The fire of life spreads across the wide  horizon, not even the great Atlantic can stop it now. The lack of wind sends a storm of blood ******* fiends to nibble at my *****, enjoy my juices!

I sit around the remnants of someones idea of good time and rekindle the flame. Smouldering seaweed is enough to keep those ****** parasites away from my blood. Drift wood catches, crackles and keeps the morning chill at bay. Crows, chipmunks and chickadees call out to one another.

As the ruby grapefruit awakens from her slumber I notice that the moon is in full bloom behind my head. The king and queen have set and their masters have come out to play.

Miniature seabirds preform impressive aerial stunts while searching for their morning meal. Hungry crows check for crab corpses as the crimson Sun makes its first appearance atop the curvature of the world.

Reflecting rays blind me and cause spots in my vision. The price you pay for looking into the soul of God.

Cirrus clouds soaking in coral rays. Mother duck feeds her young. Cool sand between my toes. Searching for sticks to spread the flame, running free, no better place to spend one's hard earned sand doller.

5th Ave. was shoulder to shoulder with
hungry lunch-seeking business men
and women. Ricardo unpacked
his horn nervously and a foot cymbal.
Spring, early street season, too cold
for most musicians but he needed money.
His lips kissed the cold metal mouthpiece.

Carrying the saw and the pulaski.
Cutting brush for a fire line high up,
where raptors and ravens fly. No sound
but wind if you could subtract the crew
working and *****, joking during lunch.
A good year it had been sitting in the soil
feeling Ricardo's body on the mountainside.
Mountains moving as good a feeling.

Alone in his town, most neighbors at work,
housecleaning done, Ricardo settled down
with pen to write and ate lunch.
People = chickadees.
Clutch size, substrate, territory, gestation period.
Mating rituals. Use of alcohol and hallucinogens.
Forms of cancer, heart disease. Burial rites, memories.
Creation myths, beliefs for which there is no evidence.
Range: tundra to tropics.

.
In disused field is a blooming temple.
An ancient apple tree waiting eternal,
This stone bold sculpture was forged
With nimbus hands and windy eyes.
In hushed airs, Shiva dances to light,
Waves, sacred arms without swaying.

Bearded ones come to pay homage,
The solemn chickadees, the ranging
Sparrows, red robed robins— priestly                                                         ­   
Doves, all who see are one enveloped
In graces of the New World Bodhi tree,
Waiting for blossoms so dearly come.

Edge of boughs brim under heavens
Landing with mystic verges of spirit
Into the mind of the eyes of nature—
Kali-flowered ears of lichen are pale
Green in their devotions, pummeled
By seas of seasons, foggy to the fray.

Finches, yellow, reflecting in a star,
Devout wee lamas golden with halo,
Are kneeling above berm, this nobby
Trunk, stave, inside bodacious stupa
Bell who sings clear, without ringing,
Body of elder grace, wisdoms, ages.

In cast irreverence, seldom do crows
Visit, when they do there is menace
Of the Jinn, dark giants in the levels,
Mercifully, out of shame, they do not
Stay, black wings due, die in luminous
Day moon, rain soak sun, balmy mist.

On pilgrim journeys, whirlings, prayer
Wheels, guide shy flocks riding gnarl,
Indie goddess, to overreaching love,
By sores of hollow in the steps, open
To being, brindles of myriad meadow
In temple blossoms— numinous suns.

Of both earth and sky, shines a beauty,
Whose form is written in blistering bark,
The ciphers of tongue to Sanskrit leaves
And lost fruits, given over, unforbiddens,
Within old apple tree a great wilderness
And all the branch of wings are knowing.

In the intermediate zone between heaven and hell
opinions and complaints, after much moaning, may
come to be held in common.

The way a flock of chickadees
moves through the woods, cheerfully,
each bird taking a turn on point.

All meaning must be found, here, in the middle zone,
notwithstanding fears that rend and own us,
of dying unknown.

A Spring day
the flycatcher broke its neck against our bay window
nothing changed.

I buried it, somewhat reverently, in a shallow grave.
No differently, really, than I would a man
who'd died suddenly.

Who'd left footprints in the snow
which became wild lily-of-the-valley, running pine
then snow again in time.

After long enmity
Sally hugs me, asks if I've been happy.
A moment in a year.

February, the light is long, more direct.
It's meaningless, repetitious
but held dear.

A flock of mandarin parakeets found themselves a perch amidst the strategy play in green palace trees, for which they are responsible, having laid not one single claim upon future tyrannies. However, the forests in their emerald, sensing disarray, took on a maternal stare while attaching silencers to those beaks in nests where, cries of newborn chickadees may attract the murderous affairs of flight invasion. The young baby birds now protected inside carefully wrapped tiny leaf cones. How unfortunate for them, with their cruel linear perspective of this cylindrical summer!

The army of parakeets pitch up their parachutes in invisible tents. They do in fact plan to stay for awhile. As they keep close watch over the tree terrestrial, their heads spin 360 degree tropical smiles.

They have come to avenge the ****** of color orange.

An arrow to the heart,
It hit the bull's eye.
Blind by cupid's arrow,
I can not deny.

I am tired of games,
Playing tricks,
Getting you closer to my ****.
I just want to run forward,
And mow down all,
In my way.
Doing everything I want,
Speeding by all the tolls,
Others pay.
I get my point across,
And you know I do it fast,
Get your feelings out now,
Before you are the past.
Tell it like it is,
Regret nothing you have said.
Speak when you can,
Tie up all the threads.
I'll get it off my chest,
Now get it off yours.
We'll be free like chickadees,
In the wide outdoors.
One way road,
And twenty cars behind.
Speed up buddy,
You are only wasting time.

Scream it out your lungs,
Until the ears are open wide.
Say everything at once,
Release your brain's bide.

In disused field is a blooming temple.
An ancient apple tree waits eternal,
This stone bold sculpture was forged
With nimbus hands and windy eyes.
In hushed airs, Shiva dances to light,
Waves, sacred arms without swaying.

Bearded ones come to pay homage,
The solemn chickadees, the ranging
Sparrows, red robed robins— priestly                                                         ­    
Doves, all who see are one enveloped
In graces of the New World Bodhi tree,
Waiting for blossoms so dearly come.

Edge of boughs brim under heavens
Landing with mystic verges of spirit
Into the mind of the eyes of nature—
Kali-flowered ears of lichen are pale
Green in their devotions, pummeled
By seas of seasons, foggy to the fray.

Finches, yellow, reflecting in a star,
Devout wee lamas golden with halo,
Are kneeling above berm, this nobby
Trunk, stave, inside bodacious stupa
Bell who sings clear, without ringing,
Body of elder grace, wisdoms, ages.

In cast irreverence, seldom do crows
Visit, when they do there is menace
Of the Jinn, dark giants in the levels,
Mercifully, out of shame, they do not
Stay, black wings due, die in luminous
Day moon, rain soak sun, balmy mist.

On pilgrim journeys, whirlings, prayer
Wheels, guide shy flocks riding gnarl,
Indie goddess, to overreaching love,
By sores of hollow in the steps, open
To being, brindles of myriad meadow
In temple blossoms— numinous suns.

Of both earth and sky, shines a beauty,
Whose form is written in blistering bark,
The ciphers of tongue to Sanskrit leaves
And lost fruits, given over, unforbiddens,
Within old apple tree a great wilderness
And all the branch of wings are knowing.

I don't sail,
It's not that I don't know how,
or that I don't want to.
I just don't.

I've been out,
quite a few times actually,
and I liked it.
I even make money repairing boats,
but for some reason,
it just doesn't draw me
like it does others.

It could be a product of my character,
I may leave it be because it lacks structure
but it exudes finesse.
And I'm the bull in the china shop
who then feels the need to clean up his mess.

Am I missing out on something?
It seems like everyone around me lives for it,
they were born into it though.
I grew up in the woods,
in the peaceful ambiance
and the warm tents bathed in sunlight.

I can take a pack,
a water bottle,
a camera
and return to my childhood.

The trees were my water,
and the chickadees and woodpeckers my fish.
The sun is the same,
bathing the trees and the sea.

That,
that is me.
I do not live in the ocean or on the sea,
I tread among the emerald trees.

Across the reflective fields of Hill Country grass begins to escape its icy enclosure ..Black Angus leave red clay impressions bound for green pastures ..Mourning doves wail their somber retreat as first light exposes the prequel to Heaven .. Blackbirds and smoke from morning bonfires alight , the promise of daylight is scented with Oak and Hickory as fields of cotton appear to ignite . Tin roofs begin to glow , church bells awake villages on the horizon . Golden waves pan Eastern skies , Sycamores sequester abundant sunshine ..Sparrows , Chickadees and Finches gossip without end , Bluejays and Brown thrashers command the fence line once again .
Barbed wire enclosures divide the landscapes , dancing scrub Pines act as reeds , filtering the breeze with the music of natures continuity ..
Blacktop drives ribbon the lonesome acreage , goat herds graze the property frontage . Quarter , Morgan and Appaloosas quietly graze against the backdrop of nineteenth century farm houses .. White silos and red barns , gourd birdhouses , dug wells and smokehouses ..Bantam roosters and hens sift through acorns beneath two hundred year old Water Oaks ..

The grass is the perfect shade of green
Delicately accessorized by flowers
Each strand lays crisply in its place
Wading through the strong wind
The smell entrances those that walk by
Sending hints of your childhood up your nose
The chickadees' whistle as the trees sway elegantly
Every once in a while an acorn will fall
Rolling onto the pavement wanting to root itself in soil
A squirrel sneakily but sporadically greets it
Jumping around the helpless nut
It drags it only four feet until it is once again distracted
Crawling up the tree, perching itself
Staring at a wooden bench where a young lady sits
With her woven brown scarf wrapped delicately on her head
Writing in a blue book that is filled with experienced drawings
She has a paper bag of safflower seeds in her lap
A nearby dove purrs at her politely
The lady sets her velvety book down
For it is no longer interesting
She spreads the safflower seeds precisely around the off-white animal
Smiling as it gazes suspiciously at its food
Inhaling the powerful smell of the grass and dandelions
She gazes at the field in front of her and tucks her brown curl behind her ear.
Turning a page in her hardback book and writes:
*"The grass is the perfect shade of green"

This morning I put the apostrophe in
and this afternoon I took it out.
Oscar Wilde's comic wit
about the writer working hard.

Revision has lately become the sign
of seriousness, as in I revise
some poems a hundred times,
maybe more. A word of praise here,

a critical word there.
Before that there was the debate
if poems not stitched with end-sounds
were playing tennis without a net.

Late summer, August, hot, but
chickadees forming platoons.
Three months until the snow flies,
sure as the June my father died.

do not go there are trees and how many who knows the world is round in Spring and fat in Spring is the far wonder of somewhere the chickadees of smooth sweltering dolls with their dulleyed limp mouths and they don't say a "******* word"

Childish churning chickadees--
chastened
in the dark denim confines of the bulging pocket.

Chatting urgently only in touch,
when their bodies grind together
where two or more gather--
like prayers, like lips do like hands do--

Uncomfortable shape-shifting;
feeling tense as legs shake loose the bunched up mess--
digging into skin like silver teeth or a silver bullet
encroached within a werewolf's flesh--

Musically: creating new timbres accompanying
suddenly aggravated gaits--
Ching ka-ching ka-ching ka-ching--
Fumbling in the darkness.

Ka-ching ka-ching clawing incessantly,
as the forlorn children of burdensome currency.

Soon, their captors retire to worn couches
to engage in aggressive loafing--
growing sluggish and torpid,
legs slacken and jeans loosen--

their lips at the captor's hip bones
spilling out their shiny contents like dripping saliva--
and down, down the children go,
choking between the cracks of the worn cushions.

Bodies shift, aching for comfort,
the farther, farther down they go--
their cries drowned drowned
by pillows acquiescing to mushy bodies.

Those that survive the dreadful encounter--
clinging to their prisons--
feel once again the stifling hands of death
reaching grasping groping in their huddled fretful presence

to be tossed loosely carelessly onto bedside dressers;
for a fate unknown to themselves, nor the hands
that toss them absentmindedly.
It is rare that they are brought to the light of day again.

(It would have been better,
to have sunk acquiescently,
down into the bulbous stifling purgatory
alongside their unlucky kin.)

There is worse; for those who are left in their denim prisons
are thrown--cage and all--
into the jaws of Poseidon's mechanical canine,
who sits on its hind legs patiently and consumes ravenously.

They amass at the bottom of its belly,
until intense gurgling acids arise,
reaching higher and higher til
all are submerged.

They are tossed in voracious waters,
twisting and churning and gasping and drowning--
holding onto each other like prayers;

feeling pulled ****** into the vacuum--
cries lost in the gaping pores of the gargling volatile beast--
lost, lost, lost,
in the cries of forever longing.

Goodbyes: *Goodbye,
dear friends.

Tending a field of sinsemilla
With a bluebird cardinal chorus
A happ- happy guitar picking sun
above us  
A singing stream ,
Mr. Porker in his overalls ,
Mr. Goat in his denim jeans
A blue heron at the well
Whistling Sunflowers covering the Port dale
Purple bud in a basket , cool earth
'neath bare feet , Randy Rooster working
the hashish , chickadees crooning in the
tickled trees* ...

Night, Night,Night,
Alchohol warms my throat.
Im a night owl,
stalking my next prey.
When I was the captured one;
My little mouse caressed my heart in a new fashion.
My lust was no longer instinct,
We danced like Chickadees in the sheets,
When I woke,
She was gone.

I have not lived here long enough yet to make the miles between town seem any less than what they are but there's a chance they never do

I wonder this when I watch the cynical navy men and women slink from their houses between the trees when it's still dark, asking if I was a newbie, wondering if they were the reasons for the prolific "don't drink and drive in memory of:" signs posted along the the lithe road that twists between lakes and the far flung gas stations that cater to them

where the mountains peeking through in the west seem out of place, unsettling, like a secret relayed to the casual ear

I have not lived here long enough yet to have had that fortnight meeting on the lawn with thoughts of my return to the earth and a pair of nail clippers or to be able to dance with the creaks in the hardwood

And I'm still missing the droll herons that would loop from the north around the pines of my home on the hillside and land in a huff in the low tides amongst the gulls, I miss knowing, the path of the sun across seasons on my chambers floor and whether the chickadees here prefer the birches in the park or the tall broad leaves that stare at me from across the lake and the when of all things that move in the dull quiet

////

But Ive lived here long enough that the bruise on his neck hasnt faded and I wonder if we'll be over before that happens too

What was the inspiration
for country ponds , for carefree
bodies of water nurturing native songs
Filling young hearts , blue mirrors with tall pine edges ,
carefree days 'neath cozy river birches
Dragonfly prancers and rock bass river dancers ,
sultry bullfrog diddies , red clay marsh , rolled up
britches , sacks of sandwiches , straw hats ,
cardinals , egrets , herons , chickadees and finches
Rain cooled July breezes , row upon row of knee high corn ,
blackberry , blueberry and dewberry thorns
Songs of the creek , of highland hayfield and crystal clear rivers
Tales of arrowheads , tomahawks and hawk feather quivers
The confluence of neighboring streams
The story of piedmont dreams

A tale of woe for a jealous guitar
Desperate to mimic the angels song , the chorus of a seagull throng , the shrill of a captain Jay , the Cardinal in the first week of May , the bass notes of a bullfrog while his cohorts perfectly hum along
Compulsive Chickadees in the scuppernong bush
The buzz of blue darters in the blackberry lush
Tickle of wind bells prior to summer showers
The hammer of rain at a hundred miles per hour* ....

Sunny day
Sunny sway
See the green weeds thrush
hear the warblers and Chestnut
Striped Chickadees chirp.
Feel the equipped hush
of bright Spring’s push
to uncover anew, if only to know
like knew the new leaves, green
as they speak in sunlight
as it drifts, in peak, in song
so swift. Smell the hot sun
gallop, resting on blue sky
as wise as truthful lies.
Grasp shadows streaming off
gleaming off, preening off
Black-eyed Junco’s
call that echo in the in the
outside field, so yield
and breathe such nature
as it believes to crouch in,
crouch out, near road,
near sound. White budded
Baby’s Breath tickles the
green field, green earth. So
covered and fresh. Flowers
so sweet they choose to
peek out of the grass
and weeded leaf.
Sunny day
Sunny sway
Pine trees chuckle
in the blowy, breezy heat.
Never in their own defeat
but capturing carbon dioxide
(unlike wheat) letting pure
oxygen seep through thudded
bark, so brown it shells
their delicate rings. The clouds
dissipate to cornflower blue
so intoxicating it fills the
street, next door, with
glistening light or heavenly dew.

Not a word was spoken, as we walked hand in hand, along the forest path.
The energy between the two of us was of heartfelt love and joy, sharing the present moment, in love.
The bliss emitted a spiritual connection that can only be felt with that chosen one.
He is the love of my life, even with his flaws. I am the love of his life, even with my flaws.
Together we are perfect.
Walking hand in hand, smelling the pine trees, listening to the chickadees call for summer to return, ducks quacking that crack us up, and beavers gnawing on trees close to the rivers edge.
We see it all and enjoy that moment, the one God has given us, in this special world, he has put us on the same path in the forest.  
We have finally found each other, forever and ever..

In fertile ground when you plumb the land
don’t be surprised if she drowns

in the nest with the other chickadees
far above the forest
the cold still penetrates down ****
the chirps are fewer here
each intake of breath is sharp
small heads peer about
not yet old, not yet wise, not yet ready
to fly

but there she is below you
peak for a time
she laps at the well
poisoned by dung
she’s purple and gangrenous
yes gangrenous for the way’s been difficult

she says goodnight
and nestles into the underbrush
fading light ushers in white flakes
it’s quiet, her eyes won’t open again

the well floods
and rivulets spread down the hill
she is too cold to feel water slip up her nostrils
into her lungs
too numb to question

there she lies
drowning in her own silence
there she dies
too weak to scream

Silent songs
perch on the strings
of his banjo
like birds frozen
to phone lines.
Those un-played songs
wait for someone
with some pluck
to take their hands
out of their gloves,
warm up those chickadees,
set them to singing.

it started this morning,
a rhythmic tapping on a tree not far away,
the percussive march-beat of the woodpecker,
followed by a syncopated chirping,
and the occasional flutter of wings
before the chorus of chickadees chimes in,
the morning symphony that greets the sunrise.
Even in the city, nature's
six-ounce orchestra is present and performing,
if one only tunes the ear to drown out the
concrete sounds of man.

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.