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. 

Tormenta

Galavanting clouds
with rain sarongs.
Misty gowns sweeping
the scrub-studded plateau.
Hitching skirts high
over mountain protrusions.
These mysteries 
we marginalize
with words. 

Meteorite

This evening, driving home,
the road scrolling beneath my wheels,
evening grasping the sky.
It screams downward,
angled sharp,
a burning hot ember,
a trail of fire and smoke,
its head so white
it's almost clear,
an ever-changing corona - 
now mauve,
now sterling,
now platinum -
a metamorphosing gash
in the cerulean sky,
a crack between worlds.

It nears the mesa,
ever smaller,
and I forget
the road,
I forget
my obligations,
I forget
the groceries 
in the back seat -
its magnetism calls me.
Wordless it reminds:
a moment alone,
without time. 

End of the Day

Looking at the burning drifts of a sunset, 

mauve on gold, 

dripping from charcoal clouds, 

and this sensation I can't quite place, 

this feeling of wanting to chase that sunset...

endlessly; 

this feeling of loneliness

and liberation 

mingling within my mind.

Ojo Caliente

Iron water mistress
and her velvet caress.
She surrenders willingly,
transforming
from water to steam,
arms spreading open,
becoming the night,
with its stiletto heal stars
burning hot white.

I roll within her embrace,
as she rolls into the sky,
both twisting
in places where we cannot survive.
She surrenders 
in the cool
current of wind,
her once white coils
now nothing,
gone from within.
I want to surrender
as my lips part to kiss, 
but I am not her,
and she is not me,
I cannot go so willingly.
 




 

Contrast

Earlier.

Casino snack bar. 
Cheap tables and chairs
waver in a haze of smoke.
Upholstered benches 
bulging and split.
Backed into a corner

I see him eating.

Feral.

Elbows like turrets

guarding his food.

Chin low,

dark marble eyeballs

rolling back and forth

in their sockets...

I'm reminded of the cat clock

except he isn't smiling.

Later.

Whole Foods parking lot.

Blue-collar worker all the way

standing in dust shrouded jeans,

his white shirt not so white.

The tailgate is down,

battered and bent,

two boys sit in the truck bed,

couldn't be older than eight.

Late-night picnic

spread out on a ratty blanket.

Mouths stuffed with food, 
chins high,

eyes scanning the star-studded sky

with that look of wonderment

only children seem to have.

My smile carries me home.

Eavesdropping

Cricket conversation in the distance,
all legs and antennas,
talk I feel but can't interpret.
Remember parking at work,
a golden kitsch prayer wheel
still turning on the dashboard
of a car next to me...
round and round
as if by some ghostly hand,
and the night's eye
wide with stars
feigning to blink,
but always staring down.

Atalaya: the watchtower

I leave my glasses behind so that I might see. The trail is a maze of ice winding through Pinon, Mesquite, and Juniper. Climbing I send out grappling hooks of energy. Invisible tow lines drag me up.

The summit is mine. Alone. Wind freezes scarf to lips.

My place of predilection isn't the jagged rocks that afford a sweeping view of the desert below. My place faces southeast, the backside of the mountain. Overlooked. A dark blemish below the protective hands of a towering tree. Here I give proper thanks.

Coming down the mountain, the ice maze a toboggan run. Heel to toe, my energy spread wide, gluing me to the glassy rut. All my awareness resides in my feet. Power paces me as I dance with my death. It plies my attention with the setting sun. One glance and I'm on the ground, sliding. I'm quick enough to avoid injury, not enough to stay standing.

Twilight brings out the shapes; flashes fleeting through doorways at the corners of my eyes. We play and I smile.

The Morning After

Sunlights paper-thin orange leaves-
flaming Japanese lamps.
Dappled Monet droplets-
sprayed lemon juice
onto the ocher desert floor.

A mourning dove descends,
a flurry of silver before 
it regains its regal composure
atop the coyote fence.

Dog's upturned nose
robs the wind of its scent
and the distant hills burn red,
leaving in their wake jagged charcoal tips.

High Plateau

Coyote's laughter peals
through the night,
folding the darkness
into aural origami.

Lightning dawns on the horizon,
eyes drifted upward
breath in the glittering show.

Skeletal clouds
exhale smokey siblings,
lit by the kiss
of a waxing moon.

Santa Fe Fall

Cornflower wings flutter,
dancing upwards,
defining a double helix,
painting the cerulean sky.

The throaty voice of Raven
pulls my eyes from their place,
fixes and feeds them
on juniper and pine.

Somewhere in the distance
a woman walks her dogs,
her humming to the melody -
the jingle-jangle of dog collars -
as the sun slips silently
through the coyote fence,
painting warm bars on my arms.