The affinity and sympathetic nerve pathways I shall carry to the next life.

 

 

 

Most people spend their time,

some their entire lives, trying to find

someone to sleep with instead of

finding someone worth planting a

garden with. This goes way back

to the very thing I preached and practiced.

Twice.

One on a hilltop,

the other by a river and both

can be identified by the human

capacity to express by symbols

the ignore of historical antecedents.

When my father was alive

I wrote poems about stars because

it was the very first thing he showed me

in the dark. You can call that love,

if need be, a fools indication

that there is light somewhere. I seem

to pay close attention to things bright,

like lightbulbs that eventually go out.

 

The elf owl does and he is no smarter than me,

to roost and nest in the crevices of the saguaro.

I cant tell you the times,

contemplating evil,

I wanted to nest. Somewhere.

In a good, narrow opening.

Then fly off,

thru the two meter spines

thru the soaked up rain water,

thru the blooming white flowers,

 

past the gilded flickers,

the purple martins.

You're brown mother

standing in you're shadow

at a height above the level of the sea;

nothing now in the embracadero

will be the same again. Not at the end

of this journey. This end shall be

the symphysis state of growing together

if two dissimilar organisms might.

Like parasites perhaps.

Only hugging.

 

(Granddad told me of ancestors who

ate rice from a trough/

forard the feeling that happens in this hour.

Whatever magic,

airfoil,

you,

am I entrusted like a judge?

 

I enter, poet,

capable, changing the typewritten waves

as if hoisting what stays

and not what's heroic; in the honey

of the flower liver

where all's left would be metaphor-

wheels and springs to carry and guide

one end like a railroad car; It's large,

 

the Jesus, braided

sun.)

Reviews

[K. Louis]

The energy in your writing is fantastic!