(October 29, 1984) granddaddy wrote me a letter, a year
before he died.
he told me about life in Canada
as a small boy ablaze
on the precipice of innocence and.

(August 18, 1999) i’m writing a poem for granddaddy
fifteen years after he became a feather
on the breast and plume of the phoenix.
on monday i’ll be returning to school, after a 2yr hiatus of sorts
on monday i’ll stop my affair with cocaine, and spend less time
with my mistress alcohol, and will do my best
to become more like granddaddy was, and is.

granddaddy taught me my first lessons regarding chivlary
and autonomous divinity, he was stern when required, and
abundant with love when required, and many times between then
and here i could have used his sagacity, i could have used all of him
many times since ‘85, but i know he has whispered much enough
since then in his own way.

in his letter, grandaddy mentioned that he used to play
with homemade squirt guns, and he promised to show me
how he made them, but that was a year before he became
the iris of the dragon.

and some people claim that hell is hot, but i know that
right now heaven is peaking in the high 90’s
and that granddaddy and the angels are on the precipice and engaged
in a furious war with squirt guns designed
from a wisdom unpossessed by mortals.

white mountains on fire
your eyelashes whisper
and put them out.
leave it there and look for
nameless queens who speak
with accents of fairy, and who
relax around fireplace magic
and the quiet enemies of cities.
there are empires underground,
religions that do not need buildings
or bent knees to support them.
bumper car bodies that ultimately
jolt the spirit out of alignment.
crook the heart until
it can no longer pump clouds
or drink wide and hilarious skies.
too much swimming through the day hours
almost can’t surface or inhale
hot stars like purple tea, this is
when peaks leak sparks
and the iris becomes volcanic until
wet diamonds fall and calm them.
be firm, the current will grab you
and you will be delighted at how effortless
flight is as you’ve dreamed it, more clarity smiles
you remember that you have
only misplaced how.
modern dangers grow nervous, and shiver, incompetent,
besides ancient and more relaxed warnings.
prophets are immune to akward citizenship
as we defect brilliantly
into the riddle of proud lightning.

And when all else fails...

 Sit alone for a moment outside at night...the evening breeze will figure-eight itself around you like a cat nuzzling at your feet...moments will slow... Then sort of stretch...allowing themselves to rock gently in a hammock-like paragraph of rest and calm...everything kind of slides off...as if gravity has turned to liquid and you are cloud-like, or mist. Your nerves and muscles tingle as they settle and fall limp. The tingle kind of trickles down to the ground below...and then for a few breaths...you kind of blur into this scene of everything...the stars may not be talking to you, but you can feel that they are aware of you, as you are aware of them...and for a few breaths, now, forever, back then, tomorrow, yesterday, all kind of relax their formality and you relax too...everything stops thinking, and grace splashes a bit, breaking the stillness of the great surface...barely and briefly...but it's nice to let go of our self and our mind, and remember those things, that thing, so hard to describe...like hearing a song in someone elses head...the flutter of senses that were familiar before our current 5, before we tried to make the universe fit through our mind like trying to fold a big map or twister game board into a coin purse...

And then - THWAMP! Were f**king jolted right back into whatever it is that were avoiding, or were about to do, are tired of doing, afraid of, etc... And then we look around hoping no one saw us being all free and dreamy and lame and s**t.

 Hopefully we laugh at ourselves and with ourselves.

 Sometimes that has to be enough for me.

liberate.

ignite and burn away

the beautiful ability of your soul to cry

i pray that you are here with me now

and that such attributes

are no longer needed.

liberate.

focus on the pear tree

releasing its blossom

like pearls sliced thin

barely heavy enough

to slide down the back of the wind.

liberate.

you bloom where you are planted

vulnerability is the seed

faith and grace become your sunlight

in the perennial whisper

of spiritual photosynthesis.

liberate.

the burden has no weight

in the deep calm of space

and the tears of your heart do not fall now

but merely float

in the pilgrimage to nourish your everything.

liberate.

there are secrets between stars
and you can sense it, quietly,
you can feel it between them,
like a heartbeat shared across a great distance,
there are secrets between stars
and this one is ours...

...and she was the nearest to god i had ever felt,
as if everything suddenly changed
and began to rush towards her center, the baffling
and powerful pull and and push
of an angel on fire...
my Icarus wrapped in silver thorns and velvet...
and the crazy thing about angels, you can
love them, watch them, believe in them, adore
them, but
you can never have them.

and with such weightless delight my spirit has
in knowing safely
that she knows exactly what i mean
without looking too deep
into the core of the meaning...

and i'm glad that she let go
of all that kept her nervous about us
i had always hoped that it was just a matter of time
but it's still nice
when that shit comes true...

and so we were able to share
some more blinking in our secret
nothing too spectacular, nothing life-changing,
just her comet gently resting
on the other bed in that hotel room
last saturday night,

while on the bed across from her
and in rhythm to her hum and breathing
it was 2:48 am
and i was smiling
brightly in the darkness.

little things enter.

as if led by

the most subtle

of magnetic whiskers

as if led by

tendrils of an electric anenome

or a net or a map

woven

from the glittering fumes of falling stars.

little things enter.

through a dozen or so senses

of my human being

like perfectly carved raindrops

shot through and polished with space

and so delicate they seize

when bursting

and radiant in three hundred and sixty degree 3-D

all of me brilliant and infinite and linear

like the first gasp of creation

or glory

and i respond

like this.

i learn myself, and remember

in this experience, and reaction and it can be

the color of an afternoon in a movie, one bend

in a hum of a note in a song, faces

on people or skies or trees

through my window as i'm driving, or the bloom

and smile of a cat as it breaks into a pouring beam

of freshly laid sunlight, and it can be many other things

too,

and so many other such little things catch

sliding around the curves and the pause

on the crest of a moment, and then

i respond

like this.

and so i remember

her smile reflected

in the crashing waves

(and spread in ribbons of moonlight,

fallen from much greater shoulders)

upon them...

and she was so young then

so pale and peach and silver

my jennifer, my charlotte, my delicious

and enigmatic alexandria...

and all of our paint colored breaths

illuminating the symphony of atoms in the ether,

and how in days like this, i sit

almost sad and beautiful, watching the careful

fingers in my mind trying to fasten

down the band-aids and silk tourniquets

around the wet edges of these things...

and the shiver of the great breath

let go in the masterpiece.

for there are no such anchors to bind this

perhaps only the thick and elegant stone of thunder

and perfectly straight edges and lines of lightning

and the magnificent storming

and tears.

and again, it is not for certain

if these were at all things

that i have seen, or

if there can be such a thing

and if at all so, it is not

for certain

how these things will change, and blur,

and sparkle in the puddy and puddles of great

and malleable truth...

oh no my dear

this is at best

only the how it is

of what i am seeing.