Arching Swaths of Majesty

People like ripples! Like waves!! People as titillating shots of color across the wilds of substance. Moldeable smudges of thick wind. The reason to be. The reason to run. Felted skeins of wet simile. Ship-weary believers. Threaded points of light. Desirous spools of multicolored years. Limp threats of boil, tongues of endive. A heliotropic phrase book. Wizened dream-state prophesies. A wedge of dark soil. An aching pool of unwashed buck-shot. Tuneable shocks. Twistable You.

In the Morning

We set out on the high road amidst mesas and clouds of overpowering majesty. Between us was a loaf of homemade Peruvian Corn Bread which we tore apart with our teeth. We spoke about the rapidity of changes in perception and the urgency of examining one’s own consciousness. After slogging through a musty thrift store, she found high waisted black velvet pants. We arrived at the river full throated; pantsless and suspended we swam, hugged the sky, and kissed the mesas. Our fingers traced whorls beneath the currents. Bliss.

My car jumped off of a wall – there was a moment of suspension before landing – the smell of exhaust and smoke and latex dusted airbag against my cheek and then the blur of the faces of kind passerbies. “Are you okay??” “Do you need a ride?!” “Are you okay?” My home lay bleeding, its nose in oncoming traffic. The police came. The man whose wall I’d smashed came. Everyone was civil and kind.

My friends pulled up, playing Lemonade, their car full of foil balloons. One of the balloons said “It’s a boy!” The tow truck pulled up, and its lights illuminated my shattered windshield. In another friend’s car we followed the tow-truck at a maddeningly slow pace.

I have good people all around me, but strangely that is no comfort. Although I have not had physical solidity for years, only now am I bereft of a home.

messy bones

“In as much can as you share the same soul she has learned the art of seeing too”


The sky is buttermilk spilt upon sweet blue rivers betwixt mossy boulders. A car alarm is jolting my senses as I lean against the Walgreens and wait for my best friend. My mouth tastes like peppermint creme Gas-X. I am wearing black shorts and a black tanktop. An hour earlier I shared with my mother the depth of anger I hold about one particularly vexing situation and the preternatural ability of people in bringing their suppositions into actuality. She looked deep into me and expounded on intimacy and the importance of having tools and being honest.

“Eey can you buy me some beer?”

These hecklers don’t know that I’ve been to places where heckling is a livelihood and I see all and know all and when fully lucid outshine anyone. I am unnecessarily harsh in my response to them.

He picks me up wearing dark glasses, Adele’s ‘Send My Love’ loud in his speakers. We dance. People stare and people join in. We stop at Sonic and drink lemonade. A small boy knocks on the window.

“My mom wanted me to tell you that she likes your moves.”

At the grocery store a man eating a sandwich takes off his headphones.

“You both have some excellent moves.”

We drive until it all shakes out.

The next day we walk some dogs and play tag in an empty tennis court while singing songs to each other, and later we eat ice cream in a parking lot.




The Mystery of Abundance

I scrambled through the canyon for hours. Canyons are peculiar places because although they feel expansive and generous they constrict you and direct your movements towards the path before you. I followed the switchbacks towards the plateau and once there, rejoiced. In the midst of my delighting, I was nearly pitched into a shrub by wind of enormous strength. It is possible to spend hours in a canyon and not be aware that above you the wind is frantic and strong. This wind, the wind of high places, is a grand thing. It frolicked around my calves and then swung itself into my gut. I threw up my arms and embraced the wind, and then began the descent.