What dreams I have had of you tonight, my dear
to keep you alive and well in my head,
and are you alive and well in the world?
Out west somewhere, here and there,
on a farm, working for food,
and is the food working for you?

Gotta get out to Colorado one of these days,
climb a tree on the top of some mountain
and gaze out at the features and structures,
all far arden-like.
Are you tied down tonight?
By the perfectly designed sidewalks, and efficient chimney pipes,
tied down by:
cute suburban life, and duplicate blueprints,
tied down by:
pancake shacks, and sporting goods stores
tied down by:
someones misused, overly abused, grimy ****** string?
O’ Colorado where are you tonight,
and what dreams I have had of you in her absence.

Colorado,
where the rivers run far and wide
and the mountains are all on your side.
Colorado,
where I lay my land to dry,
and hold out my hands and cautiously cry.
Colorado,
where all humanity comes to drink.
Colorado,
where we gathered in the hills
not to find wealth, purpose, or the answer.
Colorado,
where riches take a different form,
and souls are free to mourn.
Colorado,
a quite, peace-driven, place… where I long to be.



In the calmness of the current,
in the atmosphere of river life,
in the drowning of the soul and mind,
in cool mountain breath,
in the welcoming brook - not fearing death
in the mouths of fish and under soft mossy stones
in the presence of inclining slopes, and the breaking of bones,
in soft pale earth with the dirt and the clay,
in the tall *** woods where the deer like to play,
and all the rest I forgot to say.

Gotta buy me a boat and get out west one of these days.
Get out on the river,
and just drown my soul for awhile,
live raw for awhile,
beans and rice it for awhile,
get down and see her for awhile.

River as my friend,
a cold and calculated trend.
Every turn: precise
Every depth: nice
I’m on the river now,
and the river is her.

I was the river,
and the river was her.

There are scores of characters seen
from the third story window.
They litter the walks:
step after invisible step, past imperfections in the damp cement.
I wish I had their consent,
to interrupt their set,
to interject:
curiously, coolly, calmly,
to tear every costume to shreds,
to mend the script that's been
written on every bathroom wall,
every dorm room hall,
and in monopolized letters to all.

It wages on and on
like some cranking machine overseen by fashionable businessmen
and their thirsty paper money hearts.
But, there are times
when the walks are vacant and lonely
and the set is silent,
no acting for an hour or two.
They're getting their makeup done,
practicing their lines,
and warming their jaw muscles
for the next play of the day.

There are scores of characters seen
from the third story window.
Littering the walks,
and putting on plays.

All for my afternoon rest.

The view from the fourth story gave light to all the motives of the people below:
walking and glancing, pursuing each and every step.
Words exchange through the air
carried by the whistling of the wind and howling of the lingering snow.

The roads laid out like heartfelt rugs
under my skeleton, in days, in nights, in the classy lunch hour.
They've been felt already,
had a head and cheek rubbed against.
Its hard to cope with endless familiarity,
what a rug burn logic.

What dimension, what box, what cool selling
shall I give my paper to tonight?
Cracked and used sidewalks pounded
with decomposing leaves and previous washings.
The weight of cars in the parking lot must
make the road, weep and seep out of control,
such a task, such a career: the most tattooed profession
in all the flat farm land and always occupied.

I trouble you once more, my sad gravelly friend.
Lifting the latch, a plump foot on your head,
stale steps to the front door,
thanks for the ride.

There is a way out east,
like no other,
where the trees curl up with a cloudy blanket
over the, endless waterfall of tar and gravel,
and parallel lines clearly converge
but, where is so unclear.

We don’t eat people on the road, Oh friend of
restless career searching and creating,
rather, the space between what is right and wrong
is traveled.
Traveled with cars
Traveled with blistery sun feet
Traveled with lonely wait hearts, and dreary friends
that change, warp, and fuel some new premise
Traveled with testing motor bikes, and soft tires
Traveled by bridges, and communist toll gates
Traveled by homeless men who live, breath, and eat in boxes all day,
and never see the second light.

It’s not clockwork.
we’ve taped over ever turning menace, and stopped all the
discriminating gears from turning in the night
where hopeless humans rust away in the clanking of all hours.
Stop,
and perk your ears friends, if it is the turning you wish
listen to the movement of the earth,
and the heartbeat of the trees,
extract wisdom from the hills we like to blast through,
and certainly climb on the rocks as you do.
Listen to the contact of beer mugs
while you drink in all the stories of travelers
your friends.
Listen to the droned out motors of the many happenings of the highway
and know you are not alone.

But, to be alone,
oh, to be alone:
it’s a gift in a way.
But, eventually, all people need an activity close to that
of eating one another,
where we can dine with droogs, and experienced veterans,
kiss soft-toothed girls in the light of a hometown moon,
and pray for glass-faced news.
This huge, supersized, magnetized, kind-loving world
keeps turning:
by sphere, by map, by heart
I swear to you, travel the distance between
all things right and wrong.