2023, after the rain at Black Rock,

already past Gerlach on County Road 34, north.

not far from Winnemucca, as the crow flies
- you know.
In the bottom of a no longer dry shallow lake.
The People of 10 Principles are dealing with weather.

I feel for the fearful, and pity them a bit,
but the world is in a novel state, bhering up
under the worth of eight billion plus of us,

all awishing
to leave the system behind, out grow the terminii,
for a time,

loose the future on the past, for a week,
with no choice of your own,
overriding the ten principles of the community.

Today, the dry lake
feels like a war zone, f'real
refugee reality chance, t'be with your self, to re-
imagine helplessness out of bounds,
with fidence, confess, the hermit swears
even fasting you can walk to Winnemucca, in three days.

It's eighty miles as the crow flies,
and all the waterholes are full this year.

But I got a pint of RSO and a box of toothpicks, so
I'd mud trod over to the nearest puddle,
and offer dabs to my neighbors.

This I'd call my gift, fret-less.

That's the essence of the whole experience.
I'd imagine.
Had I had the need to be radically included,
in an unsustainable urbanity exercise this year.

It begins as a soft cry
one voice alone
stepping forward
challenging the dark
something so pure
the wounds of being used
keep our trust in it subdued

and then it begins
the voice is changing
wait no
things around it are changing
they are turning
to the source of this cry
which is growing now
into an echo
and now in my chest
this voice I know
not from my mind
but my heart, my soul
it's calling me home
but not the one I own
but was promised

the echo that was just a child
has now grown into a thunder
one that numbers the thousands
one that is so booming
paint is shaking from the walls
it rises from the horizon
waking the entire Earth
something greater than emotion
overcomes my very being
and now the planet
has become a choir
the sky can no longer contain
our voices fly to the heavens
an entire love story
wrapped in a single word
one I can trust with my life
may it fall from my lips at my end
amen
amen

Oh how it must itch-
The lady whose body is
Covered in hard plaster.
Finely carved face of alabaster.

The miracle maiden!
The matriarch with
The eternal smile
Could never feed
A hungry child

The dress she wears is a
Skin tight suit.

Shield atop shield.
Even in the heat.
her sweet baby ****
Burning beneath
Layers upon layers.

Prayers upon prayers
Would only save her.

In my youth,
My sleek clean youth,
I was taught to pray.
Learn the right way,
Said men of the cloth,
And women of the rag-tag convent.
In rows, on knees, in suplication,
We prayed for days off Purgatory,
Babies, lost in Limbo;
Pray for starving
Blacks in Africa,
or
In Peru.

I prayed for you.

Beside my bed,
In my head,
For the Living,
For the Dead.
I prayed.
He delayed.
I prayed longer
For thirst and hunger.
I prayed harder,
Got no farther.
I saw little change.
Perhaps got worse,
Despite my prayers,
Or a longing curse.
                       Amen.

Often not, is prayer
In fear of God
But of our fellow man