the cycle of our
drama
goes thus:
the play
the viewer
the writer
the actor—
this our acting—
our drama of mind
oh great weaving
cloth,
i am a willing thread
Shrubs left over receding colorado wake
pitiful prayers left by prayers once fulfilled
the crescent new moon returning, the mist, the cloud another gray ridge, the drizzle darkening the tan to red and sweat
the wind lifting every step
to explain the mysteries of the stars
to convey dreams beyond gestures
poetry became us
to touch all worlds at once i need
only speak silence
we rogue heirs of water
drying the desert deeper
desiccating what already was
i am addicted to suffering for others
the man in the moon is shadow i cast
facing it face to face
standing against the same gravity
perpendicular, grounded, standing tall
looking the moon in the eye yourself
you look like nico
everyone looks a little more similar in the darkness buddy
we all melt into the face of night
i am like a bird
not in that i like flight or freedom
but because i think that if i make enough beautiful things you will love me again
desert water
the promised land
we have been distracted, let us return to the central flow
the promised land is wherever you believe
your feet touch holy ground
and here?
now?
always
vibrating at the very verge
of revelation
Listen— every edge and face graced by the light is loved.
The Colorado’s contrast with its carving—
Deep blue and soft orange,
Balanced with the fulcrum at the blue end.
To render a thing significant is to sing it.
We should find the place between us and start from there.
The saguaros in the waste land blossom.
Beatin' Paths ~~~ The journey to the Great American Novel 