there is comfort
in something that can't be understood
vast concepts
like blankets to be rapt it

all is clear to the smoking man
only matches
and something to be burned
and someone to burn it

between patient inhalations
folded smoke
the only movement
ember red
the only color
in the dark

Who's suffering have I been blinded to
by my own self-interest
and what do I find so
interesting?

When numbed by the massive
waves of pain
felt, so far away yet so many,
where is my own hand in the healing?

Are the wounds of
apathy
enough to bleed out by,
or will the will
be enough to lift the bandage

to stem the tide.

summer windows opened
autumn windows closed

think dada
speak post-modern
imagine haiku

the anticipation
and everybody waitin
a silence like white noise
all over every nation
still patient
head up but
wondering where the day's went

i've so many ways

in my hand
five threads
twisted

left with a choice
i'm tangled

we are found
in dark rooms
burning the afternoon's blossoms
in search of
dreamless sleep

we are found
livid
underwater
needing to breathe

we are found
heavy lifting
ones and zeros in sequence
weighted by quantity

we are found
reflected in mirrors
not really there

we are found
together
casting prismatics
making memories
without a blueprint
or recipe

we never gave up our certainty
the we were right where we left ourselves
even when faced
with all evidence to the
contrary

conduit self
how much will you bring in
to create a movement?

the only true freedom
comes at the cost of decay:
sacrifice makes a meal,
a meal makes a motion,
a motion grows
and the harvest is rich with echo.

reaper hand
sleeping spirit
ever-waking mouth

Opening a moon-shaped box
gold, deep blue crescent
the dried sage
frosted teal
and the butane lighter in my hand

Slowing the breath, slowing the breath
and the beads from around my neck
one at a time pinched softly thru fingers

meloncholy red coral
and water in a jar
making space between them to sit

the sun is beyond the hill
and there is no longer a rainbow
at the window

hushed heart beat
but no stillness
in my chest

waiting is made a game in the mind
it moves thru itself
in good humor
or out of habit
always taking me with it
when i'm caught unaware

palpable tension
in the bank
tellers rolling eyes
and rank and file
of stinking
value
pilled high

the sighing why?
and a mile of road before us

getting to the point
is a round about way
of feeling something

drapery
my eyelids
letting the red light in
is morning speaking
clearly

based on movement
we choose

and the struggle
within

sleep

black sand
black sand

magnetic in the pan
force wave shapes
"any trace of value
will sink to the bottom"

we''ll find some mystery there
with any hope

no knowing
so many snowflakes
reach the ground

before long
all manner of crystal
growing

sometimes flowers
bloom
to be froze
in a latter time

slow spring
seeping

Laid down
floating over last year recipes
same town
knowing that the rest is what's next to me
and i'm blessed to see it

Outside surroundings
bring it in
bring it in
we all want to be
a bigger piece
a bigger piece

With this love abundant
still leaving
like heat in an open room
we go out to find what is waiting
here

Find me some truth to seek
and i will gather all my lengths of
threaded hope
to climb us a wall
and make it into the
finding place

God ******,
i say it all the time,
invoking no thing I know
asking for a wrath
I could never want

In the puddling ice
both feet
not yet wet
but soon enough
laid up and bone

preview
learn nothing new
far too few too soon
and i'm lost in minutia

The night is emboldened,
swinging recklessly between the lighted intervals.

In the day,
when all human movement
is set to continue,
the rapid spinning of
Earth
is lost to our needs.

When the stars show
we go dancing
with the purpose of loving,
so fiercely,
the coming rest.

We make our nests of
exertion
woven into
footfall patterns
and
when we wake
it is unmade
and we set off
collecting distance in our hearts
to make it again.

Some days she is far above me
cumulus, billowing
complimenting the sky
as she drifts and changes
slowly
Shine one moment
Shadows next

Some days she can't be seen
or is distant and alone on the horizon
she shies from the Sun
but at night we watch the stars together

Some days
after the rains
when all the quiet things come out
and patter the forest floor with
hushed steps
when I am outside listening
and my head is like an empty bowl
she curls from me
rising, slipping out over the valley
embracing the hills
and running her fingers thru the trees
like so much tall grass
laughing

I breathe and she is my breath
filling my hallow
she is all I see

Death is the celebrity we all know
(just not personally).

The truth words come in shapes like water. Washing over me. Sometime I feel like drowning. Sometimes I think we all have. Known something so liquid that we can't.

a peaceful forest
the birds, the moss,
the glisten of river thru it
the soft foot fall of hunt
animal hunger
plant lust

all is peaceful
and even here is pain

pain is so a part of everything
as peace is
and sure as day and night
a biting life will strike
to bring us sleep and waking moments
lest we forget

My poetry
is best used at work
as notes of praise and encouragement
in co-workers birthday cards.

If, in reading my words,
their step is made lighter,
I am successful beyond kings.

I would write blessings to all the world
if the lightened step of men
would save it
but
at the end of days
I do not truly know
what a poet is.

Your conception of the world
can break if you
drop it.

It is not the precious gem
you've made it out to be.

To feel the warmth of sun on your face
is one thing.
To let it in like glass,
like water,
is another.

Distant, mist-wreathed hills
of sugar pine and ponderosa,
a girl is walking there.
Long, cool stride under low skies
hinting rain,
electric taste of grey.
On those silent hills I am filled with sound
as I watch her,
like an ocean or
television snow.
She stoops to lift a
stone or berry or seed
and turns eyes toward me.
My own eyes turn inward
and she disappears.

"I can't wait to see your face when it's finished."
Mother to Daughter.
Ceramic Masks.

I don't know how many trees were cleared
to build the foundation of my
childhood home.

cracking wise
wide open

Becoming a room,
becoming a hallway,
becoming the scope beyond a door,
widening into sky.

Our breath, every moment,
like water in every direction,
and then space.