Mountain Theme

In the end there was space and there was mountain.

Rebeccca? 

My name is Rachel, but yes?

We live on an island in outer space. It’s called, nevermind. Our air is neon yellow, orange, and slate. Are you OK with that?

Yes.

Would you prefer a water residence or one with a view?

Both, please.

Very well. Which patch would you like to call home? You can slide down any color at any time.

I like the tallest, please. Red.

We only have tan available. That was a trick question.

This is a little frustrating. Can’t you just take me there?

Of course. 

     Update:

I witnessed my first inverse sunset tonight. From the top of tan mountain where I can slide down into the ocean.

I have changed my name to Rebecca. But also go by Stan.

My children are to remain at home, on Earth.

I have brought my cat Bucky. (Purr Buckminster the Pony)

He is pleased with this location. And with the gorny weevils to chase.

#2

Odyssey

anticipation. Obscured 

from Black Mountains 

by a ball 

on the 

floor. 

Built 

a cabin

out of sassafras.

Fireplace stones pop 

yellow from

knots.

We 

suck bark 

straws and smell

the wide open 

future. Mmmm.

Laughing.

Why 

didn’t we

do this sooner?

Obtuse

where does the higher elevation come in?
I met you in a paper building of x marks and ink.

Bjork talks of one day and see-through rendezvous.

I’ve seen that, too. outside against the bricks.

not lying, but never fully with the forests of flowers

or the too many rocks at the beach I grew up on.

almost there with pulling away from not good enough.

not sure if that’s the case in the land by the pond.

I’m sure that I’m smarter than this and yet creaks 

in my gut are overexposed and too crinkly for quiet.

this is straightened up bullshit where I want to say

that it’s all true and my promise was not mine.

it was the shed layer of Connecticut upbringing.

Waspy, crusty, idiocy where blue is better than black.

my not so secret emblazoned in blogs and sitcoms.

not so special of a feeling that’s covered in all the songs.

too big, too common, to ugly cry. Stoked, surfs up.

haha. So “I didn’t think I deserved this.”

I didn’t think this could happen for me. 

Desert Wolf

Giggling updraft with cotton candy stuck

in a cloud and the sun shining through

water that rainbows but makes my fingers

sticky. There’s moisture in the air because

we’re in Paradise Valley in monsoon season.

Intersexual plants teal and chartreuse the 

sand colored horizon where purple sunsets

show the reflecting sun where to grow.

Leaving the desert with its heart-shaped 

nopales who's spines tingle your leg as you 

walk. Hares greet the sage leaves. Quail 

bumble under dehydrated trees. We never 

saw a wolf shimmer on the pavement.

there are eyes

There are eyes to see with and there are eyes to be.

Reflections in retina kaleidoscopes tear apart right side ups.

Dismembering our recollections only to wire synapses 

maybe in our favor but probably not.

We dismiss our old crushes and obsess about decade old albums.

We see ourselves in outdated cutoffs and wave bangs.

Where did we leave our eyes?

We jump into the being ones and forget they see everything.

We think we can choose what gets embedded in our memories.

Refresh your journal and relive the week that you forgot to eat.

When in your past did you feel the sexiest?

Try on that bra again.
And fill your eyes with dew.

For Sherry

We sometimes forget that celebrations happen underground

tiny vessels of nutrients are gathered and exchanged with golden fanfare

limbs created and redistributed in neon nonchalance

creating momentum for the bloom to seduce our eyes.

We think that picking a bouquet and handing it off to our love is the gesture

we assume that life hasn’t thought about itself

that the cells of each contributing force don’t celebrate with us.

Every chain link matters in the expression of care.

In allowing the creation of our beautiful things to have consciousness

we bring the divine into our thoughtfulness.

We fill out the circle of good deeds from conception to receiving.

We’re all in this together and may as well tip our hats to the fungi.

Meditation

Your energy is like a blanket heaved at me with no regard for timespace. It Caspers my head and even though I can see through the loose weave, everything is effervescent and golden. There’s no way to take off the blanket unless I trick myself into believing that it was there all along. In which case the gold is part of me and there’s nothing to feel awkward about. It’s silly how many fables your face appears in and how many meditative moments are absorbed by your beating heart in my hands. I’m too old for games now, maybe poetry too, but too scared to be direct. Still worried about sanctity and shit like that. Upsetting the unit and all. As I sit on my not sky blue cushion filled with buckwheat hulls, I clear my mind of passing prose and future lines. Yet the golden fizz still exists. Maybe the blanket image isn’t working anymore because it’s not a filter. This telepathy or dimensional bond could be (ha) something real. With those fuzzy threads reaching out to be unraveled. Maybe it’s my job to share from my open wound of a soul. About how you helped me realize that love goes far beyond any physical manifestation. And that even though my original vision for what human coming together could be failed miserably, you were there to help me through it. And here you are now just when I’ve redefined what it means to be a person on this planet with more delight to share than she knows what to do with. So why you keep showing up in my meditations appears simple. You’ve been there for my heart awakenings and wall breakings, and now it’s my turn to be there for you.