Wednesday, August 31, 2016
Other than that things are going just fine except for my apology to nobody. The pressure is on to remember the places inside these changes. Yes, I remain flexible and open. The crowd stops when the music stops. One of the loudest for its size.
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
Monday, August 29, 2016
My letter will arrive in six hours. It will tell of the edge of the forest. I will be there with my hands, washing them, how the dawn leaves without me, but I will run to catch up, just like in the middle if this dream, time will stand still. I have already been cutting the lavender, it is used a lot in these situations.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
I've re-potted her asparagus fern. The huge pot too small to contain all the roots, they're spilling and reaching-- hardened, yet still living, clutching themselves after breaking out of their plastic container where they've lived on air for years. Water is on TV. Oregon rivers and the ocean.
Saturday, August 27, 2016
The sky is an open book inside the locked library of stars. Scorpio bakes its potatoes over Roseburg. There are pears galore, upside down light bulbs in the trees out back. The second one singing with such energy in the deer bedroom. Hen's nests but larger, in the stiff grasses where it's closer to Marney's place. We see the ghost fires he set. They were sudden, during the day. I saw his back through the black edges of the low flames as if he was only playing.
Friday, August 26, 2016
The problem was that the thing became another sort of distraction, in the mezzanine, it meant three mezzanines, not two, or even one. Grain, cattle, babies all holding on to the present day. I could count them on one hand. Did they even miss me? Was the mezzanine the prime spot, as in destination, say, the next Aspen or Jackson Hole?
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
Wait. I am one now and I heard a raccoon chittering. There are so many times I've gone the other way--sometimes behind myself--to stand in the lucid. "It is more than just a job." Although what, is not on the list. You could get written up for not doing one thing. I was going to check it off just now, but have misplaced my chemicals next to Deady Hall. My body likes the night, thinks it's day, still acting on a dime.
Monday, August 22, 2016
So many rocks to crack open. I cannot crack them all, right? Even though some are thunder eggs and some are looking glass machines. That, I made up, see how lazy? Or, is this the real work, working? We only deal with the thin sacks. We don't touch what's thick. There is a strict routine.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Saturday, August 20, 2016
Friday, August 19, 2016
Little by little, the empire lost its hold on my memory. Yes, I saw the rubble through her eyes, breathed in the toxic dust and clonked the bricks together when it was all over. In bright daylight, it shimmers. Nights, with the globe on high, it is easy to wander, tasting my hunger.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Fine, I do believe it. I do remember seeing Grand Mesa and thinking I'd been there before and wasn't even looking for the world's largest flat-topped mountain and skipping ahead decades would find myself startled during napping by a voice calling my name out of the dream time where I was living to go wander overland through the sage.
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
If I knew what to say, I would say it if I only knew what to hear, what is warning. The bells all maroon, the buttercups and breezes. Water runs there, over the meadow. Fall air is dry. The leaves are crackling. I am the mystery, the Eiffel Tower of the woods and mountains, plains and tundra, deserts.
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
Pardners, we're crying bullets over your spoiled, jobless places We're so sorry, we're so sorry for you, rural losers So sorry that we signed away the few wolves to the highest bidder Just signed here to do away with years of push and pull-- As the Feds disappear anything goes The burning forests cry-- eW can magineI anything ereH in our safe ityC Our ensP are sharpened, we are oughT as ailsN
Monday, August 15, 2016
I always liked the water, even the time I was almost dead, there was that moment, nothing but bubbles as flowers or stars the washing machine on the Lower Fork of the Salmon that was Snow Hole Rapid after I dumped and Tina was waiting. I was not dead but later Tina came closer to knowing everything about me and that the future would hold her silence and me, paddling like mad to get through it.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
The pancakes turned out too flat, un-American, their activities too spare. Those roses are too bright, full. Her blood. The tea rose only exists because of water. In the grass, my feet are scratched. The moon ruined it, disappearing just before the sunrise. Wouldn't it figure. On down the road.
Saturday, August 13, 2016
The stars all fall Into the ocean, into rivers And live there blinking Forever. We watch their gentle Swaying to the music Of the water. After seeing one, The next are betrayals. Night is not the place Of greed. That is saved For the glorious day.
Friday, August 12, 2016
"Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies, gone down the American river!" --Allen Ginsberg, "Howl" See my eyes reaching for clouds. Ears listening long and hard As they pass, drifting just so? Grab them and pull, America! Make it happen, all happening. Remember promising memories?
Thursday, August 11, 2016
I weighed what seemed elusive. It was my intention. This didn't cut it and the tree Was heavy with fruit. I walked Underneath on the fallen ones, Slipping a little, almost sliding. It was a great effort Remaining upright, intact For all the world to see.
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
They looked exactly like cats only their smiles wider, brighter. From the sky. There was a lot to eat, chicken cubed just so, just for them. That wasn't enough, they threw up and ate it again. We found Kitten's paw among the rubble of the August lawn. A little disturbed. Wouldn't it figure-- Kitten's last revenge on all that is dog and all that is so wrong with that yapping lifestyle.
Monday, August 8, 2016
Is that mainly an echo? Did trees belong? Why does day seem like night did not Happen? Scrub oak compared with live oak-- slippage, spilling. Do that dance and tell me What I need to know. Even when all the words are forgotten The singing is still there. We found something which told me She has been out and about this whole time.
Saturday, August 6, 2016
Those tens of years I thought were so far away-- so many times gone. I will not think about it. At the rest stop, other travelers told of the wildfire in Hamilton, about the evacuations. So many fires in the meantime and so much energy just to put them out, keep them contained. I love my friends and the music in their eyes. I found myself listening more than before.
Friday, August 5, 2016
It was so familiar and not so strange-- Things were what I thought all these years And I wasn't imagining but I did imagine more time and there lies the shame. I remembered the rooms, the boulders. The cats, the dogs. The rains and thunder. How to make it last, be more, seem more? Time is ignored a little under the lights. Away from the hysteria, I'm finding out Just what, exactly? Just who? Right? Here is my card. Here is the past moving everything back to its place. Here are my scars, my tubes and clamps. This is my heart, squeezing, squeezing. That's where I go, but I don't know where.
Thursday, August 4, 2016
Yes, poems are different, twisting and turning Around like nobody's business. But this I guessed at before and there was that one reminder. One song was from the past But the singer was so very young. I thought I heard loneliness call. It came from behind the mountain.
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
Monday, August 1, 2016
That is a bowling ball? Found at the base of Sweetwater Falls Who knows how long it was rolling around Under the spray until it became perfect. See, someone took it and brought it here. Royal and Fox sure knew how to make typewriters. Apple head dolls under glass. Florence's original switchboard. There's the Operator's chair, her small seat. This is an original painting. These were the first pioneers. Too much sand for a cannery. More a matter of digging in than climbing.