Forest Rash — Elan Mudrow Photography

Eagle Creek Trail, Columbia River Gorge, Oregon. November, 2015

via Forest Rash — Elan Mudrow Photography

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Aftereffects Of Fire

Here, where fire once raged

Our voice is diminished

As if our speech leaves through

Lungs weighing only of paper

And this trail we have carved

To stand next to old giants

With charred arms

Comes with symbols and words

Revealing deepened ruts

A string of infinite finites


With sunburnt shoulders

We watch the eyeless sun

That harsh gardener….

Pierce through a ghost canopy

Wishing to reclaim its spent dust

Thinking only of its collection

….Cold baubles of gravity


All witnessed by the moon

Who never blinks once

While we lay naked

Underneath its glow

In several forms of desire

Waxing, waning,

Silver, blue, and crescent

Its face constantly upon us


That burning face in the night

We claim as eternal muse

And use as fire for the poetic

Inventing expressions

To lay upon Luna, leading us

To scramble and patch together

scrapings and scratches

Producing representations

Of a once noble fir

Which lies deep in our lush memories

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Only through our vulnerabilities  

Can we speak of ourselves

Where no genders build language

Where no categories structure

Your reaction to my voice…..

My reaction to your voice.

Either of us can be the words

Slicing into the coolness

Of our combined angers…..

Of our singular gentleness

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Reincarnation — Elan Mudrow Photography

Pacific Crest Trail, Santiam Pass, Three Fingered Jack, Oregon. July 2017

via Reincarnation — Elan Mudrow Photography

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Life Form — Elan Mudrow Photography

Middle Falls, Lewis River, Washington State, August 2016

via Life Form — Elan Mudrow Photography

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I’m the child who strips sticks

off maples and oaks

To slap curbs like drums

Make them mallets

To tap out the melodious

Microtones of storm drain covers


I preform this inside

A concrete planned pattern

Where Chestnut street

Meets Spruce street

A tilted suburban loop

Built to maintain an evenness

Defined by the coiled pavement


Where, with purple, silver-speckled

Five speed Schwinn,

I race round the circle, of

Chestnut and Spruce, who

Are laid down with chipped gravel

And oil’s secrets

The yards of homes blur by

Separated by

A miscellany of fences and bushes


Then, it is easy to surf streets

If followed truly, leading

Down to the new fort

Built of spruce and chestnut

For decorative purposes

Upon the remnants of the old fort

Where the sluggish current

Of a river, once jammed with logs

Slips underneath various drawbridges


I am the child who swims

In the river, along with

Eddies and undertows.

If the shore never moves

I know I’m against the current

I must catch a sandbar

Stand upon it, catch breath

Then, reenter the swirling soup

Wait for the big ships to pass

To bob like a doll in their wake


With the strength of child arms

Pulling myself ashore

I’m the speck of flesh, river rat, drying

On the coarse sandbank,

A mixture of Junk and Nature

Rough on my soft, tender

Spoiled feet,

Which have never calloused.


I yearn for cold, green lawns

Water sprinklers, who

Accidentally hit the hot pavement

If not set correctly

And my sticks, the tools

Of the melodies

Which are left

Where I last filed them

At the beginning of this poem

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Wound — Elan Mudrow Photography

North Head Lighthouse, Washington State

via Wound — Elan Mudrow Photography

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Salmon River Spring

Cool kiss from the forest

Stirs an inner revival

Charged by its music

Fresh from the source

That drums upon rocks.

As if my very bones

Were strewn underneath

The stream of Orpheus

Whose rhythms sink

Past thirst, deep within

My core, my atomic spirit

Embedded in my soft clay.

I am as tall as shadows

Of family fir and cedar.

Old growth is in my pitch.

I cup my hands, tightly

Holding what all life desires.

My fingers are born

Into this song shape

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Metamorphosis — Elan Mudrow Photography

Salmon River, Oregon. June 20, 2017

via Metamorphosis — Elan Mudrow Photography

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Who is the ghost that walks the train?

The apparition tugs on our shirt sleeves

But all rides are displaced

We are logged into otherness,

Password protected

Our faces dug deep into ourselves

Reflections fed to us

Wires from out our ears

Wi-Fi, stuck in our gut

Download speeds of the central nervous system.

Our spines reverberate myriads of chatter.

A silent rustle, instilling itself

Convincing us without us ever knowing

How important we are compared to

All other representations of knowing

While we are in the midst of knowing.

It’s called automatic updates


The train moves automatically

We are in a moving bubble…..and

From the windows see sprawl

Hurling past us………………tame trees

Surly lawns, hybrid bushes

Dotted between office buildings

Who give out loans, advice, and massages,

Fast food made to look like good food

Good food made to look like fast food

We look to make it home, safe

To pass through concrete stops embedded

With glitter and tactile paving

Ghost, ghouls, and the sleepless.

All stops are washed down, nightly

To make sure everything is clean


We wait for our stop, or stops

Trapped in by the prerecorded

Professional voicings of destinations

Which are never really stops

Just representations of stops.

Glued to our world, the rails

We read in glorious fonts….about

Long-gone idiots and fools, ghosts.

We are fascinated

about the sky

How its falling

Why its falling

Why it should fall

What we should do when it falls

If it didn’t fall

There wouldn’t reason.


For us to be living it up



We could ride forever like this

We will ride forever like this

On this train that gets us to work

Takes us back home again

Between murders and wars

Youtube and hookup sites

These things that record us

Splinter meaning into twos

until all movement becomes reaction

To representations (ghosts) of

The electricity that sings about

Who we think we are

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