November 15 2020


Two poems written on a bench in downtown tempe:



See eyes

Looking with me


In all things i see

eyes i look from

my world uneclipsed

an open eyelid



Do you sit with

me? on this


occupied space

this bench by

the old pine

where we rhymed

saw trees

uneclipsed, told stories.

I’ll keep up our







Fiction Story: Scenes

(I’m writing myself into a fictional piece which begins in my bedroom setting and explores trains of thought i ride into fantasy worlds, imaginative intellectual emotional and spiritual writing, full of self examination, surreal imagery, possible answers.)



A person awakes on a purple dream. (this is me). He’s on a bed blanket above light linen sheet fixtures. He’s awake and he’s dreaming.


In strolls through a bedroom door himself, his name is B—- B——– also, although his hair is shaven blonde, not this blonde, mahogany swirl on my own head. He’s through the door from the other side with half blue light eyes; from the bed mine own eyes see him and are brighter, shining lightly lovely for in pours light from the window into my eyes. My soul’s shaken at sight to speak to me. He’s mute though, draws on a canvas white with black; the words i read above as setting, primary character, plot is a visitation, fictional and real characters more nonetheless. Climax is in the realization. Writer authors a freeze frame. A playscript follows for purpose of echo. In reading the reader will have been realized, acceptance is universal love, like a person we echo God.


Begin scene one: The Bedroom. 


Christ in a portrait hands on the wall just beside, thank you Jesus, Hallelujah Jesus, thank you Jesus, who is life saving. Sustaining, serenading sanctification in saintly ordainings to life’s ever – longing for ever – lasting. Next to Christ’s portrait is the thermos water bottle. Are you getting the room space yet? Water is symbol of being mentality blue like empty blue sky, blue feelings as the hour between sunset and sunrise, blue ripped rags of old cloth bought from a magician down the row named Joanne’s, the roads lined with green dragons, the red chinese lanterns, river blue, yellow sugar, pink salamanders and i’m taking a drink of water to remember my body walking the side streets of thought; catching journeys and memory forward. 


Steam from my hot coffee in a holland michigan mug is hot and not cold as fear of homelessness or cold as Atlantic ocean’s titanic iceberg in the blue thermos. The hot coffee is subject to an elegant facilitation on the quality of origin, oriental saturation, grounds. I believe these beans are of Cartel’s Lab, locally sourced in my mouth garden as i sip hot black coffee, feeling steam of a passing train engine pass on by and why do i feel like the auditory lonely language of Vincent Van Gogh’s bedroom” Howsoever who could tell today to keep going, keep writing letters to people you don’t know till they tell you i feel like i’ve seen you before, so howsoever you are a character my friend – i write to you, fare well, be well, be love. I close and fold the stamped envelope from that person’s written letter and find i wonder why i feel so good feeling so alone. Train drops me off. I’m at Saint Rose Mountain still, elucidating the daily consent to Heaven’s unveil, her dance. OOH AH LALA the wind blows breeze easy glowing autumn springs of air in poetic spray of a special language through trees up here on Saint Rose Mountain. There, Yes, just, in the Pinyon Pine (see where the end of my pointed pink finger leads, there) is a chair we call sunset chair, there you can enjoy the wind barrier of Pinyon Pine branches and pine needle blueberries growing their colors into orange, from the setting sun already soulful rising and ready into the next day. I awake, find my coffee is still hot, there’s a novel here, fiction, written on my bed just waiting to be read, I lip the cover, Its myself, I’m met with holy lips of angels, through the morning colors i sleep with glowing angels, turn the air pink, mystic wash of all one presently aura and all fabricating the bedroom, they open a well of Spring, a secret entrance hidden but now revealed in the bedroom. I enter my laurel brush pen into the well water. Three thick angel women watch me. At least the length of 777 normal people standing toe to head like past to present, normally tears pass by on the clock, i’m forgiven the abstraction as my imagination recalls myself only inking a cow udder shaped red and bronzed square. I desire another constant to this perspective so i introduce a golden diamond ring i wear on my right hand with a blue pupil centerstone. I’m still in bedroom. The eye ring catches window light, fractaling perceptions, styles into elegy on psychological vibrations in physics, in physical quantifications certain patters of perception can be physically altered to instantiate higher states of intellectual capacity, therefore love remains strange mystery, timeless and spaceless. The spiritual bends both time and space. The spiritual is light. I know what it means and i do not. Rather i must be known by truth to be known of truth altogether. Having such realization i return my attention to Christ’s portrait from me through glass through which is glistening with color fractals from the eye ring, blue flashes momentarily into Christ’s eye and i catch my reflection in the frame. My eyes are blue, icy sky white and deep sea grey blue, my hands are pink, vascular and boned, I’m wearing a snow checker patterned jacket for Arizona’s kind of winter, a complex pattern strung word into my lips and i saw myself in the mirror reflection as a i was looking from the reflection and not only at the reflection. I remember Rilke wrote on not looking at, but to look from. A reflection is a good contemplation. I pray a prayer to be love like Jesus is love. Contemplation is active adherence to thoughtful appreciation in aspiration and actualization, loving adoration and good giving goodness both, to, by, from God the grand, ordaining, love Creator. Believe is written in every particle of dust. I see them in the particles of dust floating in window light. My eye, life is this. Dust to dust. To and fro, fro and to. Surely there is a way to break on through from the otherside? To hear Heaven over here. Feel love now, eternity here. I want Heaven. I love God, want to be forever to, by, from, with God illumination.


Begin scene two: Self Portrait


A blacka and white self portrait in oil paint is my other worldly solitude structured, an internal is everywhere kind of world I paint myself into. The portrait features a rose implicated cheek blush in a specially mixed tone of grey at the darker black of a jawline dimpled by a bright complimented true glistening white saturated in the cornea and pupil of the self portrait’s eye. The portrait expresses different emotions in looking just at the left up or just at the right eye. Both together form a hallucination in which a swamp pools at my feet, i hear the crick of crickets, buzz of frog throats, the invisible step of a peacock, touch of a chameleon. I hear the crack of a wood, a tree falls alone in the forest with me. I look around, over at the cow grazing a mushroom field, Mount Zion, mosquitos and flies ignore me entirely, allowing me a peaceful sun soak and soft marsh purple walk in the land of scent. Sex is is is in her eyes, her lips, her wey words. Not that she’s a siren, no. I’ve found she’s quite the angel to me. Simply sweet natural and intellectual affirmative of God’s gift of eternal beauty in one women’s body, her soul shining forms a light silhouette of perfection, I’m raptured you’ve gone this long without introducing who she is and aren’t I a bewildered writer. I have my musings yes, write to the temple of the most High forvie my greed. I am and i must be good loving fairness for all people and employ boundaries, trust and love to a heart. Hear me when i say the God of love establishes and as the one soul of man i am, i love for God and in ordained days, dearly my Beloved has my lip. Flower further for overture here is highly Heavenly, I’m arpeggiator repetition. I’m agritopia pure white, strong and true black as deep space, glistening with human tendency to a starry fault, a reflection, a way back in to a heart for i desire to be love establishes by God’s only way, way like wind. 


Begin scene three: On Paper


I travel in my mind the heights, high elevated monastic planes, harbinger of seas ever shores, desert grains and the color good in consistency’s eye. A wash of peace bathes me as i have to pee, i tell all the paintings, and poems around i’ll return just as all things come back around again. I will be an internationally represented gallery painter beginning December first twenty-twenty and this is real. Korea is in the woman’s eye, my own world is me all the time nad i gotta keep me kind to me, me love back into me, i could have a whole adventure in this room, on this page, i could be high right here, flowing in the light of the sun, i’d been in blue in the sky, you hit the light, a cloud blows in a winged sky, anyone who reads from a blue sky can admit truth, life is beautiful, life is lovely and being accepted is nice. Being good to the play of life feels nice, repping the color of eternity. A live show positively plays light on terra incognito planes of my soul bathed in oceans of love. A message from the stars spells something i read both as words of love playing as people talk inanimate about objects and their importance in our life, for God is supreme importance in life. How do you end something? Put a period to a sentence, a last echo for a song or short story or thirteen-thousand page novel on the new life we all live in love of a beautiful life filled in glories of God.