21 Aug 17 – Sitka Center, Otis, Oregon

gone, gone the sun
at the dark moon’s bidding
throwing but a pure white diamond
through the lunar mountain pass.

the ancients told their myths
through the constellations in the sky,
then medievals framed the light
in storied stained glass windows.

whose myth are we, bedecked with special lenses,
each a private viewer of the morning heavens?

we gather in the cascade meadow
chairs and hats and blankets and devices,
unaware of our repetition of the pagans
gathering to dance away their fears.

come all, divided, come as one
and watch as gone, gone the sun.

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15 Mar 17

the ides of March,
the Sunday of palms
fifteen of nine in seventeen

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23 Feb 17

part cyborg for the day
the first sun of biotherapy
in the fight for my human freedom

a day filled with hyperaesthesia
tuned to the new and strange
of tubes and beeps and hang bags

the day started in Cagean white light
a massive, mute, amorphous fog
flattening the morning sun to no dimension

as I approach a place with no shadows
whatever time that space holds for me
whatever durées might be lived

quodlibet tempus

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08 Feb 17

rocks are the bones of earth
and the seas her blood

scribbling with driftwood
pushed ashore

pounding with hammer pulse
drilling for answers undisclosed

gathering the jetsam
in salty plasma waves

searching, grinding, disgorging
lost puzzle pieces

to the edge of the sky

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27 Jan 17

In between this, not this, that,
The liminal here a time warp
No imaginary divide
No single gesture
Yet a    waiting the pen stroke
The sea change
The welling up from untruth.

The ground beneath me quivers
Tremblor through my bones
Reverberation of the hunting horn.
I, in the role of prey
Frantic, hiding, hoping–
Leaves aloft on winds above
But only this fragile cave below.

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23 Jan 17

Anticipation is the premier sign of life
That there is tomorrow
That plans can be made
That only ‘now’ and ‘next’ matter.

Ennui disables anticipation.
Excess reflection does the same.

Salt and pepper–always both
To appreciate the dusk or dawn
As it breaks.

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21 Jan 17

The labor of the page
begins in the creativity of thought:
Two sea-swells cross and amplify
as the mind plays the strings of its lyre.
The foam riding the waves
pops and dissipates
leaving idea seeds to float among ocean beams
scattered
waiting to ride out the next current
of cross-pollination.

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