Coyote Wall, Washington, February 2019.

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Tlaloc Speaks to his Lover.

It’s raining.

“This is a warm rain, an uncommon rain. It feels too nice and the sidewalks don’t like it. It gets into their cracks, swelling, expanding, like my blood feels when a warm drop hits my arm.”

“Your eyes look so worried when you tell me things like that.”

“They do? I don’t think I’m worried, but I am at the same time. I can’t help feeling like I’m two rhythms, pounding together. Each drumbeat telling me a story. I can hear two clearly. Fuck, maybe more.”


 The rain becomes a light drizzle.

“Another story just started. You must think I’m weird.”

“Sure, I like it.”

“I’m weirder than that. I don’t feel anything, just everything. Or I don’t feel everything, just anything. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, kind of. I understand what you mean.”


 The rain stops. Only drips are heard, falling off gutters and tree limbs.

“It’s so humid. That’s not normal for around here. And it’s changing for good. There’s nothing we can do about it—it’s like those stories, those drumbeats. I can’t seem to find an end to them. I want them to end, but I don’t.”

“You can try. That’s what you’ve always done. Don’t worry, it’ll work out.”

“They keep my interest, but somehow they seem to be waiting for something. Look how fast the steam is rising from the streets. You know, I think we’re like the steam. First, we’re like rain touching the street, then we move on.”


 The sun pokes its heat out from behind a cloud.

“Sometimes I want to touch you like no one has ever touched you before, but I only have these hands and they’re like everyone else’s.”

“I like the way you touch me.”

“Are my hands warm? I know I can be cold sometimes. There are different ways to touch.”


A couple of heavy raindrops fall unevenly from the sky. As if another downpour is about to occur.

“Is all rain alike? I swear each raindrop hits the ground differently. I notice stuff like that. It’s soothing to me to listen to each storm, how they are so different from one another. Do you think it might be true, that each raindrop creates a new life?”

“I don’t know. If you say so, then, I guess it could be like that.”

“The rhythms increase when I don’t hear the rain. It’s like dry voices chattering away, not making sense. I can make one or two of them out, for a while, then I write them down. Then, I come back to read them. It’s gibberish, all just a bunch of gibberish.”


 The clouds part creating large stretches of blue sky.

“The rain is always stopping. Can I touch you now? I need to know.”

“Will it help?”


Modern Yin Yang

The sky, always young, always ancient

Hazy in crisp, clear, cold fog

Brazen in the brightest blue

Until indigo sets flames to red

Or the mist seeps us into night.

Where soft transient sleeping eyes

Free feet from the faculty of ground


Alarm rings, bare feet, cold floor.

Your hair…a sand dune with shrubs on top.

Breakfast doesn’t turn into the most important meal of the day.

The car seat feels like bricks on your ass and you’re reminded of all the repairs that are needed.

Work…a mix of crazy, grumpy, self-involved people.

Clients, customers…a mix of crazy, grumpy, self-involved people.

The drive home…a mix…you get the drift.


And you wonder what happened to the sky?

Repeat first stanza.


Two Windows

Two Windows

Wildwood Trail, Forest Park, Portland Oregon, January 2019



How Does It Go?

It isn’t a question of whether words will come

It’s a question of how you want words to go



Burnt Storms

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Columbia River Gorge, January 2019.

More images can be found here.



West Fork, Multnomah Creek, Larch Mountain, January 2019

(click on image to enlarge. More images can be found here.)



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