The TV hums, a vigil of static.
Its blue glow licks the sheets of my bed.
She is already here, and she says siéntate.
The room thickens, swallowing silence.
I close my eyes, recite my prayer,
but God does not come to take me away.

At seven, I thought He could take me away.
But He never saw past the static.
Never answered, no matter the prayer.
No angels gathered around the bed.
Only her voice, gentle, precise—
as if it was mine to refuse. Silence.

Somewhere, my mother believes in silence,
believes I am safe while she is away.
The house echoes—siéntate,
and I obey. The TV crackles, static
spitting nonsense, flickering across the bed.
The remote is in reach, but not my prayer.

I hold the words in my teeth—a prayer,
a plea I never speak into silence.
She smooths my hair, straightens the bed,
but the folds still hold what she took away.
The air stays dense with the static.
Her hands do not hesitate—no te muevas.

I do not move when she says siéntate.
Seven years old, I am not a prayer,
only a body sinking into static.
I have learned there is mercy in silence.
I have learned to go far, far away.
But I always wake up in the bed.

And the bed is always the bed.
The sheets whisper what she said—siéntate.
She is gone, but she is never away.
God never came; maybe I was the prayer.
Maybe the only answer is silence,
the weight of it, heavier than static.

The static stays. The bed does not forget.
No prayer unmakes what was done—siéntate.
Even in silence, I cannot get away.

The Angel oak boughs  lovely to behold
This horary tree so blest a grand tree.
Old  trees to behold are  the huge Redwoods,
Clear cutting woods they made me quite angry.
Lay me down to rest ;my soul feels not old
Those who **** ancient forests go to Hell.

Ancient forests wrecked I'm angry as Hell,
Angraboda tree the Angel oak - behold    
Other beatific trees are the Redwoods,
The  red oak rusty brown bark a grand tree.
Cutting these trees down-I'm ****** angry,
And pols are vermin their plans way to old

Trees like a skyscraper th epic  redwoods
And hike thru these woods when I was not old
I sat at rest beneath a cedar tree.
Those who destroy them are stupid as Hell
Old growth forests a biome  please behold  
Lay waist to old growth woods I am angry,

Most of the old growth gone makes me angry
I wonder what critters live in Redwoods.
The hair of Jord visit it and behold
I walked thru the green when I was not old
The forest were bare of old trees,oh hell
Old growth Cedars are one hell of a tree,  

What type of vibe could I get from that tree?
Logging roads in BC  grave ,I'm angry,
To lazy to help these pols belong in hell,
Love to muse beneath a  pair of Redwoods.
Protest clear cutting this method not old
Clear  cutting woods -a plain shock to behold..

Envoi:
I am wheelchair bound my protest days to old
Time to stop logging Redwoods ,no,oh Hell,
An Angel oak tree I want to behold.

Can you hear the music inside you, the instruments of pure passion?  

I can see it in your heart  

Beams overhead singing deeply, warming and glowing  

You are merely the product of my dreams  

I hang sweeping this fog alone and icy  

Swallowing these purple and red words, pale and invisible  



And my chest opens to you, but to you my heart is invisible

I can feel my soul trembling, can you sing to it with passion

Can you hold my heart in your fingertips, cold and icy

smelling the goats and strong and mature bark, dancing with my heart

How can I forget you, when all the time I spend with you is in my dreams.

Load this gun and place your passion in the chamber and watch me fade; glowing.



Can you feel my heart glowing?

Do your eyes penetrate my soul, or am I invisible?

Can you trap my thoughts and steal away my dreams?

Can you share your light and spend some of it on me, enlighten me with your passion

Take my heart

Can you sing to it, can you defrost it, it is icy.



Be like a thief and steal me away, take my heart, and the shadows that are icy

Your bag of hearts you have stolen, deadly and glowing

These souls tormented by you also, you hang their heart

And still, I remain invisible?

I scratch at this cage, haunted by what – your passion

Let me lay here still and die in my dreams.







Why do I continue to hope, why can I only have dreams?

This aisle is deadly, gridlocked and icy

Submissive to the heights of your words in passion

Take my feet here and steal, your footprints are glowing

Mine are – to you- invisible

But they lay down structures for my heart



And so, I beg you, don’t steal my heart

Let me rest and hope in my dreams

Make yourself invisible

Cold and icy

Leave the shadows glowing

And leave me alone, struck by passion



Just let me go, you have struck this chord and left me with passion

You have left my heart glowing

And now I shall sleep again, cold and icy.

Look at them, the rain-spotted Lovers:
hand in hand under lathered moon
as the bars flood out at cold close.
The night grass is April swaying
as they bluely stroll down the road,
unaware of anyone, anything else -

there could never be anything else -
isn't that the rule of all new lovers?
No care for a bright-cheeked road,
no anxious looks at a dartboard moon,
just two pairs of shoulders swaying
closer, closer, closer...

Yet now that the bars are closed,
they must join to something else:
a long laughing file beerily swaying,
a newly louched breed of lovers
under foam-headed moon,
carried down a water-hearted road.

Perhaps they sweeten the sotted road,
these two who veer so close
& share this last garnish of moon,
carpaccio of stars and space and something else.
Cars throw dapples across the Lovers,
shy white coins in spotted sway.

We drunks of course are also swaying
vaguely down the rained road,
but how different our rhythm is; these Lovers
tie spring breath tight as twine, and close
their fingers like mating snakes - no one else
seems tide-locked like earth and stubborn moon:

since this frozen-faced scrap of moon
refuses all requests, it's we who must sway
with them, at least until we find something else
on this cloud-tented tar-sown road
to hold us oh-so-close;
they're home, these Lovers,

& so someone else must follow the lolling moon
to become the newest Lovers who will sway
on wetted road as night closes off behind.

Bleary-eyed, an old man asks for change,
coins rattling in his hand. A woman
hands him saltine crackers across the aisle.
“God bless you,” he mutters, takes a seat,
and unwraps the plastic with shaking hands.
He smiles at her before she leaves the train.

Tonight, the passengers on the train
are surprisingly quiet for a change.
We are all staring down at our hands.
And then the silence breaks - a woman
cackles aloud to herself in her seat.
Her laughter travels up and down the aisle.

I overhear a conversation across the aisle
between a couple who’ve just entered the train,
and are searching for a pair of empty seats.
They’re muttering “the country is changing”
and they say they are afraid. The woman
sighs, and reaches for her lover’s hand.

I look over at a child holding her mother’s hand.
I meet the little girl’s gaze from across the aisle.
I see myself as a child too, but to her I’m a woman.
I wonder how often the little girl rides the train.
Does she long to see something else for a change -
something other than the back of a seat?

I notice a lady who has started dancing in her seat,
snapping her fingers and waving her hands,
bobbing to a silent beat. I imagine her changing
into a sequined dress and waltzing down the aisle,
giving everyone a performance to watch on the train.
I imagine standing up and dancing with that woman

and then everyone begins to dance with the woman -
we all jump up onto our seats
and suddenly we are in a ballroom, not a train.
We are tapping our feet and clapping our hands
to the music - the little girl across the aisle
is dancing with the old man who asked for change.

The train stops. We’ve arrived at my station. The dancing woman leaves the train. The passengers change and now there are strangers in their seats. I wave my hand goodbye to the little girl as I walk past her down the aisle.

No picket fences. No hunting license. He has no culture
To his name. No children nor partner to carry; he’ll love
The forest floor just the same. Chickadees chattered as he muttered his marriage
Vows to the land between his toes. Rich in all but money,
He aims to accomplish what his forefathers could not: Forgive
Himself for human’s toll on nature. Their roads of death.  

For hickory trees and zipping flies only understand death
As biological drivers of fear. He has seen the culture.
Slash and burn, Gnash and chop, mine and take, forgive
And forget the consequences. They manufacture love
On a rainy day to deceive people into funding destruction with the money
From the nature they claim to protect. A push-and-pull marriage.

He set aside his business coat as he set foot into the forest, divorcing the marriage
Of care and corporation. His only hope is that the rabbit cannot smell death
Still leaking from his pores like toxic radiation nor the stench of money
Recklessly thrown to culling the land mere miles away. More culture
Here than in thousands of skylines. More compassion among animals than any “love”
A vest-and-tie, bright-eyed smile grants in marketing. Corporate does not forgive.

He climbs atop the highest canopy and calms his quaking arms. If no one can forgive
His erratic exercise routine, the breeze can. All is still. The marriage
Has begun to provide. The priest above will join them in the morning; he’ll prove his love.
Tomorrow, the men with machines and sticks of death
Will come barreling through the sanctuary, claiming from destruction comes culture
And resources, but behind their faces of concern is always money, money, money.

From the first rabbit he slaughtered to the devastating loss of money
He incurred for not staying silent, the corruption he witnessed set a fire he would not forgive
His heart for feeding. The disillusionment he kept spread faster than a bacterial culture
Under perfect conditions. The merriment in progress was null, the marriage
Bands thrown into polluted rivers. He would slow the unnatural cycle of death,
One by one rooted tree. Though he does not believe it is enough, it is love.

His back aches. His eyes open with a start. His air tastes acrid. His love
Has died and fear wrests his heart. Trees around him scream for aid. All the money
In the world could not replace the thousands of years of peace they spoil with death.
He yells from his tower. A straggler rabbit screws its head to see him. Maybe it saw to forgive
Him after all this time. Rivers from his eyes and gold buried deep inside, the marriage
Between man and Mother Nature could exist. Human’s ruination isn’t nature. It is culture.

They ask him for the love of God, what is he doing up there. He smiles. I can forgive
The contractor for his need of money, but not those whose wants require a marriage
Between negligence and my planet’s death. He pleads. They stare. As is the culture.

It’s lukewarm on this lazy Sunday,
And I don’t know where I put my glasses.
I don’t even want to tear myself
From the syzygy that makes me, my blanket
And my bed, to find them. Maybe I’ll crawl out
Of my coziness and try to seize the day.

There are fourteen-forty minutes in a day,
And I can waste them all on this lazy Sunday.
I could get breakfast, but I’d have to make it out
The door — and I can’t find my glasses.
I suppose I’ll just stay under the blanket,
Spending those minutes on myself.

I could possibly make breakfast for myself.
I do so just about every other day.
Bacon does sound good, but my blanket
Weighs a hundred pounds. And after all, Sunday
is my day off. Where are my glasses?
Right on the windowsill where I left them. Out-

Side, I see people who got out
Of bed already. People as lazy as myself —
Probably… Oh, fine! I put on my glasses
And trek to entropy. At least it’s warm today.
And for a while it’s a very nice Sunday,
But it isn’t as warm as my blanket,

And doesn’t feel as heavy. As pewter blankets
Stretch across the horizon, I look out
Over the cut and appreciate what Sunday
Has to offer. That’s what I tell myself,
But I know that today is just another day;
Seeing the world with rose tinted glasses

Yet again. I stop to wipe off my glasses
That are smudged with a blanket
Of dust from the Oakland air. The day
Is only part way done and I am looking for an out.
I continue the mission to make myself
Breakfast on a lukewarm, lazy Sunday:

A not so sunny day, in my glasses,
Making Sunday breakfast in a blanket
Of optimism. Out by myself.