Just like a river, meandering true,
I'm like a river flowing back to you,
From the Alpine turquoise to the ocean blue,
Cascadia, flow through me.

Just like a Cabernet, smooth and red,
You're like a wine flowing to my head,
I won't get enough, not until I'm dead,
Cascadia, flow through me.

Just like the city running to and fro,
I'm like the city when I even and flow,
Like a train, if I leave, I know back I'll go,
Cascadia, flow through me.

Just like blood, with no end or start,
I'm like the blood flowing back to my heart,
Returning to you, dear, has become an art,
Cascadia, flow through me.

Just like the city train, just like blood,
If you're the soil, I'll be the bud,
Just like the river, just like wine,
If I'm coming home to you, I'm gonna be fine.
Cascadia, flow through me,
Cascadia, flow through me.

Oh, sweet hallucination
of a lucid dream,
What I once sought to treasure,
is not what it seems.
I stumble through morning
to shake myself loose,
From the cruel kiss
of a seductive noose.
Oh, sweet imagination,
please leave me be,
All your tender entanglements
are torturing me.
In my waking life
I remember and feel
Things that did not happen,
and are not real.

We can't care for oceans,
We can't care for whale pods,
We can't care for rivers,
Or salmon or cod,
We can't care for beaches,
We can't care for birds,
For the stolen land,
Or its people, or herds,
We reuse our bags,
We refuse our straws,
We opt for less package
Whenever we can
But faced with these scars,
We sink in our tracks,
Powerless, unaware,
Where to begin?
It's bigger than us,
It isn't one person,
One Trashless Saint
Can't save us, that's certain.
"Let's tear down the systems!"
We say, "They're all broken!"
Without hope of waking
The ones who aren't woken.
I have no "right way"
To channel distress,
Cause nobody sees
A way out of this mess.

The winter has her chilling cold,
The wilderness is ruggedness,
The ocean has her pressure bold,
And space, an abyss of nothingness...

Majesty is most often guarded by Peril.
To find her -
and I mean truly find her,
You must first be armored
with tools of science,
and essentials of life,
Then with your wits
and ambition,
And then,
Just one thing more...

(An openness
of heart and mind...)

Then you might reap the wonder
of seeing more, and knowing little.

Time burns steadily on -
Sage, cedar, sandalwood.
A resource infinite,
But not nearly so,
when all beginnings
must have endings,
and we are each allotted
but one bundle to burn through.
How long have we been here?
Two notches on the incense clock.
Smoke rising and swirling,
evocative divinations
of all things,
future and past.

I am not weak
For swimming with the water's course
Rather than climbing ashore
When the river is going where I must,
For it would be far easier,
Far more convenient,
And far less painful
To push my joy,
My sorrow,
And my love far away.
Yet, here I am,
Catching on each log,
Each basin,
And each precipice,
Feeling it all
In the wash out to sea.

Watch me
and I am a wheel -
always finding a way
to spin anything into gold.
But given just the right moment,
and just the right rush of speed,
you will see me as I truly am:
A gyroscope,
my angular momentum
keeping me upright.
And you -
You are always the right rush of speed,
And it is always the right moment.

Can't you see?
That this evening's drama
is all just tangled language
made swollen by repetitive prodding,
and that none of this is real?
I am too tired to argue,
Too burnt-out to share,
Too triggered to touch you,
And too blasé to care.

Are there secrets at the bottom
of this bottle here to savor?
And are they more commensurate
to its volume, or its flavor?
Could ascetic tongues here loosen
and become more libertine?
And could cold feet here defrost,
performing dances unforeseen?
Oh, I think that we should try it -
drink me underneath the table,
For I have no use for secrets,
but I'll trade mine if I'm able.

My cheeks are scorched
by the fire in my blood
and words begin
to well within
But my courage is scorched
by another fire
that's dammed the well,
and I can't begin.

The poisoning isn't always painful
like a rattlesnake or arsenic.
Sometimes,
it is a whisper,
soft and sweet,
like a lullaby that sings "carbon monoxide,"
a bit too much fun too quickly
as you slip into a black overdose,
a poppy-soaked dreamland.
Sometimes,
it is a fragment of reality
that was real once
but exists now as some new non-truth,
the thing you want to hear
picked out of the words spoken,
a misguided make-believe.
Sometimes,
it is a song we both love
the night we heard it
and the memory I built around it,
a cloying clawing
corrupting with a buzz and haze,
a saccharine toxin to the imagination.

It is a moment
so delicate
that eventually
a single heavy breath
and slice of light
will crack...
But for now
it is a hushed dawn
so breakable.

Way up in the mountains,
Pumped up with endorphins,
At such elevation,
After such respiration,
I collapse with elation,
By my exquisite companion,
Digging into a sandwich
with such determination,
And every last sorrow
drains out of me,
if only for now.
I heave a long, tender,
whispered prayer:
Bliss and only Bliss.
This and only This.

Honesty comes at a price -
But so did the countless rounds
of glasses, boxes, bottles, and cans
that we bought
while searching for a substitute.
We may be in one hell of a mess now
But at least we'll never
have to drink that much again
just to speak our hearts.

It is Scorpio season
in every possible sense,
For there is no safe, solid,
middle ground to stand upon
That hasn't been wet-soaked
with its flood and blood,
That transforms the gentle earth
to obfuscating mud.

But then, perhaps, it is actually clay,
taking shape under a vision in silver,
For the full moon in Taurus also glides
across these charged, ******, Scorpio skies.

I need air,
I need earth,
I need water,
For each breath is shallow,
And my bra is too tight,
And on sudden occassions
My chest twangs
As a lumberjack sinks an axe into me
Taking me down for my
Precious Heartwood.

The fresh memories of
the impossibility of your words,
the incandescence of your eyes,
and the intoxication of your lips
comes in flashes,
running down my prickling neck,
through my tingling core,
and to my trembling toes.
They are small bolts of lightning
striking the same place,
over and over and over -
infinitely unlikely,
shocking, shaking, and grounding,
all at once.

I can stretch my sanity,
I can bare my soul,
I can wear it on my sleeve,
on my wrist,
in my pulse,
I can bear the vanity,
I can stretch my sanity...

I can stretch my time,
I can do it all,
I can stay up with my pen,
'til my eyes
start to fall,
I can work the overtime,
I can stretch my time...

I can stretch my limits,
I can be so chill,
I can hold myself
down and try
to be still,
I can breathe it in,
I can stretch my limits...

For Now.

For a moment
the world is mist and stillness,
but then you hear it.
A distant howl pierces the fog,
accompanied by the clattering
and thundering
of the unseen beast:
metal wheels on metal rails.
And suddenly, the iron dragon appears.
Steam rises from its nostril
and it bellows a warning
that echoes from the mountainsides.
It's charged frame
cuts through to this plane,
snaking its way through canyons
and impossible passes
for just a moment
before passing back through the veil
to the realm of the mystical
from whence it tore.

Give yourself the gift
of a day alone -
a day of your own making -
of singing madly,
scribbling passionately,
eating well,
listening deeply to your own desires,
and sitting with your own folly.
Give yourself this,
and you will never feel loneliness
as an insurmountable ache
again.

At any given moment
Two paths lay ahead.
Would that I could travel both,
and from there, all.
But my heart aches
And my mind swims
with all the branching, fractal possibilities
from there.

The Sea of Tranquility descends tonight
into waning, gibbous shadow
As I bear witness to the sight,
I can't help but wonder -
How many moons
have I waited and watched,
And which cycle signals
the end if this working?
My rituals greet phases
full after new
Celebrating faces
both blood red and new
Eclipsing even the sun
from full view.
It seems by now
the spell must be sown,
And perhaps it has been
For while I was waiting and watching,
I certainly have grown.

I still need the occasional jolt -
a pinch -
a reality check -
to wake me
from the dreaming world
of long-held hopes,
suddenly manifested.
I try writing it all down
and replaying all that I remember -
Revelations, hands, scents, astral bodies -
and I just fall deeper
into the unreal.
So for now
(absent that jolt)
I'll make do
with the occasional buzz
from my pocket.

I think, perhaps,
That vulnerability and wit,
(the aims of this challenge),
have sufficiently sharpened my words -
and judging by the slice of life
that I have served,
and how my exposed outlet
now needs tourniqueting,
I think, perhaps,
It is the swordsmanship
That I must now practice.
I am no devotee
of the church of restraint,
But I think, perhaps,
That there are limits
on how much you can bleed
before running dry
or drowning others.

Burn Area.
Take quiet, reverent steps
through the charred steeple spires
and listen to the roaring echo
of an event so fierce
and nightmarishly tragic
that we must soothe ourselves, saying,
"Everything in its own time," and
"This ecosystem needs fire to grow."
But systems are merely products
of their conditions,
and nothing needs lightning.
Life doesn't thrive on tragedy -
It exists in spite of it.
Just as we are not born in space
and yet we hurtle through it,
So too does bright fireweed spring
between these spindly, blackened corpses.

"I could live here,
In the mountains,"
I say,
Any time I go anywhere
with mountains.

The words are involuntary.
No spells have been cast
Yet I am enchanted
For better or worse.

"I could go there,
Anywhere,"
I say,
Any time you say
you want to go.

KFC, Box Wine, and Oreos.
We'd scream, howl, and cry
every thought under the moon
for hours in your Jetta,
wandering McElroy Park,
or drunk on the living room carpet.
We'd take notes so we could "make art"
out of our feelings,
the laugh through tears
at the absurdity of it all.
Together,
there was fire and magic
in the dark.
Is anything forever?
Of course not.
We did that then,
But we know it now.

While wandering Wonderland
My companions ask,
"What do you want to see next?"
"Anything!" I respond,
Genuinely curious,
But propelled mostly by dreams
Of hot, savory noodles,
Fresh pastries in new textures,
And all of the extravagance,
Novelty, and confusion
Of the next unfamiliar feast.

My soft futon beckons,
And I have saved half a bottle
Of companionship and comfort
For tomorrow's adventure.
There are frustrations and exhaustions
sewn throughout my brain,
But now is the time
To put them to sleep.
Tonight we spend long hours together,
Spilling childhoods and chilled liquor,
Keeping the night bright,
And wrapping ourselves in laughter.
Tomorrow we venture forth,
Face down our differences,
And search for some new way
To fight back the dark...
After we sleep.

I wonder if it's possible to love the stars
as fiercely as I do
Without loving love just as fiercely.
There is a stirring so deep
and so intimately connected to my whole
when I'm under their spell,
not unlike the song of my heart in heat.
And yet, for some,
These things are disconnected.
I only wish for a way
of knowing your experience,
And a way to share this sweet richness
if yours is lacking,
Like an artist sharing a sweet pairing
of music and words,
wine and chocolate,
or color and light,
Where there previously was none.

Why is it always
the days when I miss you the most
that I return to find you
in the foulest of mads?
(I try to fix it,
Because of course I do,
Until I remember all the power songs
Telling me not to bother.)
This is how I learned to be alone.

The Sun sets more quickly each eve
by mere perceived fractions
But each time I am more aware
the preciousness of breath.

We are ADULTS with AGENCY
and the power to manifest our desires
if we can only be courageous.
Therefore,
Why not do so?
They have called me
Crazy, Foolish, and Daring
for sharing my poems and passions so freely,
But I am simply unwilling
to waste time lying.

Today I extended a hand to fate
To see which door it would pull me through,
And it chose the one I was afraid of.

Today I put the universe to test
Since challenging authority is always best,
And it pulled me along for the ride.

Today I stood on railroad tracks
Because I wondered if I was invincible
And I wasn’t.

Today I sliced myself open
For I’d forgotten the pattern of my soul’s veins
And I remembered.

So I closed my eyes and bit my lip
And jumped right off that breaking ship
And into waves of foamy spray,
Which tended to my bleeding way,
The held me and caressed me so,
And whispered of the things they know
They carried me to sandy banks
And left me dreaming, giving thanks.

I awoke in a pool of scarlet,
feeling the wretched tendrils
of darker, greener enemies
working their way in while I slept.

I awoke in a pool of scarlet,
Knowing what I had to do
And applied antiseptic,
But no anesthetic.

I awoke,
Knowing why fate chose this door,
Knowing where the universe had taken me,
Knowing that though broken, I’d survived,
Knowing what it was to be me.

Knowing not to let the poison in
And not to let the shadows win.

Sometimes I wonder
if we were really meant to be,
if our irregular edges
wouldn't fit better elsewhere,
if our promises weren't made
by two totally different people.
But then I remember,
there's no such thing as "meant to be",
we weren't molded as two
completely fulfilled entities in one,
people change,
and love can and will,
be found where chemistry strikes.
But our partnership is a choice.

And maybe it was foolish to choose
to anchor two seaworthy ships,
both headed for adventure
on opposite seas
so early in their journeys.
And yet, there are so many
places I would not have been,
things I would not have felt, and
conversations I would not have had,
without you.

Not all days are smooth sailing,
and I still intend to see other shores,
but we know that now,
and we have each others' oars.
We belong to no one,
And yet, I'm yours.

I have had enough of lovers
Wishing to be the sun in my sky
And creating diurnal dependencies
That block half its dome at a time.

To shine with such effulgence
Should be an honor all my own.
Who else is my constant companion?
Who else sets my caverned heart 'glow?

Instead, let all that is loved by me
Be a dazzling array of constellations,
Each brilliant Sirius and Betelgeuse
Whirling, returning through my seasons.

And if I should find such a Star again,
Let them be not Sol, but instead, Polaris -
Gleaming steadfast, in their own region,
Never dipping 'neath horizon's terrace,

Their simply existing
A northward guide
Keeping me truthfully
Aligned.

If it all ends in the summertime
I should like to lay under a massive tree.
I will be surrounded by love and music,
And slip away,
My final moments spent in warmth.
My favorite.
If it all ends in the fall
I should like to see Orion one last time.
I will be surrounded by smells and festivity,
And travel through the veil,
My final moments growing shorter,
Like the days.
If it all ends in the winter
I should like the mountains to take me.
I will be surrounded by shadows and myths,
And face the whipping, inevitable cold,
My final moments a reflection on all the springs I saw.
Perfect poetry.
If it all ends in the spring,
I should count myself lucky.
I will be surrounded by flowers and rabbits,
And I will rest easy,
My final moments spent in light,
Remembering. Passing. Cycling.
On to life anew.

Everything, it seems,
is a study in entropy.
Everything changes or collapses,
And living is either
Fighting madly
to keep it all together
or standing strong
as it all collapses and changes
around you,
until you too
collapse and change
out of existence.
Living is either
Grabbing hold of everything
and screaming as each attachment
is ripped and rended
from your grasp
or letting all slip through your fingers,
never feeling anything
except in passing.
Living is a dance in limbo,
Wanting the best of both lives,
And living neither.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I wasn’t supposed to fall so hard
I wasn’t supposed to call out for your arms in the night
And my lips weren’t supposed to search for yours
As if they would actually be there.
I wasn’t supposed to nuzzle into my pillow at night
pretending that your hands were nestled in my hair
I wasn’t supposed to make small talk
just so I could hypnotize myself with that something in your eyes
I wasn’t supposed to wake up cold in the gray morning
with the strong urge to be bruised and bitten
In fits of slow, languid passion.

Unreal how our bodies match and move together,
Uncanny how our minds meld and play in synch.
My youthful love for life,
Your chuckling maturity, still unsure what life is.

Now I play soft ballads full of aching, yearning,
I can wrap myself in a blanket on the floor
With a mug of tea, and think silently on you
And the shadows I wish I could conjure into existence…
They live inside, dancing to burst free from our guilty bodies
Too ethereal, too beautiful, to be abandoned
When we (artists) know we live for such wonders.

I wish I had any other option but forgetting,
or descending into madness.
(I’m currently choosing madness..?)

And it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I wasn’t supposed to fall so hard.
I’m so sorry,
My summer love.

Already,
Fall's chill licks my spine,
And rather than dread,
my shoulders shiver
with the memory of last year,
at this time,
When the sun in the leaves
Held an indomitable shine.
For then I traipsed
Through brilliant reds,
Brilliant hope,
And brilliant love -
Through soft wool,
Soft song,
And soft heartbreak -
Through quiet frost,
Quiet awe,
And quiet perseverance.
The dwindling days held secrets
Only a fresh heart could hear,
And these sweet mysteries
Were both balm and poison
to my heart and ear.
This year,
my cold frame remembers,
With gut still abuzz,
Eyes still alight,
And chest still aflame,
But it has all been muted
To a soft, pulsing glow.
This cycle has gripped me hard,
And wrung much from my dream-drenched core,
This glow a mere echo of passions before,
As autumn slowly falls once more.

I’m cradling what’s left of the word “casual”
Because it sounds like “pretending”.
Maybe we should have said “casualty”
Because we both know the answers,
Or "causality"
As some ridiculous joke.

No, we can’t fall, we can’t fall.
When I giggled,
“Don’t get stuck on me,”
What I said was,
“I’m already stuck,
But we all have to move...
Right?"

Heard words on the radio driving home
That echoed like “coincidence”
I learned the words and echoed back
With no regard for context.

Crawling couch to bed,
Passing faces in the covers,
Say ‘hello’ my sometimes lover,
Say ‘goodbye’ and run away.
We can dance with one another,
Hold the truth until the day
When the sheets turn into clutter
And the miles casually splay.

In my deepest of souls
I do not want to be owned,
Do not find pleasure in owning others,
Do not want to call or be called
by titles that ring false
such as mistress, goddess, or little girl,
Can not be loved as anything more or less
than a fellow traveler,
Love to tease, charm, chase, and impress,
but ultimately appreciate and wonder.
This bed of expectations
begins to scare me,
and I long for simpler times
of *****, pillowtalk, and first kisses.

On old mainstreet, sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.

Rednecks and faux-necks and used-to-be-loggers,
Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,
And outcasts from the secondary schools,
And gypsies too: you’ll find them here,
Drowning in local, hand-crafted beer.

At night, locals sip organic tea,
And turn up the menagerie
Of lights and mics from another age,
Pieced together to make a stage.
And there, the guitarists waste their breath
Beating the Same. Four. Chords. To. Death.

There are some new lyrics, there and here,
But all of them memories of yester-year:
A year spent in the same **** space,
With others who’ve never left this place.
They sing of their dear loves and pasts,
And how much longer the wandering lasts.

And on they wail, and on they moan,
And twang the antique, rustic tone,
But their faces show they like it here,
This breaking haunt of yester-year,
And after the set, they carouse with cheer,
And smile contentedly to their beer.

On old mainstreet sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.

I think that maybe I take breakups
And half-breakups
And “I think we should just stay friends”
And “I’m moving across the country!”
And “Let’s just pretend it never happened…”
And “Sorry, I’m already doing something else that night”
so horrifically,
and yet so horrifically well,
Because life in my head
Is constantly romancing
And then breaking up
With everyone.