Unholy Imaginings

hwy 1 blues
driving barefoot
from Posts to Midpines
from coast to mountains
past the blue bay of Monterey

i drive all day
and at night, when i sleep
my mind snakes up
the coastal highway

past the wildflowers quaking
in aquamarine surf
eastbound, green
over the San Joaquin

safe asleep in a deep
purple valley
i dream all night
of driving barefoot

two lanes
transcending
isolation

sharkskin 
a handsome man
waits for his lunch
at the fish shack

he wears a sleek grey suit
and talks sharp slang
with two companions

he doesn’t notice me
reading the lines on his face
to tell if he ever smiles

his eyes are blue
just a shade lighter than the ocean
i want his voice to come in softer waves

el capitan
the first time you see El Capitan
it’s like falling from a tree
he knocks the wind right outta you
your stomach clenches
your ribcage aches
your heart is broken

this archetype of a mountain
has always existed
deep in your DNA
“El Capitan!” you shout
and rush foreward
to greet an old friend

climb up the side and recline
feel the shining granite
alternate hot and cool
beneath your hands
survey the valley floor
safe in the arms of a mountain

A scary story that is kind of true.

I wouldn’t lie to you, not even on April Fools’ Day!

---

I walk in the desert on a clear March Morning. I go slow, and don’t stray far from the dirt road. I don’t want to trample any of the fragile plants I am photographing.

A man in a silver truck pulls up next to me. He rolls down his window and smiles “Good morning! Are you hiking?”

Polite. Sunbaked. My dad’s age. I assume all California ranchers look like this.

I stop walking to scan his face. I can’t get a read on his eyes to tell if he is kind. Two black blanks squint back, unwavering.

Red flag.

He asks where I’m from so I answer. He seems genuinely perplexed, or maybe he’s just messing with me. “Ohio? How did you get all the way out here?” He might be wasted at 8AM.

Redder flag.

He introduces himself – Jim. An honest single-syllable name like a rancher should have. I extend my hand out to him as a greeting.

His massive hand envelopes mine, sandpaper rough. His dark eyes never drop their gaze.

The handshake stalls.

We are two strangers holding hands in the desert.

I notice the skin on his hands is deeply scarred by labor, etched by time and sunlight. Purple channels that cut deep like washed-out sandstone valleys. A couple fingers have been broken a few times.

I am aware of how small I am. How thin and unaccustomed to the punishing sun or manual work. The scars on my own hands shine white and superficial.

He smiles again, but doesn’t let go. I can’t get a read on him. I’ve lost all concept of time, all instincts of self-preservation. My mind wanders.

When was the last time someone new held your hand? When was the last comforting touch against your skin as you told about your scars?

I remember all of that. Ohio feels like a lifetime ago. Just a story about a stranger that I’m hearing secondhand.

I try to recall what I am doing here, since Jim is waiting for me to speak.

“I’m from Cleveland, I just wanted to see the desert, because I never have.” I leave out details. Where I’ve been or where I’m going. He doesn’t want to know, anyway.

“I should go”, I offer. It seems that we’ve said all we needed.

Jim holds on to me for a bit too long. It makes me uncomfortable, but not yet in a way that I fear him. He replies, “You are so cold! If you want to come back to my place, I have hogs!”

The reddest flag.

“No, Thanks!”

I’ve read this horror story before. I slide myself free and say goodbye. I back away and watch him drive off. We go in opposite directions, forever.

Farewell, my desert valley.

Goodbye, Jim!

onyx

late march wildflowers
blaze across the valley
pink and yellow phantoms
flare up free and scatter
to teach a weary wanderer
the art of sowing dreams

leave pieces of yourself
on every path you travel
the best things in life
were never meant to be gathered

trona

out where the tarmac is rough
and the color of oxblood
a steady road hum grazes
the textures of our minds

we survive death valley
but a small town
tears us back down
to every earthly suffering

a sunbleached hell
beside blinding salt flats
broken beyond reckoning
poverty chokes from behind

an ache akin to fingertips
searching the dark for meaning
a bum groping gravel
desperate for cigarette butts

out where the stars are endless
we are blessed to pretend
our dreams were never broken
we get to drive fast past trona

vegas is a weird place. a sheer show of ornate debauchery. it scares me, it overwhelms me, it’s worth seeing.

two quick poems!

sin city blues – first impressons, real pretty fluff. practiced prose as pitiful as a balcony suicide.

vegas truths – weird moments that connected me to reality in a town of illusion.

---

sin city

the wholesome isolation
of desert silence
is staked and lost
on glittering waste
and luxurious anonymity

exciting nights and bright lights
mask the cold loneliness
of a frenzied crowd
it’s a good trick,
until sunrise calls

daylight slays a city
of emotional vagrants
we choose not to understand the illusion
we gather up broken expectations
to find hope again
to gain clarity
to win it all
through what a roulette bet
and desert sunrise
can tell to searching souls

vegas truths

the first night
i set foot on the strip
a stranger spit on me
it trickled down my thigh
to my ankle
to the cement
i try not to think about it

a duck lives
in the bellagio fountain
and i yelled at her
“hey, you don’t belong here!”
she swam away
while an unholy mist
anointed my face
i hope we meet again

the truth is,
i don’t know what to believe
i don’t like to gamble
but i like to give money
to every busker i see

Ever since my first memory, certain sounds and letters have a taste.

I don’t explain it to people, and when I do they often gloss over what I describe. At face value, I can see how it smacks of total bullshit.

It took me until Psych 101 to know that it’s called Lexical-Gustatory synesthesia. I had a lot of moments of clarity in college, but never anything like the relief of finally having the word to describe my sensory perceptions!

This is to the boy sitting next to me in that Psych lecture.  He watched me writing notes about left-handed women being prone to synesthesia.  He leaned over, smiled, and gave me a sly sidelong glance.  He whispered “So, you’re a lefty? Good luck with that!”

---

synesthesia

lift me in
a handwritten
embrace,
focused though
a synesthetic lens.

your fine eyes cut
through prose
like an electric
tongue kiss.

your calm voice
treads the rush
of sensory
decadence:
each syllable
is a new course

let me taste the way
through words
to my truth:

the lake is red koolaid
agreement is sausage
luck snaps of carrot
insult is a bloody lip

i find my voice
when you speak
your mind

the first man
to certify
my sensory
perception

i’ll never
forget the taste!

Pain always finds you. In a fast car traveling away from the one true comfort that your heart desires. In the first steps on the trail to the mountain peak.  In the fear of falling during a boulder scramble. In the mantras you chant as you make yourself as small as possible against the wind. In the zen state of physical exhaustion when you reach the summit.

Pain always finds you, but so will peace.

Then getting back down the mountain is easy.

---

 

just my luck

pain waits
crouched in the valley
like the crooked eyetooth
of lovelorn dog
a wounded lapwing
with a drunkard’s song

pain waits like a prayer:
we are bound in the trance
of recital

pain waits
free on the ridges
like a limestone waypoint
lit by cobalt stars
a faded drifter
in a rusted car

pain waits in your voice:
a sweet sound with no chance
of survival

pain waits
gilt on the edges
like a mourning cloak
on a feldspar draw
a curling ribbon
for a sunbleached craw

pain waits like a prayer:
in the sweet by-and-by
Lord, by-and-by
(04-OCT-2018 – Mt. Katahdin, Maine)

A nightmare, and the lyrics I dreamed within the nightmare.  I can’t figure out how to separate them but am open to feedback!

---

tower on main

august dreams
of running down hallways
trapped in a mad hotel

the lobby sign spells
“The Tower On Main”
in bold gold lettering

in a tower on Main I found you
crying tears of shame
or maybe you reached me first
to teach me a fearless two-step

we are brave, side-by-side
holding onto each other
stepping down dark hallways

two scared kids
opening every door
in a haunted house

our souls only shine in darkness
boldly embroidered by faith
our fingertips trace these patterns
and we sway together in time

each room is a vile and gaudy hellscape:
orgies, opium dens, overdoses,
violence of every kind!

we scream our hearts out
but never despair

any door opened is a new start
of troubles and trials
and sometimes we’ll part –
if only momentarily!

exploring together
we dance and know peace
the simple joy of movement

we tell stories of our past lives
and whisper false narratives
of the people we think we are

in a tower on Main I found you
down and almost out
or maybe i was drowning
until you came about

you open a door
with a swift artistic gesture
hot air of a city summer night rushes in

my house stands safe
shining in the distance
so i run for it

don’t fear the pain here,
just hold me, my dear
in a tower on Main we found truth:
this life is only a dream

(17-NOV-2018 – Nashville, TN)

My thoughts wander when I go hiking.

(My thoughts wander a lot, actually.)

I love how the same hike looks drastically different as the seasons progress.   This time of year, the green and hopeful underbrush has not yet started to grow. You can see far into the woods, endless lines of exposed tree trunks.   The trees closest to the trail are almost always marked with carvings: initials, expressions of love, inscrutable sayings, arrows, cardinal directions, swear words.

What is it about humanity that we can’t let unbroken expanses of beauty exist? Smooth tree bark, ancient rock faces, newly fallen snow, a fresh sheet of paper.  We like to dig in to prove we’ve been here.

I like to walk with faraway eyes, and let the symbols swarm past me.

---

the cop-out

time heals all wounds, they say
but some scars grow with us
like etched initials
in the smooth bark
of an old beech tree

inscrutable, thick,
distorted remnants
of past wrongs
carved in our hearts
hardened into false submission.

the pain is eternal
and simply a part of us.

time heals all wounds, someday
but only because
those who are marred
and all who bore witness
will be lost

time heals all wounds, they say
but that’s a total fucking cop-out

february 

drive past the estates
bear right at the white church
over the river
steady on past the peaceful snow
with dirty hems

tall pines
are veiled giants in
the cold teal mist
as the sleet on the road
overtakes every inch
of February