes were demands that bared the skeleton
Their little mouths crunching
and talking to him
He calcified his judgement to acquit the fugitive

And he blowtorched my size, my wit
Until he could no longer
speak of it
or enjoy it

I had been burning for days
Up until the day he palpated the shame
Of the impulse, of the way
a man could perfect his death

Behind the mountain of skin, undressed
the tongue was hissing in his pit
I sat him on the chair, roped to one question
Why did you do it

And if guilt is the sharpest
tool to deface him,
the man
couldn’t look at me

A mallard too limp to admit
his interests were monotypic,
only equipped
to fit his own ****

I should have de-plucked it
Drained and throat-hung it
For the many nights
I made love to a liar

But, I let him keep all of his fingers
so the man
may continue
******* himself

The formation of my mind is
              slowly being chloroformed
      within a blanket of fumes
I struggle to expel my meanings

There slowly going numb
           like a reflection diming.
I write a  sentence in the sand
           but its just gets washed away...

Lost games
Longer lost rules
Night-time crimes
Lungs full
Of pungent smoke
Bellies full of *****
And heads full of
Something
And nothing

A kind of homage
To a kind of music
Riding across vinyl
And even crackling shellac
And the dead man's foot
Still taps inside the coffin
Refusing to relinquish
The hard-wired hammer
The outlaw life
Is hard in the dying

                                    By Phil Roberts

I could never get into a killers mind
but i guess its there somewhere
you know, revenge,
thankfully i have never been in that deep
never wounded that bad,
never felt that kind of grief,
never took the law into my own hands,
never felt anger that wild.

Follow that burning you feel in your bones. That tingle of pure fire running through your veins
Ignite your soul.
there is so much I would love
to see

These trees
wrap their arms around my blossoming soul; my true home found in the purest laughter of the wind
and the dancing call of the creek

I am you and you are me

                                 we are everything

To be anything. Moment. Living present to recieve our presence. You are only ever here. Now. Embrace the breath found in these rolling forests
our glittering banks
Embrace your breath.

We are freedom. Living simply, living peacfully. We are love. Embrace this moment always.

The sun brushes kisses upon my upraised face
bringing warmth to my soul
opening in delicious appreciation of the wonderful heat that he is.
Everyday. bestowing kisses and asking nothing in return.
What can be more beautiful
then that?

Take this body. Release tension. Breath deep. Breathe to remind. You are anything. Everything. Take your body and live in your truth. Imagine if you did, how free you would be!

My soul is expanding, wide open hugging the earth in all her glory. So diverse, so intricate, so simple. She is everywhere. Fingers of wind running through my hair, salty kisses of the ocean, brushing my toes. The burbling laugh of mountain streams hopping rocks in their journey of release.
There is no search. There is only now, and the enjoyment of the chickadee calling goodmorning to the toes of sun running between the cedar trunks. There is only now. Breath.

I am you and you are me.

                          **we are everything

I have a son
not too far south
of me, close enough
to jump in my car
and go speak of my love

but I won't put a bit
in his mouth or saddle
him with my troubles

We could cut our palms
open with sharp knives
and be blood brothers
the rest of our lives

and I could find another
woman in the mountains
instead of staying here
with his mother he loves
while he swims his own
sea of life without me

instead I drive long drives
and count the keys
on the black piano
of the highways at night
passing beautiful women
who wave and smile back

but I'm only dreaming
keeping night watch
over my bed,  I dream
about old songs that sing
back to me like one
by Townes Van Zandt
about going down to see
a woman named Kathleen.