Society has good intentions Bureaucracy is like a friend
5 years ago - other furies other losses -

America's
trying to control the uncontrollable Forest fires, Vice

The essential smile In the essential sleep Of the children Of the essential mind

I'm
all thru playing the American
Now I'm going to live a good quiet life

The
world should be built for foot walkers

Oily
rivers Of spiney Nevady

I
am Jake Cake
Rake
Write like Blake

The
horse is not pleased Sight of his
gorgeous finery
in the dust Its silken
nostrils
did disgust

Cats
arent kind Kiddies anent sweet

April
in Nevada - Investigating Dismal Cheyenne Where the war parties
In fields
of straw
Aimed over oxen At Indian Chiefs
In wild headdress Pouring thru
the gap
In Wyoming plain
To make the settlers
Eat more dust than dust
was eaten In the States From East at Seacoast Where wagons made up To dreadful
Plains
Of clazer vup

Saltry
settlers
Anxious to ******* The Mongol Sea (I'm too tired in Cheyenne -
No sleep in 4 nights now, & 2 to go)

I cherish my freedom
Hard earned though it was
Through the abolitionist railway
And those who supported the cause

An African slave,
though free upon birth
I was sold as a slave
And was now bound to the earth

Run for the caves boy
Run for the caves
Run for your freedom
Or die here a slave
Run for the caves boy
Run for the caves
Run for your freedom
Or die here a slave

Late in the dark
I heard of the routes
To the new land of freedom
I was resolute

I would run for my life
Leave my family behind
I would run for the caves
And the new life I'd find

Bound to plantation
I was just something to trade
I would run for my freedom
The decision was made

From South Carolina
I'd head to the coast
I'd run for my freedom
I'd then be a ghost

Follow the signs
That was all that I heard
They know you are coming
Just remember the word

Stray from the darkness
A dead slave you will be
With the last thought you'll have
That you'll never die free

Boats on the seacoast
Up to Salem they sail
Look for the sign
And remember the trail

Make for the caves
They'll find you where
The water is highest
They'll come get you there

From there up to Salem
And one more step to go
Stick with the railroad
The way that they know

Make way when the moon
Is down low in the sky
If you're found in the meantime
It's a fact you will die

Freedom is costly
But, it is within reach
Make for the caves
At the north end of the beach

From New England go on
to the north or the west
Both spell out freedom
The end of your quest

Don't look over your shoulder
just follow the signs
They know you are coming
stay deep in the pines

Remember all those
Who have made Freeman Cave
Follow their symbols
And don't die a slave

There are people who will
Help you free from the strife
But, for now find the caves
And son, run for your life....

Run for the caves boy
Run for the caves
Run for your freedom
Or die here a slave
Run for the caves boy
Run for the caves
Run for your freedom
Or die here a slave

You visit this place
You do not stay long
There’s nothing here
that speaks of settlement
Everything you do has an edge
of intensity wet by the weather
sharpened by the clock

If you try to be still
in what passes for shelter
the wind will find you
seek you out

So with the camera your primary tool
begin to collect - image after image after image
Point and click : view and share

Eventually the mark-making begins
though fraught with difficulty
it seems just hopeless this testing out
of the body’s response to what passes
before the scanning eye
Blink
and the image shifts

There is this fierce and on-going campaign
between the near : between the far
What lies at your feet :  what decorates the horizon.

After a few hours wrapped round in nature’s vortex
the eye and brain are exhausted by the profusion of it all
wearied by the press of wind, the touch of rain, the glare of sun

Always the problem of what you do
with what you’ve seen
and touched with cold hands
pulling out metal objects from the sand
whose rusted and distressed forms
will lie exposed on the studio table

The place marks you Rain and wind on the face
raise new freckles there’s a salty veneer to the skin
the rub of sand  :  a wash of seawater
the grasp of pebbles : wood’s chiromatic grain
The lexicon of texture expands under your fingers
changes of temperature : degrees of saturation
and further uncompromising perspectives
unimaginable yet in two dimensions
Beyond beachcombing this is seacoast surgery

Away from it all (and out of the wind)
your memory stretches to the corners of recall
Wandering through a home-centred day
as in a waking dream
knowing you’ve already gathered
all manner of sensory matter
held and stored in the pineal gland
flowing free in Meissner’s corpuscles

Even absorbed in conversation’s company
as you turn away to fill the kettle
you are on the beach back in the wind
scanning the memory tin : priming the future.

Silence hit me hard;
When I wasn't able to hear the melody of the waves near the seacoast;
When I wasn't able to find souls & species in the most chaotic street of the Metropolis;
When the cold breeze seized to blow;
When the rain drops didn't collide;
When life met death;
But above all ;
When my profound thoughts stopped yielding noise in my head, Silence completely took me into it's realm.