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.
It burns in the forests and the fields, it burns in the streets, with fires small and great all stretching out for the same air, all feasting upon the same oxygen.
But empires thus are built of bone and of sweat,
and within the elements of things closest to our hearts, from the private to the pestilent, we wait and we watch with dilated eyes the assault and decay.
To breathe! Only to breathe…
The body has a finite amount of blood. The mind can only take so much.
They will not stop, you see. They will never
stop.
This is the desolation.
Oh rise now the midnight daughter, oh rise now the twilight son; keep your blades sharp, your torches dry, your eyes up.
Under the roaming haze under a descending sun; late now, the domain of summer, and the long dark approaches.
There is but one bastion, one shield, one bulwark, one fire in the night:
hold fast thy memory, thy faith, thy hope and thy love.
You know in your deep-heart what is right.
All else is anathema, all else is so much dust, for there are no spells with which to resurrect the dead.
Softly now, as your soul sings in the depths of the dark.
Sweetly now, as we drink deep from the overflowing cup.
The ceiling fan spins light kaleidoscopic in the late evening, and the sheets smell like you, and my shirt is scented with dust and musk, and we trace each other’s tattoos and taste of each other’s wine and speak our stories into the air.
So lightly, as my fingers brush the back of your neck.
Elegantly, as your hand rests upon the rising of my chest.
Slowly, as thunderclouds growl and gather in the distance.
The hours after midnight are only for the nameless, the forgotten, the secrets, the lovers, the ascendant.
Carefully now, as I carve your name into the side of my heart.
miles have we moved with kinked-up backs and rough-cut hands,
years have we labored with tired hearts and aching minds,
through the burning suppression of the soul, shackled and shamed; pushing through this perdition, passing as penitent through this purgatory,
boots sticking hard in the festering swamp of solitude, or resting near the doorstop of the holy haven of solitude;
the once bright and shining, the sprout-seed, the storm-sailor floats now over the sifting wastelands, over liars, thieves, and kingdoms, over fates, feasts, and famines;
the final card is turned and it is Death reversed –
but
when you touch me,
the flowers of spring bloom upon my skin, the thunders of summer roll across my form, the winds of autumn whisper in my ear, the snows of winter pile upon my peaks;
when you speak, the earth is silent.
and when you look at me with eyes that have seen too much and not enough, eyes deep and clear against the world, eyes always horizon-bound, when you look at me with your eyes – wells of dreamwater fed by heaven’s rivers –
The moon, in her wisdom, hides for the day; and the sun tumbles in photonic procession over hills of tree and rock to come gently, unassuming, in between the curtains.
The cat stretches.
You arise first, usually.
You are the concerto’s opening notes.
You tell me of the mountains- the old ones with long and white hair falling over their shoulders, guarding the far and wild reaches of the old country.
You tell me of the realms of your imagination; of the paths traveled with companions, and of those without.
You tell me of the burning light of hope hidden in the deep night of the soul.
You tell me of faith. You tell me of mystery. You tell me of love.
And I see the trades and skills and crafts concealed among the books on your shelf, and in between your piano fingers.
I see the nameless fears waiting in the dark.
And I think it is no wrong thing to take a step back in time, and say “thou art Rogue”- feline-footed and shadow-friended, come to meet me at the edge of field and the forest, both of us bringing secrets for trade.
And I see the sun coming in.
I want to hear more.
I want to hear why you think the violin is the most beautiful sound in the universe.
I want to close my eyes and see more of the piano fingers at play.
It’s hard to close my eyes around you, but I will try.
I want to hear more about your paths, see more of your map, taste more of your wine;
only because I’m not sure anyone’s listened long enough to hear the song of the golden threads that hold you together- the ones the world tries so hard to unravel.
So let me check today’s itinerary:
Ah.
“Hunt for rocks.” “Eat food.” “Dance in the kitchen.”
But first, breakfast.
Coffee.
Then come and meet me at the edge of the field and the forest.
Does it fly full-out and free under the sun? Does it hide and whisper its dreamings in the dark? Does it drift in fitful slumber beneath the sea?
What voices, still, are carried on the horizon’s wind?
Where do they go?
And why, why is all this insanity very much like a coming home?
(does it even matter?)
Here, I’ll tell you a secret:
I have no idea.
But I think it’s very close
to whatever makes a horse dig its hooves hard into the ground, playing with the earth at the scent of rain, throwing out ripened patches of green grass to an evening blanket-sky burgeoned with pillars of midnight as the final spears of sunlight slip past the edges of thunderwaves forged in hearts of lightning.
Litany_of_the_Lost 