1. With No Tomorrow
I have been finding a place of ecstasy
that lies outside letters and words,
that is buried in Paleolithic drawings
chipped away by several thousand years
and is still untranslated by universities...
the red ochre on sandstone from what is
carpeted in the space of stars in time, a man
of stick figure intent against unspoken word.
And I am here now, whispering in your ear
my gratitude at having found you sleeping
defenseless to my entry. We will rise stronger.
Throw out your twitter keypad and diaries.
They will not staunch the blood of our wounds.
I am in you growing into a gender you do not
understand this is not politically correct in any
way down upon the swanky rivers far far away,
that's where my harp is calling me ever far.
Angel I have loved you since the day before you
were dreamed and will find you after my death.
The wind outside my desert porch balcony
beneath the Big Dipper and Cassiopaeia gusts
atoms into the vast space of time and swirls
nothing against my flesh that I will remember
and I revel that in this instant of impossibility
the scent of your flesh fills my nostrils and
your eyes are what my mind remembers at night,
my darling when accountants fall asleep and all
is a final smoothing into ecstasy with no tomorrow.
2. In Each of us
In the center of each of us
in the belly of our being
below the pelvic bone of ancestors
is a universe of used furniture
lathed in the swirl of sawdust DNA
best left forgotten, untouched
in the mindless midstream of our lives
soaking where blood collides with bone
in darkness occluding with light...
inherently a string of baubled chintz
raised to streetlamps in fog draped cities.
3. Barbed Wire Marking the Perimeters
It takes longer than a lifetime for barbed wire to rust away,
longer than the hands of the man who ran it up will last.
A hundred twenty years for many of these Colorado homes
and the cut dust banks that used to line their wagon roads.
The elk and bear and moose still live here in these alpine glens.
You can track them easily after rain, though few today still do,
and you can find strands of their hair and even skin caught
on those sharp barbs where they lie twined in loose loops
buried under the white dried grasses, the Oregon grapes, quartz
veins that lead an argument of insidious intent into the gold
dreamed of and fought for by older generations than ours, still
holding onto something brown that rubs off on your hands.