I need to backpack again
not to get away
but to go in – deeply
to sightline’s ample expanse
that builds with one’s willingness to look
in light that blankets itself across the breathing canvas
that differs in concept and perception
more than in different months and minds
but as an elevated mirage
these inaccessible peaks and valleys of the rockies
have trails few travel this time of year
at altitudes that invite only a few birds and critters
and serious mountaineers making their preparations for their
“conquering of the seven summits”
I would gladly join either group, if there are openings
but would also be quite content with
my earbuds in my pocket
the chilled alpine winds through my wool beanie
trekking slowly over rock, ice and snow

I need to backpack again
to see the shades that would present themselves
to reflect in all reflection
to breathe slower
breathing out toxins and anxieties
that have been allowed to enter my humdrum, my rhythm
effecting and infecting my organs
to allow my lungs unfettered access
to all the fresh altitude it would like
to blind my eyes on the snow-capped cloudless afternoons
where tea and coffee are most pleasant
where a sand county almanac can be read
where my muscles gain power, endurance, fortitude
where thoughts of loved ones fondly skew themselves
where I am neither king nor extra
but a small dragon – limitations and capacities equally known
where emotion and temperament need not invent themselves
in the electron exchange within, but arriving from the west
I can see it all, I start to desire it all
from the front door of my office
it’s calling now, I need to go

A famous poet
A master
Of thirty (or more) years
Of teaching poetry
    (taught by Ginsberg I've been told)
Left a voicemail...a generous offer...to read my poetry
To give me instruction
At a downtown coffee shop
For fifty dollars an hour

Fifty dollars an hour?
Shouldn't he have an office?
Well, it's as close to a 1920s parisian dive around Boulder as one could find
I used to hang out there
And write before work

Eh
Perhaps it's not as weird as I think it is
Perhaps I can ascertain a love for language that couldn't be achieved outside of reading my Blake, Whitman, Hemingway, Lawrence, Dickerson...

He will read my poetry
And guide me towards accessibility, honesty, vulnerability, courage
I will be relatable (for once)
With beautiful imagery
That will open
    universes

I am suppose to text him back

Is this what I want?

What I want...thats something folks closest to me dare not ask

What has what I want have to do with anything in my life?

What I want, what I want, what I want

I want my voice to come forth effortlessly from my adventurous life, my song to echo expansive landscapes and treks, to learn intimate knowledge of plants and rocks, and laugh with the beautiful people that inhabit such places

I know tonight
Nothing matters
Until
I set an opportunistic sail to this change in the wind

I have already ventured deep into this life, I've not gone gently into the night, so why start now?

The time to shove off is soon

Like Whitman said...
"AFOOT and light-hearted, I take to the open road...
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose"

Hell ya, brother Walt

Walking into a coffee shop
Are they even open at this hour?
It's early
I awoke early to the sounds of my own dreams
But still slept soundly, half of my tea and open Hemingway on the bedside pedestal
Awake now, and proportionately functional
I walk to the coffee shop
Through a freezing Colorado December morning wind, that sweeps through these Boulder foothills
And a dark blackness
In my senses and sight line
Limited light pollution
I don't see the open sign, is it on?
Where is it?
A full moon through the fog
Causes a pause
Through wind-stretched clouds
The surface craters can be made out with the naked eye
The overtly bright beacon
Causes a moment of infinitesimal disproportionate yet absolutely true disparity of size
of universe and self
Thank God, they just turned the sign on!

gonna break out
the final ride
the other side
of all elaborate eyes
there's life exploding in the night
while my heart beats for more
plight flight - freedom's fight
desperate to the land of too many choices
to the end of all things
to dragon lair and blonde locked hair
there's a chance

.
Solitary voyages
With capacity's charge
Whisper each confidant's song
These messages, not far

There's people always with us
They're conversation's voice
What's read, echoed, repeated
Is motive over noise

And rather than giving creed
To that which smiles the most
Gale forced regret blows the stern
Return of ancient ghost

The lone muzzle for the beast
Which fogs entire seas
To entertain love, beauty
With freedom where you please

deserving nothing
so you say, with great audacity
proclaiming all as gifts
proclaiming what has been overcome

you appear now before me
    sitting in your canoe
    at the bottom
    of the drained-empty lake

victorious!

Connection is not made by drawing hard lines in the sand
We can only draw off of the blurred relections that bounce the water's surface
And we suppose the cause
We guess
We estimate the source that is reflected
Based on our own reflection
It's true, I have never walked in your shoes
But don't exasperate all ignorance to believe for a single iota of time you have walked in mine
So, where do we go from here?
At what point across the increased expanse can we build a bridge?
Believe it will be worth the effort
All good in history has started this way