How it is fickle, leaving one alone to wander
the halls of the skull with the fluorescents
softly flickering. It rests on the head
like a bird nest, woven of twigs and tinsel
and awkward as soon as one stops to look.

That pile of fallen leaves drifting from
the brain to the fingertip burned on the stove,
to the grooves in that man's voice
as he coos to his dog, blowing into the leaves
of books with moonlit opossums
and Chevrolets easing down the roads
of one's bones. And now it plucks a single
tulip from the pixelated blizzard: yet

itself is a swarm, a pulse with no
indigenous form, the brain's lunar halo.

Our compacted galaxy, its constellations
trembling like flies caught in a spider web,
until we die, and then the flies
buzz away—while another accidental
coherence counts to three to pass the time
or notes the berries on the bittersweet vine

strewn in the spruces, red pebbles dropped
in the brain's gray pool. How it folds itself
like a map to fit in a pocket, how it unfolds
a fraying map from the pocket of the day.

loathe* — july 17, 2013

reëstablish the current which made being whole
no, not just in another life since fragmented whole is nothing tethered to the waist. that’s what belts are for. *if you say so
monitor it like
you would anywhere
the trajectory is clear : light the torch of multi-orbed sensation
where we wait on the cusp
of the whole
perhaps in another life, we dare to suggest it. i don’t dare. if i did, i would consider myself a pigment of this pallet
i don’t breathe limited expectation
scientific claims
they’re just as good as dead to me. perhaps the whole can be related and consume our progress. there is too much to see. too little methods
methodic function isn’t perfunctory yet. a push is required. jumpstarting will only cause sparks.
i know something better
so sit down and move to the right. the light’s blocking my view and i cannot surmise unless i’m granted a complete oversight. nothing backseat, because we all know
that is reductive
paint splatters on my face
                                                i
              ­                                am
                              ­             frozen
the colors reimage our complexion and erase the mistakes until we are whole
[ uncertainty is the new guarantee ]
introspection is a form by which we do so. everything we see is incomplete. our eyes need to be adjusted
to the [ uncertain ]


adore — july 29 , 2013

black blue strata pillars spruces flutes
eclectic aftermath debris snaffle pop
  chute-in whelked chrome lugubrious
   lifeblood : trans yes mutate pro-ohms
    in timehalts wyoming woodsmoke
     screened scans : rancid gemini rotors
      hulks histories back - lying supine arts
       ( please remind me to act regimentally )

Lingering above this desert the first rains of winter,
streets greasy with oil/water/rubber cocktail.

Vegas spruces for the tourist onslaught,
bettors eager to lay their Superbowl favorite.

For a weekend the nation marches to a singular drum,
hotels swelling with the faithful to this Neon City.

The Champion stealthily concealed behind the mirror
through which no tout, nor soothsayer may perceive.

The press have lain out every faceted interview,
now only the true believers need worry beads.

This poet shrugs: for him the game has little meaning,
he looks instead to the clouds overhanging the valley.

Bring on the sacks of Sunday, the pass of ******* objects,
there will be snow upon the Redrocks to chill that morn.

Remember art class in the big room
with spray painted concrete ground
where you were given a tiny mosaic
square and asked to recreate it on a
much larger piece of canvas when
you knew full well you weren't an
artist and you never would be? You
spent the time mixing blue and white
acrylic paint together on a small piece
of a former gallon of milk, adding and
adding until there was more than you
would need but the color matched
perfectly and of that you were proud.

Now you're older and you know a bit
more about hue and saturation and how
difficult it can be, working with imprecise
mediums, to do that, to make something to
fit a very precise set of guidelines with no
missteps, no miscalculations, no question
as to its perfection. You wonder if the color
really did match back then, or if you are
remembering something that never really
happened, if you wanted it bad enough
that it changed your recollection.

That day, everyone's large square canvas
pieces went together into designated
spaces on the wall to make a composite
image and all the blues were different
shades and that made you frustrated
and nervous and disappointed in the
other third graders sitting around in a
circle on wobbling stools wearing dad's
old dress shirts as smocks and throwing
brushes at each other and giggling as
eight-year-olds do. You stared at the
tidal wave on the wall made up of all
these disparate pieces and you told
yourself that you'd notice when things
matched as though they were meant, as
though they were destined and divine.

You see the waves lapping at the beach as
we stare out at the vast Pacific. We stand
on the shore and you tell me that my eyes
match perfectly the colors of the Sitka spruces
reaching their arms out wide behind me. Your
flannel shirt matches the gray November sky.
It took all the way to Oregon until it happened
again, but you keep your promise to yourself.

You notice the matching colors. You
smile to yourself and look down at me.
You grab my hand and pull me closer.

Within the air, defined with moss and lichen, and casualties of wet rotting wood-depletion on the dregs of the summit, is a flicker of reality. Here, no naked cedars or fair-weather friends are bent and leaning along the sturdy, unadorned spines of rifle green spruces. The stone-crushed trail takes above the haze of tree lines, founding a path by and beyond the fickle trustworthiness of rocks, and the wind carries all of fog and cloud away, and whispers like one thousand ghosts, and deceives the shrouded mountain’s inclines, unfolding above unto the soft clarity of dew and silence. The only reality is a place where the neck can ease its craned crooked coils to view the now-seemingly distant and muted pale orb of a star. And nothing here cannot breathed with. And nothing that can’t be understood is here amongst the scarred-ancient black cliffs and fissions of olden earth-crust and time. And nothing scales above the lonely, opening a prayer in the sky and the space.

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

I left my mittens in the Smokies.
It was that night at Maddron Bald on the ridge
after we'd hiked from Davenport Gap --
12 miles, 4,000 feet.
The girl gave us icicles.
Dazed and breathless, we pitched the tent
and scrambled into our sleeping bags.
  
The morning sun felt good -- Sterling Ridge
on our left, Cosby far below to the right;
Mt. Guyot with its spruces and firs;
lunch at Tri-Corner ****; then down through
the rhododendrons and mud to McGhee Springs.
Raven Fork -- the beech tree, the icy water,
the boulders, the sunlight.
Cabin Flats and Smokemont -- the rain,
the people with pancakes.
  
Campfires, backpacks, flapjacks, barley;
sunshine, lichens, blisters, . . . wood-smoke.

sometimes, mama would cut
willow spruces while summer blinked
and with each eyelash it torn,
i swear a piece of her apron
just disappeared, too.

then there were splitting ends
of cut-off stories, words in
snippets, laid in tragedy
with no sunset or
whatever the hell it is

i grimaced at books,
at glossy illustrations

and dawn's the vagrant tear,
evaporated into blisters.

The crows circled patiently
Their charcoal feathers contrasted the white
Of the mountain snow

Howl

A huge bellowing howl
The last desperate cry of a dying animal
Was heard above the winter trees
Spruces and green pines iced with snow
And somewhere deep inside
Something savage and unseen
Took its last whispered breath
And with one final howl
Welcomed the sweet kiss of death

I.
On February 5th I am told
that I am best when built
from spruces; later that day,
in the basement, I find
my father’s fingerprints
deep inside the wooden floors.

II.
The next day Mother
haunts my bedroom
like expired medicine.
Her arms are wide
and pregnant and encircle
my wrists like toothy wires.

III.
In my room hangs
a photograph from
camp: the girl’s body is an altar.
Highways line her arms. Small
green snakes weave through
her teeth the way my toes
now weave through salt.  

IV.
It was after that summer
that I turned spirals, that
the ridges in my throat
grew deeper. Now I am

V.
an icy church.

the river runs through,

pristine waters crossing jagged rocks,

ethereal tidal hands passing on their grace.

the only constant sound in the seclusion offered by pines and spruces,

miles far from crucifying gazes and demeaning canards, not shushed.



well actually it isn’t so far from your place,

but it is from mine and eyes closed, it’s a world away,

with our shadows next to the other’s,

feet swinging in and out of the currents,

rosebud lips and green eyes trained on brown ones, no longer discreet,

soft blur filtered-images.



i was hailed from the flighty and the brisk.

and early on i taught myself not to rely on

anything or trust anyone-

people would offer you poison disguised as milk

and venom-dripping back pats.

but gladly i oblige to drop this excuse for a heart in your graze,

still baring splinters from the plaster walls used to hide my being from the world;

on close fists you can take away my reservations.

promises have always been incredulous for me,

lest I put my trust on dandelion wishes and passing blue cars for you.



the sun goes down and tinting skin in twilight blue.

we’ve stayed for quite long basked in the brook’s mystique.

for a while longer, we stay,

gemstones braided in your hair; a corset paired with my whimsical skirt,

siren-eyed smirks and otherwise illicit touches.

no hunter has come to reveal us in this dwelling place.

the water nymphs witnessed all that we’ve done while in their home-

it’s no secret that the hills and trees have eyes,

hush, for their sight don’t leer nor scorn,

not minding carrying this partial secret,

offering safety in screaming this love out.



now i’m back to drawing your place beside mine on afterwork takeout receipts,

scribbles from memory of the secret place,

and casting my hopes upon the prismatic sky.



the sun shows another day,

and my suncatcher capturing rainbows,

reminding me that our safe space awaits,

where the river runs through.

the elders say the sky is changing
stars aren’t where they should be
Earth has shifted her axis
misaligning the heavens

driving home on date night
respite from daily’s grind
ice cream cones and country songs
breezing through open windows
with Charlie in the back
wailing and wagging to the music
spruces swaying in clear evening sky
“stop the car”, she said
“the moon isn’t where it’s supposed to be”
he rolled his eyes and got out with her
Steph, Mel and Charlie on his leash
trekking a quick adventure
searching for the misplaced moon
walking in the beauty of the night

it took a short while
but they found her in the tree tops
shining in full magnificence
conversing with Venus and Mars
while the man on the moon stole a kiss


Del Maximo
©06/16/2016

I went out early and saw the sunlight
Dive on the breast of a mountain;
Then I watched the firs and spruces
Poking through the fog.

I ground their words into tiny flakes
And smoked them all afternoon;
Then I succumbed and floated up
Way up, like a balloon.

When I woke, the flames of dawn
Were raging in the east;
Nighttime left my roof and lawn
And crept off like a beast.

I was fixing the flowers
When blue-eyed morning
Stopped and came inside:
We visited over coffee
Until the dew had dried.

Its descent is silent - as the sun sets
Here rarely anyone visits.
The Bluebird sings at the distance in the spruces,
As I touch the leaves of the forest ground,
I find rational breathing - here.
No religion - no opinions
As it offers themselves to me!!

For years I swam
with pockets full
of stones. The cold
water rushed to
accept me. At
the bottom was
another night
& I lived there
for far too long,
pockets sewn shut,
& my lungs wings
of blackest mud.

I broke free, and
drifted up to
the veins of stars
wavering on
the water's skin.
I took the air
& ate it whole.
Poems dropped from
my brown eyes, I
found you, I was
ready. Dreams lay
below spruces,
with coins of sun
we bought tickets
to history.

But will I hear
those stones again?
Singing from the
false night of the
drowning floor? It
keeps me awake
in the lean hours.

Amid nature’s finest things
That make the taste buds sing,
Are summer-fresh cherries.
Deliciously mouth-watering.

Ruefully, as summer wanes,
Cherries go out of season.
But upon their due return,
I’m cheery for a reason.

The most delightful of fruits—
In my HMO.
Perhaps for they’re exquisiteness,
Or that I love them so.

The cherry, a gift from God,
Spruces the daily diet.
It grows on trees and tastes so good.
The perfect dessert.  Try it.
(Revised 2/2018.)