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.

Incognito

Power hides in unexpected places,
disguised as a pile of laundry
on my kitchen floor,
or a fan sitting on a desk
in front of a sun-drenched window.
It grabs my attention,
pulls my eyes,
begs a double-take.
Oh it was just
a pile of laundry.
Oh it was just
a fan.
But for one magic moment,
before it became a captive of words...

Parting the Veil

Strawberry eyes drawn grey,

awoke in nights ruined black.

Awake, roused from cobwebbed dreams,

and so little light to navigate the spongy floor.

A diffuse beacon reminds,

but so much faith required

to move through the thickened air.

A tickle, a quiver, a bowed back stands rigid,

and so small steps quicken—

then STOP.

What is this unseen motion

running like static charged fingers

through bed-sheet stamped hair?

And then there’s the thumping,

rushing from chest to ear,

throbbing like a conqueror worm

feasting on coiled grey tissue:

run and it will chase.

The beacon reminds:

chase and it will run.

And so movement comes with reluctance,

the cloying atmosphere

gummy and resistant.

Yet something stirs the solar plexus,

pulsing out,

grappling with some undefined point

near the beacon,

things become clearer.

This unbearable push and pull,

so the pace is perfect.

The moment blinks blindness from its eye,

nothing so raw as being here now.

And this notion robs the past of its future.

Be here now,

as if there is a choice. 

Bee Shaman

It pulls a flaccid mask of skin away,
empty sockets without eyes to stare.
It is revealed,
glistening in honey and wax.


Its call brings the bees,
swarming they enliven the mask. 
It pierces me with a gaze
that cleaves my thoughts,
stopping them.


Should I thank it?

The bees percolate out its mouth,
just a trickle at first,
then a fountain.
Billowing yellow smoke
they take to the sky,
defining intricate patterns 
and writhing constellations.

The crowd sees a show,
and thinks it's a performer.
They throw money.
Just another gypsy street artist,
a bee charmer.

I know better.


Curious words fill my mind:
teotish stammish,
tombayashi,
and others I can't write.

I'm invited back to its trailer.

As it dons another costume:
radiator face
and eyes with no whites,
it shows me its wares.
These fuzzy cones
aren't just decorations,
crafts and curios.

I don't buy them,
but they already own me. 

Compelled

Late-night hours,
contacts shrink-wrapped 
over my eyeballs.

Gummy lips
prodded by
my darting tongue.

Four fingertips: asdf  jkl;
the building blocks
of my creation.

Before the Flood

My hands are overstuffed
Mickey Mouse gloves -
numb and enormous.
Paralytic poison
seeps from the seams,
stitching tingling tendrils
up my forearms
as I roll onto my back.

The door to sleep creaks shut.

Everyday awareness infiltrates
my sanctuary, 
reminding me with the dull ache
of blood starved limbs
engorged once again.  

Spirit becomes matter.

Something scurries away,
slipping into the murky world
I've left behind,
where my overstuffed white gloves 
now lay in wait.