THERE to HERE

   Missing things in Tucson?
   What was, what could've been?
   Then there was that wall.

   Anyway.

   Within, Without.

   The Indigos are here--always have been.

   But one day, in an ancestral beginning of days, the webs of deceit - an all encompassing lie - were wove into the light of the soul and the truth became as a devil.
   And the light outside the darkness? Who is it that has bound the spirit in chains of gold and glory--a heavy burden of selfishness?

   So much light and still so hard to see.

   A light is hiding in the darkness where dreams speak of truths. Where the webs are only players and must everyone play true. We all go there. It's part of us. But daylight and consciousness break and our journey there becomes like that breeze on that day when the sun shone gentle on your face--but that was a long, long time ago like a tattered black and white photo you found in a dusty book of faded stories, a photo of people you don't know but should. Or like, nothing at all--less than forgotten.

   Anyway.

   We are all mirrors.

   I live in Portland now.

AND SO MUCH MORE

I am the moon and stars on a bright and infinite evening
And the earth breathing beneath our feet.
I am the verdant branch
Reaching for the essence of all things created--
The sun giving and taking.
I am the wind
Speaking in the voice of our ancestors
And the rain
Washing us of our transgression.
I am the truth we hide in dark places
And the truth which can't be seen for all its brightness.

When the grubs devour my illusion
And my flesh feeds life,
I will rise to find my constellation
And rest with eternity.

I am.

THEY SHALL FIND US

Me:

Happy in my space,

Creating.

My hands your hands.

I wished to share the work of those hands,

Say, Hey!

I found my way.

Joy

And your eyes bright with love.

Your eyes my eyes.

Im sure we could have been friends,

Before we got in the way,

Before your ghosts came back to haunt you--

Desperate and Despair of your fathers.

Poison for your pain?

Yeah, we could have been friends

Once we found our own separate ways which were always one.

I remember the day I left your battlefield bed,

The tormented station where you waited for a moment.

- You bore the sins of your fathers and your children are redeemed -

Walking away, I am hesitation in motion.

I knew I would never see you again.

A few days later:

Your youngest wayward stands in the field of your moment

And with a whisper you are released from the fight.

"Now I can" you said

And promptly left your battered form

Leaving the living alone together--

Each one their own separate story.

I remember my evening of the day you left:

Standing with peace on my starry knoll,

Speaking with the wind,

I knew, knowing nothing, that you watched from your infinite place--

Eternity before you.

We smiled.

I remember.

A week later:

A cordial gathering of tensioned strangeness,

A hollow church,

A sermon of sympathy,

Spoken by those who never knew you to those who never knew you--

Sons and daughters without a father.

He had no father before him.

Two more days:

Again we wonder our own paths
Bittered with your debris--

Ignorance and innocence

Passed from father to father to father.

We stumble with frowns and angry fingers.

But you did not kill the elders,

Shadow the way with me, me, me.

Us can not comprehend it.

But still,

As the illumined numbers forever turn,

Watching over sleepless nights,

We shall walk in our own right way

And comfort in the wisdom of our ancestors.

MISTER

Fucking raw!

Just amusing myself...

But yeah,

Raw.

Blood and muscle and bone.

And passion.

And your hands so close to my breath.

And love?

Why not.

Raw love... I have no images to conjure.

But I see a face.

And eyes.

Mischievous---With a sly smile.

Intense, with something like fear.

Or death.

And a very particular blue.

Raw blue.

LOVE AND STONES

Summer's here. Plenty of blue sky and heat, and today, a perfect breeze, as I cross the Steel and ride south along the west bank of the Willamette. Lots of smiles. Everyone seems happy--no matter the degree of their troubles. And we all got troubles. But Im looking at these homeless folk. Cultural vagabonds, gathered under warm blue in a perfect breeze, sharing conversation.

Or what not.

So it's summer in this springtime of my life and I am with myself never to be alone. Still, to have a lover--A friend as such. And when life is as full of beauty and heat as it is today it seems a good time to be in love. Of course, to have one as such during the long gray of winter... Sweet!

Well, such is the desire of many.

I recently had a sweet tease of such a relationship. But it was lopsided and too much like a dream. Well, I do love to dream. Those dreams that are sweeter than life - such as it was. But it was still a dream.

Im awake now.

For a while recently, I was feeling like Huckleberry - or as I imagined he would feel - when I sat at this particular spot along the river. But I know it was the river and her trees - the simple continuum we complicate with our selfishness - that I was being one with.

She sets me straight.

I often go to that spot along her banks to sit--to be. Ive found many heartrocks there. It's particularly odd 'cause it's such a small spot covered with rocks of similar character. You know. River rocks. All tan and gray with too small a variation in color to be perceptible.

Unless one is seeing.

Light gray, dark gray, beige. Smooth, pocked, veined. Heartrocks. One rather perfect one I found there I later tied with red string and attached to thoughts that fell from my eyes the first time I woke up. I bundled them with stars and tied them to a tree along the shore. Then there's the red one. The deep red one. The color of mystery--of life.

Well, that makes sense.

Yeah, it's summertime. Huckleberry lives and he has this beautiful red stone he found along the river one day while he was being.