It happens more often & easily now,
this sideways slip-shift
of space & time,
and I can see it dancing
through this (il)logical reality.
It comes in senses,
and colors,
and songs,
showing me
the magic hidden
everywhere.
To try & describe it,
it sounds on the edge
of crazy,
though if crazy is
a viewpoint from outside
the box,
then yes,
there is truth there.
Truth resounding
in beautiful waves
and rainbows
from the breath
of
every thing.
I am flying high
on aetherous wings
of poetry today.

I looked at my body in the mirror this morning
and I could see the deep fertile whisper of nurturance
in it’s curves and hollows,
could see the possibility
that in some different future
this vessel would bloom & swell & shine
with two soul’s worth of light,
cradled safe in the arms of love
with nothing but golden
peaceful days
stretching out ahead.

Twelve crows raucously circling,
dancing dervish loops against the cornflower sky,
drawing attention to the redwood heights.
Suddenly,
a hawk shoots into the air!
easily twice the size of the largest harrier,
easily it flows forth
breaking through their agitation.
Swooping and calling,
the crowd follows,
diving and taunting
in the wake of the
calm & steady figure
powerfully flying forward
on a course
unswerving and true.

The whole world
is calling out to you
“Like this!”
it goes,
“Like this!”…

Death,
my jesting friend,
come,
delight and feast
on the past behind me,
make it so
that I am called to break free
from hiding,
make it so
that there is no
going back.

The morning is suddenly turned
on the ringing cry of a gull
and the clear call to see
that we are all commanding the prows of
way-faring ships
rising toward shifting horizons.
Be-ware, Captain, be aware.

The prelude turns the corner and
suddenly I am taken back
to that road trip to New Orleans
Valentine’s and Mardi Gras and
dancing monkeys all weekend
and searching for hidden alligators with
my first love and two of my oldest
friends and a sister
all crammed in to
that tiny car
for six hours each way
and I turn and see the marine layer
roiling over the top of the hill
with the swiftness and impending weight of
an advancing army
and the words come sing song
and I want to howl them
into the layers of mist,
but not Ginsberg’s Howl,
my howl,
this magic,
this now,
this song,
this summery unsummer
of peeling away the layers
digging deep, deeper
leaving the confusion behind
for this solid shining knowing

there are mornings I can still feel
the diamond-like air
the wide clear brightness
sparkling along the edges
and the sharp and immediate sense
that things are changing

The degradation of money is made beautiful in your skin,
the bright breadth of imagination, hopes and dreams,
vividly colored and singing to me
across the train.
Here is one way to flaunt wealth,
to make true clothes of it,
a brilliant quilt of accumulated tales and years,
how,
unlike the precious metals and gems of ancestral ranks,
it cannot be melted down and sold
or traded for other resources to “own”.
A thumb in the face of their grand mythos of money,
the imaginary god so many worship,
but few will acknowledge,
even to admit the truth
to themselves.

It calls to me,
the curve of your shoulder,
the rise of your chest,
the flare of your hands,
the indent of your hip.
It calls to me
with a deep thrumming
through my bones
in a way that is
impossible to ignore
when you are near.
Maybe the day will come
when my body does not
meld perfectly to yours,
curve answering curve,
these essential echoes
brought to stillness
when the distance is closed.
Maybe one day this will not
feel
so unequivocally right.