All we have left is ruined splendor. All that pick tools and whisk broom uncover - lost inscriptions, forgotten endearments, fragments of a manuscript we now recognize as a letter to one who broke our heart in the nineteen eighties. All that dust and time have effaced - ancient sorrows we thought we had buried, never to be revisited, take on new form and body forth as you my friend whom I thought I had put away. Sifting like scholars through the detritus - a tarnished silver ring, a broken tie clasp.

night of the full moon:
tasting the
wild ginger root

low rumble
almost inaudible
the winter furnace

standing in the canoe
wind at my back
down the Summer creek

The edible nuts and fruits, cultivated, selected out by our forebears, made assessable to nourishment by discarding the shell, pealing away the integument, chewing away the flesh and spitting out the seed, to say nothing of those things made serviceable to our diets by fermentation and dehydration - a grammar of foodstuffs, a lexicon of human delectation.

When I think of you,
my heart melts with tenderness,
yet I fear too much tenderness
like the cherry blossom
fears a Spring come too soon
before Winter's final thaw.

Let us reach out then
across the space that divides us

Our mere body's half heat
kindle the other half in each
and our two body's warmth, as one,
need fear no winter,
long in leaving.

Bear Pen Creek Mandala

l.
That wind and breath are one
come
crashing down mountain side

waterfalls
of wind

cascades
of
windy
breath

snatched away and
given back
moist humors of earth
pillowed on
old oak and bracken
pulverized by starlight
and dusky
hurtling
night winds
from up thar hills
limb and leaf shaken skewers
of haughty breezes
(high winds)

2.
Settled leaves startle,
rise up like feathers

floating
crashing

sailing out of
earshot
moist
humors of breath
commingling,
snatched away in whirlwinds
of starlight and musk
vast mountain storehouse
pounding river rock
to sand

dust

molecules

atoms

4.
pounding river of stars and
old leaf-litter
booming night winds
and
cascading
breath

made
visible

each settled leaf
leaps up on a
skewer of
twisting winds to
braided twisting ribbons
of leaves
rising
towards the
branches they were
weaned from.

5.
Out on the night of wind
hurtling showers of leaf and debris
a mountain of wind
the storehouse keepers have
loosed an
avalanche of dervish breezes
that bore
down
the rain
that
scooped out this valley

Shakes you!
holds steady
then
Shakes you again!

A windy buffeting embrace
that shakes you
in a whirlwind of leaves
an avalanche of wind
bearing down
on
its
own
nothingness

Slams the breath into you!
Pulls it back out!

and
with
startled
animal cry

leaps

through a
whirlpool of stars

promises only,
no becalment.

6.
Brother sister
echo of
water and wind
the hills
grandfathered by time
spawning rivers
that pound rocks
calved from mountains

a prism of stars
sharp as a shaman's knife
a startled animal's cry

this night
anathema to
silence
a mere
infant
struggles
to learn
what he
already
knows.

7.
Stranded beach
swoons
startled caress

fulminating

sickle moon
on another
continent too
the
nocturnal passage
of migratory birds
evinced from their
beginningless past,
wing beats that
drum the night,
the embryonic
steadfast
hold-of-no-loss
assurance
promising only

no arrival

the boundary
of flesh and feather
promising only

no containment

A scooping out of
crescent moon
with each beat, the
trumpeter's nestling,
egg hatched in
an old growth forest
rides the old
gene map of
continent immemorial
as familiar as
b r e a t h i n g.

8.
Pooling eyes at
dusk the
predator come to
see what's for dinner

quiet no look
of all seeing
all sensing

ready to pounce,
motley dappled
coat counterfeits
movement of
wind blown branch
invisible at rest,
eating up and down
the food chain
oh
happy beast!
Supping at the table
of the grandfathers.

9.
The trespassed cordons of
boundaryed off demesne,
old growth
pinioned and weeping,
the whispered procurement
of old standing
old loss
in the
tumbled
down
ruins
betokening substrate
of a chided people,
limning the story
in a wordless palsy of
breathless embattlements

no containment

harbinger and
death rattle at
doors that creak slowly
inward a
life stream of
smoky water snakes
through shifting magma
continents to a
shattered bowl
of seas.

10.
Myself as desolation
my partner a
broken
wordless
vastation
of hurry homeward
latitudes in
meridians of
lost delight

We sail this barque
on a gathering of seas
shipping water
throwing bread to the fish
looking with horror
into lightless depths a
promise of

no boundaries

No chosen vessel
but here to sink
in watery consummation

all hands all hope.

11.
Probing leaf litter
in a world that
asks no questions but
hurls them gently back
yes and.......?
yes and.......?

Probing leaf litter
darkness falling
last of birdsong,
leaves barely a-flutter
the time of dusk
between
one star
and
ten billon
who can teach me the way of the pipe?

Probing leaf litter
striking
root
I look up at
the mountain
silhouetted
in the
northern sky
and dream
of holding
Michelle a
single heart
pulsing
from genitals to fingertips.

12.
Did she leave
us nothing
to mystery,
her song a
whoop of joy
cry brethren to mercy
give solstice to wind
leave no stone unturned.

Strange flowers in moonlight
nodding in their cups
a brace of breezes
hoar frost
an
edgy coating
the
ice-rimed veins of
fallen leaves
given fractional forth
the tutelage of old roots
fat and succulent
old wrinkled hands
a
tumbled down dance
to earth is all.

Mnemonic Devices
"Poetic memos" on reading, contemplation, reverie, odd experiential moments, after the manner of Evan Connell and Joycean epiphany, without too much regard for quality but rather a free verse poeticizing, perhaps to be refashioned later.
 
I.
startled breath
under cover of darkness
they held out to you
their
one last hope
gold fines sieved through sand
held fast the
tarnished brilliance
of sunlight
knotted up in
an old prospector's
handkerchief
and bartered here,
past City Gate,
bread, fish, wine.
II.
no contest as to
which one of us will
pass from this realm
the first
or second
time around, hearing again
only buzz of
insect, creatures of a day
the dusk come
crashing down,
our moonlighted discourse.
III.
a sky full of stars -
buckets of stars!
and I with
upturned face -
a mouthful of stars!
stood waiting
felt your hand in mine
moonlight and stars'
appointed way returns us
narrower than road
or path a
razor's edge
of uncertainty
a house of wind
that a breath effaced.
IV.
the night sky bejeweled -
Venus, brilliant just off the
lower horn of a crescent moon,
rare conjunction silvery brooch
obscured by clouds
the next night and the next
bringing us promptly to this moment -
conch, agate, jasper.
V.
Blue flame of jasper against the grinding stone.
VI.
This earth, a center,
This house a discrete
bowl of relations.
This body, whole and harmonious,
bodies forth.
VII.
True earth
True intent
True lead
True sense
True mercury
Spiritual essence.
Primordial, complete
Without defect.
Yang culminates
Giving rise to Yin
VIII.
Rabbit in the moon.
Raven in the sun.
Chinese alchemical
shorthand for androgyny.
IX.
The horror of discursive thinking.
The ten thousand things
in their evil aspect.
X.
The old king rises up from his sickbed on one elbow and looks out at this latest arrival. How weary he is of these impetuous seekers after glory, foppish young men forever showing up at his door step mouthing their nonsense about kings and round tables, grails and quests, men with preposterous names like Sagramore and Galahad and Colgrevance.
This one is named Gawain.
XI.
Shadowy chastisement
XII.
Food Offering
"Yeah, I think there's one piece of chicken left here you want it?" Greasy chicken leg comes after earlier proffer of fried tatters-in-skins which I ate with relish from Larry's gift bestowing hands. Sinking my teeth into tender cooked chicken flesh, bread breakers we, com-panions, work almost done and it's been a full day.
XIII.
Blue Ball Blues
Third night of delights
No consummation
Hand travels down curve of back
To smoothness of buttock and thigh
Enter
When?
Legs crossed,
Pubic hairs peep,
Pull her
Belly soft
Against
Aching cock
"Soon"
XIV.
"Therefore, concerning that which is produced by Nature becoming useful to mankind, whosoever brings it in to that condition which was ordained by Nature is an alchemist, however dull and unskilled otherwise he may be, even he who turns a raw sheep skin into a fur coat. Therefore there is no art without alchemy."
Martin Ruland, Lexicon of Alchemy
XV.
Man of Tao - Zen.
Appears to do nothing but accomplishes all things.
Accomplishes all things yet
leaves no trace of his activities.
In the end, the cost of ones upkeep will be exacted.
Have nothing further to seek!

Dream? What dream?

The usual cast of characters, recast each night. The dream itself vanishes like rime under the hot breath of wakefulness, but the dream sense lingers. Michelle's dream catcher suspended over my bed. Panning old river muck for that infinitesimal glint between the grains of sand. One flash reveals in an instant the entire dream before slipping beyond the threshold of apprehension. I must remember my dreams and write them down, while avoiding the inevitable vanity of creating a "dream journal."

11/17/01
I am rehearsing a play with several others. The play has tragic overtones. At some point, the rehearsal becomes realty. Is this a play? Is this a dream?

Gulo Gulo

12/6/03
The station wagon circles around a most impressive sight: a wolverine, big as a bear, flashing white teeth and bright red gums. We stop for a closer look and the wolverine turns into a mountain lion with a freshly killed and bloodied bird between his teeth. He (unmistakably male) takes an interest in us. He drops the bird, pokes his head through the tailgate, and leaps into the back seat. He then turns into two cute and cuddly black & white kittens.

6/18/04
Dreamed of a gray fox injured somehow, perhaps by car, being tormented by children. They pull it around by its tail and poke it with sticks. I tell them to stop. The fox is whimpering with fear and pain so I become its protector. In an instant I nurse it back to health and she (unmistakably female) is able to stand up and walk. I pet her and she nuzzles my hand even as she gives a low growl and I say something like "please, just don't bite me." Suddenly she is transformed into a beautiful feral woman-child. Her face and clothing are soiled and she articulates in a way that is between a whinnying bark and human speech. Two other feral children suddenly spring up beside her, one African-American. They are similarly dressed. All three have the dark and bottomless eyes of the dispossessed.

6/18/04
An old fashioned West Virginia hex woman. A witch. You know the type: plain, middle aged, an outcast. You're getting close to something she loves, a beautiful widowed young woman with two wonderful children. "What're your intentions regarding Gov?" I tell her I love her and plan to keep seeing her. "Does that bother you?" or "that bothers you doesn't it?" In answer, she pulls back a dirty leather jerkin and reveals herself in all her primitive malignity. She is festooned with numerous strange objects made from animal parts and such, two objects in particular hang from her side, inverted bell-shaped vessels of some kind, scooped out from pickled and tanned coon or possum hide, I guess. But most ominously, a highly polished brass medallion depicting some demonic being or chthonic titular deity hangs around her neck on a chain. Eerie and frightening, an unmistakable threat. I stand warned. I say something like "oh, so now you're going to put a hex on me?" I even reach out to touch the two possum skin artifacts and she backs away with a hiss. Why the name Gov? Apparently my love has a name that reminds people of a deceased popular ex governor so they started calling her that and the name stuck.

4/25/88
Ben and Gail - in a pool of quicksilver you merged and became one. With sudden poignancy I realize you are dying - some invisible wound - self inflicted? - fists in the heart - marring a beautiful boyish androgyny.

6/2/88
I am telling someone about a dream I've had in which someone else is telling me their dream which begins to unfold as they speak, with me as participant and they as narrator.

6/25/88
Dream of GJR as I had once divined her to be beneath the childlike veneer: a boozed out, fallen slut, speaking in harsh, whispered intensities about her sordid sexual escapades. Reminiscent of Mary's narratives of life with the déclassé of bohemian New York City and Boston. Did she really need coke to get off sexually I ask. She gives me a quick look of puzzlement and mockery. No! No! You don't even begin to understand the complexity and depth of it.

7/1/94
Big exotic festival of some ancient Eastern religious order. Guests are pulled along on carts through the maze like interior of some temple or monastery. Old polished wooden floors. Those awaiting their turn are assembling a large, mysterious stereoscopic viewing device of some kind depicting the wonders of this religion.

Sect, cult....?

4/26/88
They stand, just above the horizon - two would be human constellations, their forms dissolving in sudden evening mist, stars and planets just peeking through the firmament.

2/23/86
Caravan of yogi - shaman practitioners in a high mountain pass. They come forward on horses through meadows unconcerned by my presence. Awesome shapes of the Old Ones, beings from the spirit world and other strange devices tower high above them into the heavens, moving as they move, with a trenchant dignity. A union of the divine and human realms made manifest, as though the gods had come to favor us again at last. They pause and make certain inquiries - can I guess who they are? I name them as best I can. They smile and move on.

8/6/87

An immense wooden sled is set aflame and sent careening towards the distant hills, where lies "the enemy." It will turn their hiding places into an all consuming conflagration. My love, my Teutonic queen, lashes herself to this blazing behemoth as an empowered guide and as an act of great courage. Moments later the engine of destruction slams into the hills but its vast momentum carries it up and back down upon its own path. My love, my Teutonic queen, is hurled headlong beneath the flaming debris amidst the wails and lamentations of her fellow warriors. I run with tear stained face towards the fiery inferno.

Too late!
Too late!

My blonde and bronzed Brunhilda lies buried beneath the impossible wreckage of war, her charred bones the only remains.

I collapse into inconsolable grief.

?
The sunlight streaming through my bedroom window illuminates the canyon walls down which I am falling and makes visible a fantastic landscape of sheer cliffs, gorges, arroyos and deep desert shadow. The escape of timely wakefulness fills me with a feeling of power and serenity.

?
The world destroyed by paper. LOTS of paper.