Lonesome highway blues, eyes itch, head aches after a midnight run. Rickety van ambles on from my confinement before the reaper came. Interstate highway west, creative life blood, soother of my soul. Sitting on a bench the last stop before Wyoming emptiness. She sat betraying sadness only the poet knows, only the poet suffers. Paisley gypsy dress long blond dirty hair hanging to taut waist. “A rIde mister?” a voice asked, no words spoken. Her soul and backpack fell onto my raggedy salvation mattress, Already asleep with dreams of a sage desert plain. We danced a song on Medicine Bow Peak at the dawn of life. I dropped the sacred crystal into the magic cairn for a pagan mountain god. She smiled her approval with a heart kiss from smiling Hera An eagle flies circles above prayer flags fluttering in still air. A wolf pup howls for its mother.
Poetry and General Musings
The Way We Talked
The way we talked sad mumble jumble incomplete thoughts on a silly sultry summer night when June kissed Luna goodnight. That night we danced slowly to a Viennese waltz played by a rock band in the empty street of shuttered store fronts where the dreamless slept. Have we ever learned anything of each other from the endless discourse of incomplete sentences without noun or verb? At the dawn Morrigan played her silver flute with her black feathered fingers and you became me and I became you the final battle lost forever and we were now immortal. Aphrodite found her revenge as we drank our morning coffee with our croissants that fed our bliss and we wrote our new poetry and sonnets about futility of love we would share for eternity.
A Past Life Experience
A week before tomorrow a past life found me in a smoke free bar on life's boulevard watching FIFA soccer on a fifty two inch flatscreen. I finished my extra dry martini with two olives stirred, not shaken and left for the be-bop time of smokey jazz clubs in dark basements below the sad city of lights. The horn man blew his wailing melodies to our despondent generation who gave their souls to words and sutras . . . we dressed in black. Our deep dialectics were concerned with slow time when the tribe of hedonists gathered for alcohol for drugs for sex for pleasure in the cold room flat above the shop keepers shop. Our poetry played the crazy rhythm of the jazz free discourse that fed us our left over life free of mammon's rules. I returned from my fantasy past life trip to an extra dry martini with two olives shaken, not stirred and FIFA soccer still nil - nil on a fifty two inch flat screen. And I went home to my cold room flat above a shop keeper's shop to write a new sutra of that time when life was still free.
Happy Geese and Ducks
It was a foggy frosty morning when I took this picture. It reminded me of a poem I wrote a few years ago.
I walked out the backdoor of my life into desolate bleak grey snow blending into a steel grey sky — with no beginning, with no end. No shadows defined my place in this universe of horizonless space — nothing moved as all were petrified like a garden of lifeless stone. I wandered away into emptiness — an unforgiving frigid desert lost to visual perspective — searching for a lost memory. In a far distance that did not exist I heard a coyote scream her hunger.