Grey Night

The night is
painted grey.
Amorphous shapes -
the prehistoric bodies
of the foothills,
trapped in the murky waters
of the lunar wash.

I see them
in my peripheries,
movements and flashes,
brief glimpses
of those that rise,
like me,
to bask in the light
of this grey night. 

Pure Expression

How to describe with words, 
a place beyond words? 
Recently I traveled 
through immense cylindrical cords 
of pure nrg, 
liquid metal turnstiles 
stretching infinitely 
above and below me. 
They ushered me through, 
bending and twisting 
to allow passage, 
yet also moving 
within themselves, 
rotating inward and outward 
simultaneously. 
Beings of pure expression 
that shone gold, platinum, 
copper and silver, 
yet none of those colors.
There are no thoughts,
there is only information
throbbing through me,
slippery things 
that can't be spoke.   

Nearby my friend is lit from above,
the top of his head gone,
a cascade of buzzing nrg
throbbing through.
This is it, 
he is being downloaded. 
A horizon
stretches infinitely,
from the line
where his skullcap
is gone.
His mind is empty
of thoughts,
completely clear,
and yet he can speak
and he is soberer
than he has ever been.
He can see.

Beyond the mind
play-dough,
and the oddities
that guard the gate,
there is something 
that can only be felt. 
And we must translate
with rudimentary tools,
and bear the burden 
of its heavy load,
this thing 
that we can only
talk around. 

Wild Wolves We

Wild wolves we,
who travel three dogs deep,
the timber towering overhead,
the snow crunching under feet.

You're on point again
nose deep in a cool wind current
that will carry our prey.
Comet and I nip at each other's heals,
taking turns as the third one in line.
Your undercoat colors bleed through
the sunshine bleached fur…
darker than obsidian,
richer than Orion.

This season pushes us forward,
provides us time to grow roots,
from which we will harvest our fruit.
But for now
we must relish these cooler days,
this lack of light.
"This cover is really camouflage"
you say without opening your mouth…
the Moon speaks for you!

And then,
we're off,
canine legs pounding
through the crust of white,
three mouths salivating at the sound
of crackling underbrush,
and the warmth of the kill 
close at hand.

You reach it first,
fangs and fury up its spine,
forcing it to the ground.
We aren't far behind,
but we let you take your time.

When it's all said and done,
and we are fed and fond,
we sleep three deep
atop the white canvas,
our symbols still steaming,
drawn in long crimson arches
over the snowy terrain.