Poetry

Beholder

I do not understand.
But I can feel.

This world builds
prisons
for each of us.

To be born
is one thing;
yet another
to grow into the cage
they give you.

Beauty,
Power,
Lineage,
/
Bars,
Locks,
Chains.

It is


exhausting,

lonely,

cruel;


and for you,
the same, but

manifold
  logarithmic
   multiplied
    perpetual
     incessant
      relentless

This is why I am so pleased
you have learned
to pick the locks
or slip between the bars
or simply disapparate,
escaping
when you want to.

Listen.


You are not

an image.


You are

an interior.


You are

a cathedral

with many rooms

and stained glass in sunlight

and libraries

and catacombs.


You are

a book

with 1,000 pages

and many chapters,

including the unwritten.


You are

a mountain,

fitted in a flowing garment of forests,

dotted with deep caverns,

drinking lightning in summer,

content under frost and snow in winter,

filled with granite and obsidian,

quartzite and gold.



You survive all fire.


You navigate by starlight.


You leave ripples in the world.


You are a microcosm.


You are a garden.


You are a home.


The waves break themselves on your shores.


This is why no cage will contain you.


You are.

Coherence

Gravity is the weakest force in the universe.

No empowered crack of the electric
arcing back and forth,

no aurora painted by the solar wind,

no polarity of the magnetic
to           push          apart
or pull-in-close-together.

No elemental binding
in all the flavors of matter.
No quarks or gluons or plasmas,

no 

e x  p   l    o     s      i       v        e 
r e  l   e    a     s      e
 
of the nuclear.

No | wave | particle | duality | particle | wave | No

quantum collapse to knock flat
your tiny human mind.

Gravity is the weakest force in the universe.

This is why you do not fall through the floor.

It permeates all that is.

It does not manifest.

Not like the others.

Even something as old
and as true
as love
unveils itself.

But you say “gravity”

you say the very word:


G


R


A


V


I


T


Y


and

I’m reminded
it’s only weakness
if you keep staring at the surface.

I see the moon locked in tidal orbit
with our pale blue dot;

I see the sun and the Earth at perihelion,
closer than they’ll be all year;

I see the white tail of a comet
flying through the abyss;

I see the long sunset horizon
of a black hole;

I see the colors of stellar birth
in the cradle of a nebula.

And beyond…

a binary system.

A neutron star,
a pulsar,
each sharing the other’s orbit,
ferociously magnetized,
broadcasting into the black,
emanating light you can hear,

radiating
the circling of their dance
as far as they can
out into the deep
and the long dark
of the ever-glinting void,

until gravity wins,

warping space,
bending time,

and they fuse together
in their ultraviolet,
in their sunrise,
in their infrared,
in their lightburst collapse of all that is.

This is called a kilo-nova.

This is how gold is made.

song of the multitude

she is multitude

she contains ecosystems
she is immense
filled from edge to edge with wilderness

she bathes in nightfall
and walks with death

she heals the forgotten and the outcast
moves in silence through shadow

sleeps in a mantle of tranquility

and like a leaf unfurling
bursts from joy in the light of dawn

she weaves her web on the strongest boughs

she watches from the high ground
of the mountain
and listens in the low places
of the valley

she can see the small things
and hear the small voices
of the earth

her hawk-sight soars far through the air

her song is water flowing over rock

she is guided by the stars

she is interlinked

her eye is uncovered

she is the dry country drinking the monsoon rain

her mind is the undersoil network electric
of the ancient forest
from mycorrhizae to heartwood
where the hare darts through the unrolling ferns

her heart is the cumulonimbus
towering anvil thunderstorm
lightning arcing into the dust and the dirt
where the coyote runs over the darkening desert

her soul is the deep of the estuary
where the ocean welcomes the river
after its long journey
where the salmon come home

once in every circuit
of our planet
around our sun

in this furthest arm of our galaxy
spattered among the deep space countless
where gravity bows before the unknown

she is multitude

extinction burst

the fish swims backwards into d̵̨͔͕̎̇̄̚ẹ̶̅̑͌͋̒̐͜͝c̷̢̞̳͈̠͖̽͗̍̾̊̀̉a̵͕͍̩̝͕̹̼͐̄̈́̓y̵̦̬̓
through the last of the stars
into the deep night

so

into the deep night we run,

over the fire we feast and we sing
and we speak and we form, yet

the night is long, the night is long
the night is long, the night is

long,

dark—

the night is


d̶̢̛̛̯̱̬̤̦̼͛̎̄̓̊̿̈́͊͘͝è̵̛̛̺̥̺͈̤͉̠̬̺̹̲̣͈͆̀̅̌̎͛̾̈̃͠͝e̴̢̞̗̥̫͔͔̘̰̣̲͐͆́̊͋̅͊̓͗̿̂͋͒͠p̶͕̯̫̬͍͚̫̓͊́͐̽͜

now eat

the fire
now eat

the eye
now eat

the grass
now eat

death and

build me an idol of trees and skins
and one of rock and stone
and one of bronze and silver
and one of gold and gold
and one of silicon and lightning;

to learn to
fear
—
to fear to
learn

OH PAINTER USE BLOOD

for the canvas is dry
and pale as the sand

use blood, more b̶̡̰̼̟̰̀̅l̸̨̪͎͓̰̉̏o̴̤̤̦̳̖͊͘͝ơ̴̩̺͓̦̂̕͜d̵̡̲͇̮͐

more blood

more,

for a crisp and lonely standard
that will snap high in the wind

tied to the stern of the ship
that sails the fathomless seas
and seeks the entropics;

for when we arrive
we shall drink down the neon
and noble gases
will be needled into our ş̷̖̱͕͐̈́̓̀k̶̨̗̤̈́͒͐̄͠ͅi̴͇̞͚̓͛n̴̘̟̝̦̓̒

as the choir sings free, free to

̶̷̴̷̤͉͖͎̙̙̣̹̭̖̀̿͗̀̍̀̀̀͊̀̕̚͜͠_̶̲̔͋̎ *

They are here. Run.


* ̶̷̶̸̡̢̛̺̺̙̫̞͇̦̮̟̬̲̦̻͍͇͉̘̖͇͉̪̠͇͕͚̪̦͚͍̙͑̓͗̽̒͋̃̓̃̅̄̾͐̃̈́͗͘̕͝


caldera, volcano, ocean, storm
smoked and smoked again the air so thick
to stop and think
let us study at the salt water,
all of it

and the highest tides that fill our flesh…

but how fortunate, this thread

how eyes, wide open to look upwards
into the deep of the deep of

the deep n̴̮̯̉͐̏i̷̩̿̒g̵̜͕͖͗̿͝h̷̞̀ṫ̸̞̅,

there—scintillation

as the fish turns, travails
over and across the rot
into liminal light

as the painter slowly packs to move
and pass this way
with a wink and a nod

are you watching?

one by one by one by one

the very last of the roaring



ș̵̡̺͉̟̲̹̜̤̘̤͙̻̬̪̙͙̃͐͆̋̋͒͂̎̈́͑͜͝t̶̡̛͍͍͎̠̰͍̖͉̝͕̗̜͍̱͖͚̖̱̻͈̟͙͈͔̑̽̓̊̽̈́̏̔̐̈́̐̾̔͘ͅẳ̴̢̢̧̨̛͚̬̠͖͓̝͈̳̫̖̘͈̞̞̻͔̗̙̻̜͙̓̔̃̐̌͛̆̍̈́̓̊̀̏̉̏́̑͑̚͘̚͜ͅŗ̴͍̙̫̺̥̮̹͖̘͙̾͐͂͋̽͋̈̋̈́͘͘͜͜ś̴̡͖̻̣̳̺͔̬̣̞̆̆̎͛̇̐͐̉̑̆̉͊̆̈́̆̽̍̅̿̽̕̕




click

off

,

Evergreen

I have bought
so many books
across the span of the years,
and so sold,
and so gifted,
and acquired yet more,
that from time to time
I catch myself
staring at one spine or another,
as you would your lover’s profile
wondering:
Have I seen you before?
Did I know you
when the pine on the rock outside,
bathed in mist and light,
was still young?
Or…
Even before the rock was old—
perhaps that’s when we first met.

Sylvan Lake | Black Hills, South Dakota

Western Window

I wanted to tell you
that I just watched the sunset.

The last 10 degrees sunk below the mountains
in real-time.

We say “I watched the sun set,”
when really we mean
“I watched the world turn.”

Our feet are rooted to the ground;
our eyes live on the horizon.

A lingering blossom of auburn
and dripping red
and yellow and pink
and pillowed blood golden sky now fades
up
into the coming blue hour.

Only in these slices of time
do I feel allowed
to be—

perhaps because
I’m watching
the sun set
and not the world turn.

The earth revolves in constancy;
the sun sets in a moment.

Yes, this also means
I should
remember
to hold on
to such a feeling.

Yes.

So we persist in the knowledge
of the fact
that we have different words
for “life”
and “death”.

Life revolves in constancy;
death arrives in a moment.

We inhale and exhale,
rooted to the revolution,
trees of bone and dead stars,
veins of ocean water,
skin of salt and the electric,
eyes open
/
only
/
in slices
/
of time
/
that permit us
/
to break with gravity,
or find a safe orbit
in one another.

Twilight fades into the blue,
deep now in the coming dark.

No.

Not darkness. Look.
(I know you would
if you were here.)

Worlds
upon worlds
upon worlds,

spattered,
innumerable,
dancing with us through the void.

Southeast Arizona Desert, Dragoon Mountains

Coyote

You know how headlights,
when you’re near a desert highway,
pan across material like a searchlight,
casting incoherent shadows
past whatever they happen to catch –

sage, cactus green and praying to the rain,
hitchhiker’s drugstore cowpuncher boots,
corrugated lean-to slumped up against the wire?

Well that isn’t happening just yet.

Coyote isn’t on the wander right now.

The sun is still walking, heading west,
knowing exactly where to go.

Daylight melts over dust and hardpan,
yellow, umber, ochre, neon hot pink.

Memory melts like daylight.

Those clouds, see. That’s what I mean.
Cirro… cumulo… cirronimbulus?

It rises, dark and thick in the gloaming.
It drinks the melted daylight.

A rush of cool air. Scattering of sand.
Silent stab of arced lightning.
One million volts in a terawatt cycle.

Thunderstorms drink memory like daylight.
They amplify.
They make ready for the night.

You should come tell me what you think.

Silence. Rumbling over the distance of the earth.

Silence.

Cumulonimbus. That’s it.

You’d have gotten that quicker.

Silence.

Scent of the dry before the wet.

Burning gold at the end of the sunwalk
underneath the dark tower.

There. Coyote’s on the wander. Hungry.

The semi-truck moves past
and headlights cast no shadows beyond a ghost.

Thirst.

Thunder.

Hunger.

Arclight.

Silence.

Sometimes,

when driving with old music under slated smoke
against the brushstroked horizon
fading along mountains to the west
as the sun-heat of the high desert
reflecting off the scent of sagebrush
gives way to a chill mist
collecting on burnished sandstone and granite
with small patches of veridian moss and lichen
in the wild geometry of a late afternoon
as amber light stretches out into a blanket
under which nothing can harm us

(not even the future
not even the past

[this is a good place to stop
and get out the cameras] ),

our gaze sweeps
the scattered domains of the earth,
of the coyote and the elk
and a railroad track not used in years;

soon,
we will start thinking of good food
and something cool to drink.

Shell Canyon | Wyoming | USA