In the deep of time indigenous tribes
surfaced a red earth with protruding plateaus
and burnt canyons along the Cimarron River.
The ancient Anasazi settled
at the core of this mesa.
Scattered ponderosa pine.
Yet, their sudden demise echoed curiosity.

Navajo sensed a struggle of two infinite worlds,
a quivering inundation.
Circling its haunted ominous shape,
a skull with one eye, the apparition of light
rose into a blue desert sky.

Violent storms crackle hot lightning
strikes in a sulfurous summer-
an oracular hothouse.
Navajo talk of spirits or the gateway
to fire. Heaps of iron and lodestone
lodged in the cap. Only two
brazen, cat totem poles guarding its passage.

Standing among the mesa
to feel the verve of the earth.
A New Mexico sun beats down
burning the drowsed terrain.
To see the legendary shaman glow
in his ephemeral blue nimbus.
Bathed in gaudy turquoise.

Sensing the dark encroachment
of a ghost. Near the bony hills, soared
a turbulent black bird in full flight,
upward.

Pueblo

Stand still great adobe home stretch higher stacked high and long oh cliff dwelling ancient ones you
Passed as shadows you practiced the arts and religions of your people the Anasazi in my mind of all

Peoples you saw true visions of heaven and your building in the sides of cliffs are evidence of this nothing
Else that I know of captures the imagination and gives the look and feeling of heaven the only place that

Outweighs the southwest for mystery is the Sahara with the Southwest and its Mesas canyons plateaus
Then to have a people carve out homes and live in cliffs at night talk about a city of light built on a hill

Some are eight thousand feet straight up what a night spectacle reaching for miles the one in New
Mexico is in close proximity to the Cimarron and the Pecos rivers you can feel the sand stone on your

Hands and fingers feel it under your feet feel the baskets they made the pottery black and gray or white
These are small treasures even today their culture is amazing spellbinding at election they trot out the

Map part is red part is blue well the red of native Americans still reaches from coast to coast just
Reduced to pockets and sadly those are stories of overriding sadness that’s because we pigeon hole them if

they are given honor and recognition for their feats and exploits everyone would be better off
There isn’t any person that can’t teach others fine and grand things about life unless you are desert

People that have sold out your soul bought into garbage that a few are trying to enslave you by their
Twisting truth only to their advantage while you must lie at their feet and be their dogs that kind of

Thinking is best saved for fertilizer let your mind follow the eagle across the desert sky push beyond
Limitations turn defeat and obstacles that block you into new paths of opportunity the Anasazi survived

In a hostile environment of hot temperature low amounts of rainfall what did they do wisely they
Changed the course of small streams that were manageable for irrigation they didn’t defeat them selves

By trying it with rivers that were too big and they used their greatest available asset the winter snow
Some was natural run off that gathered into springs in other cases they manipulated nature for the

Benefit of everyone if you’re in harsh conditions and things are bleak he makes ways where there are no
Ways if you keep getting a beating instead of being loved and receiving a blessing there is an ancient

Cure that goes back farther than the Anasazi his name holds every need you will ever have for now and
always God bless you friend

I'm on the way,
if you take the long way,
past the Arlington Cemetary,
where the babies of the
influenza epidemic do sleep,
down from the ancient cedars
and the ruins of the Winchester Bank
established in 1908.

I'm on the way,
if you take the long way,
past the snaking and rusting
barbed wire of the Scott Place,
where my father chopped cotton
and his father died under the weight
of a fallen log and his father died
to the backfire of a shotgun.

I'm on the way,
if you take the long way,
past the Cimarron River and idle wheat fields,
where my mother once watched the dust
roll in and the money blow away,
down from the birthplace of
a serial killer you've heard about,
down from a quiet, flybuzz pace
that so often inspires rage.

Ya, the taste of ice cream on his lips
Ya, garlic mustard growing on the ridge
Ya, the good ideas on the fretboard
Ya, I hone the sound of thunder in my hand

Ya, Philadelphia
Ya, Rapunzel let down her hair
Ya, Dipper Riley Marko and Tucker
Ya, Texas

Ya, Pokémon
Ya, al kahul
Ya, Fall Out Boy
Ya, skinny jeans
Ya, asymmetrical hairdo

Ya, Kitty
Ya, Rock and Roll
Ya, the nature preserve
Ya, The Way She Moves

Ya, Mayday Parade
Ya, the Philadelphia Orchestra
Ya, Music Theory Classes
Ya, backpacking by yourself

Ya, Family
Ya, the Museum of Modern Art
Ya, Mount Hoback
Ya, Cimarron NM

Ya, The Wonder Years
Ya, Allen Ginsberg
Ya, The Moon
Ya, the Wissahickon Green Ribbon Trail

Ya, the mansion
Ya, Devil's Pool
Ya, Bloomsburg
Ya, Danville

Ya, Kangaroo
Ya, girlfriend
Ya, Australian licorice

Ya, Gameboy color
Ya, AOL Instant Messenger
Ya, The Killers
Ya, Santa Claus

Ya, Chipotle
Ya,

This night
in you,


After Glow

when the

rains come
in the
wink
of an eye,

we crusade
into the black

catching each
droplet
of the wet night
upon our
tongues.

then savoring
the taste
together


deeply sweetly
between our
lips..

seeking our
salvation
humble
and as a
servant
to each other's
souls..

through
cimarron canyon

early morning

grass

we walk


bare toes
in flight.

clouds
swollen
bellies
itching
to give
birth..

and there
behind
your eyes

naked
unafraid,

you
find
me...