When you can't go to Mars.... you die a little.
At least that's what my September mind has conjured.
And I have every right to believe it. I am Earthbound, after all -
And anything further from the Truth -
Has been deported from my Hemisphere, so only Life's little secrets
Remain... And clouds are made of glass.
But Love is a snail on a heap of burning orchids.
And I rarely sleep without my pills.

Knowing you're still alive is like knowing you're dead.
Summer is a beach where whales rest and the night sky feeds
on their souls. But nothing kills gently. Just habitually.
And the rivers run beside you, because underneath you -
are too many bones.  And Winter is the flame you left unattended.
Like Mars.

I go where all my going -
goes. And seldom
circle back.

II

I feel like Black, tastes like the Moon -
Tastes like the heel of my bread
Tastes like my hands...
Thrown up in the
Air.

I have no love, save the prerequisite doom
that your lips prove
a less dangerous
ploy.

And from this height
I might regard you
As a Goddess
to dispel.

But nothing goads  -
a comet, from it's entropy
like a private
Hell.

or a public distortion
Of the Truth...

we tell.

Chewie hasn’t touched his food
I hope he’ll be o.k..
It hasn’t been the same for him
Since Leia passed away.

He’s a melancholy Wookie
as anyone can see.
He mopes around the ship all day
And he’s molting terribly

Twas bad enough when Obi-wan
was struck down by Darth Vader.
But it’s no surprise when an old man dies
That’s expected, now or later.

Our Princess was a force you see
Bringing gales of laughter
which is why we want her here
and not in the hereafter.

He’s a melancholy Wookie
as anyone can see.
He mopes around the ship all day
And he’s molting terribly.


I hope one day we’ll meet again
In Mos Eisley’s Cantina
That gold bikini may not fit
But we’d still be glad to see her.

The water had fallen. And then it rose. And finally, it was green again.

And it was as I descended into the river bed,
through the streams and bramble,
beneath the lush green canopy,
that my peace came back.

It was wild and alive.
And it would fill my soul to be there.

The rich smell of the soil, like something primordial and sweet,
set my memories into motion.
With each step I followed my history backwards,
eager for the lessons that the rain and wind would bring.
And I thought about what was and what is now.
And I recalled so many who had once wandered these wild ways with me before.
Those that have begun to tend their own gradens.
Rows of flowers, orchards, roses, and ivy (trained to grow along ivory latice, like castle walls).
Each thing in its place.

Watered. Nurtured.
Painstakingly cared for and thriving.

But not you.

You are still the winding creek, filled with life and lined with secrets. Ready to rush with fury and beauty at a moments notice.

You are the tall cane and alder making a canopy thick enough to halt the light.

You are the seep willow and the cottonwoods drinking the river bottom directly in to your soul.

You are the raven caw. The calling falcon. The cooing dove. The scream of the hawk. The sound of the sky in every brush stroke note of your voice.

You are the thick brush that touches each bank, powerful and unruly, like bookends to sacred wisdom.

You are the mighty things. The ring of mountians encapsulating the horizon. The clouds that lay with silent fury. The crashing lighting and the echoing thunder. The deep and silent woods.

You are not the garden.

And I prefer you wild.

I
Among ten thousand trees,
the transformation begins
with the blink of a snowbird.

II
Snowbirds live.
Snowbirds die.
Wing tips span
the seam between
egg and bone.

III
I baked my snowbird
in a pie; the oven wanted
something beautiful to eat.

IV
A nest is a clever home.
At night, house windows
shine like yellow puzzles
for the snowbird to solve.

V
I steal the notes
of the snowbird’s song,
shackle myself to the silence
that blooms between the notes.

VI
Abandoned women
in thrift store robes,
abandoned houses
warmed by bedroom fires—
the snowbird understands.

VII
The mouth of a snowbird
is small but mellifluous.

VIII
Children with dusty fingers
color sidewalks with chalk.
Snowbirds alight there and dip
their wings into an apocalyptic sun.

IX
When the snowbird departs,
the branches of the juniper
languish like bitter crescents of lime,
ice cubes melting in a glass of gin.

X
To decipher snowy syntax,
etch lines on a sheet of ice;
get on all fours and trace
snowbird tracks in snow.

XI
Rain is turning to sleet.
The snowbird is awake.

XII
She crosses her legs
on the velvet settee,
exhaling cigarette smoke
in rings across the room.
The ashtray is a crystal grave
of severed snowbird beaks.

XIII
It was winter all afternoon. Across the city,
chimneys are spilling snow into the sky.
A snowbird shivers in the fireplace.
I close my eyes and gather kindling.

the hush of snowfall resounds
and morning comes on a plinth of cream fire
over white shoals of winter's aspen
and a platoon of black oak, heavy laden
with pillows of opal dust,
the crisp air dangles from your breath
as you come upon a raven's ink plumage
resting atop the crystalline wave
frozen in swell; more akin to the sea
than to the earth bound diorama
more of a ripple than a discrete patch
of sugar at your feet.
holding a black wing
to a promise.

and a kiss is debris,

Your love
sets up mirrors
on four sides
on which I appear
as myriad,
all  prompted
by your countless
eager imaginations.

Like Krishna
at once I dance
with countless
manifestations of you
in my mind,
Oh! my Radha.


Your brimming passion,
in thousand tongues
sings about my love to you;
how can I be mute
not paying my tribute
with my mellifluous flute?