Tag Archives: Blog

Face In The Woods

The woods are watching.

Pacific Crest Trail, Oregon, June 2018

 

 

See more photos here.

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Ramona Falls’ Mist

Ramona’s whisper requites us to ourselves—our fires extinguished, our thirst sated.

That voice, a pact between mountain and moisture, is a quiet call to us

The stumbling pilgrims, forest wanderers, wishful sages who suffer from acute chatter.

Its language—slow—near wordless, near nothing, paints upon the brow reminders…

Of lost talk of the ancient shape of myths, wrapped around delicate, heavy truths,

Source of our combined story.

 

We arrive with city hands, parched

To drink for the first time—again.

Carbon

We watch the night sky, safe under its lights, reading a language of the night. Our hands fumble, circle as if in orbit, landing inside each other’s magnetic field. 

We whisper to one another in a planet’s dialect, built by a syntax of suns, stanzas that play between solar winds and the ultraviolet, poetry of passion and reaction.

And upon summers like this one, many readers like us have lain and will lie in the quiet, underling quotes of hot stars in a sticky cluster, a mingling of gravity and motion. 


Even at this remote position, far out on a limb of a galaxy, we know the shape of light, its means of flicker.

We accept that light is a fallible hydrogen, a spinning of stories, fiction, changing faster than longing, where denouements appear daily and relationships serve as catharsis.

Our simple act is a holding of hands, a close reading of one another, which may last for a second or for an entire space time continuum.

Our bodies move closer, clumsy, as if forever threatens to do away with us. We touch before daylight strips away our nakedness.

That’s when I let you kiss me.

I laugh with the universe in my lips.

 

Urban Mimesis — Elan Mudrow Photography

via Urban Mimesis — Elan Mudrow Photography

Fire had sustained, now it consumes in a slow gesture. Fingers—intact—same shape as they were before, can’t conduct. Invoking is a painted portrait, prepared each morning in the image of the moon.

Flame like flowers still shoots spells. Stems like wands direct their colors, greens, reds, yellows. The good ember, still visible—kindled, licks of heat, whispers of words—reignite.

 

 

Binary Stars – The Kid And I

The kid comes in, snaps a few photos of a living clutter, the retail store.

“We don’t have anything like this.” The standard review, spoken by the parent of the kid who shares the photo on Instagram, Facebook, or some other app.

The shop sits on a tilted, bottom floor, two blocks from the Willamette river, not wanting to budge from its spot.

The rest of the shanghaiing office building was abandoned long ago.

The old offices, upstairs, real ghosts, shades of what they used to be.

I write receipts in illegible handwriting, transfer them to yellow, college-ruled paper for inventory, translations of the ancient product.

There’s a million means to be misunderstood, just as many to understand. Two sides of love I recognize.

If there is a dead spot in a day, receipts rest. I read Dante’s “Inferno”.

Crawling through levels, until you reach something frozen, eating away, without regard

to what’s around it, all attention spent upon what is being chewed. Virgil and Dante crawl down/up the leg of the Devil, out of the ice, a double paradox.

“This must be a dream job.” The parent speaks again while buying the kid a logo T-shirt of the shop.

The kid looks hopeful, if he moves here, there’s a chance to reach paradise. He can go to college like his parents want him to, live the lifestyle he’s always dreamed of, get away from strip malls, advance placement classes, bullies, lovers, and parental expectations.

He has been misunderstood so many times. He desires to reach understanding. Two sides of love I recognize.

I smile, showing all my missing teeth and think of Virgil as I write up their receipt.