October 24 2020

Skies bleed reddish blue, sky upper and my reflection on grounds is shades of purple. All the night winds howled. I imagine colors of wind a light electric body blue, pulsing at contact with my smooth skin and turning a pink yellow. I always give colors to unseen happenstance, as able to do as such synapses my creative intellect; my mnemonic nomenclature, my memory language is lexicon like surreal beauties of this morn. I don’t understand a thing. 


I woke earlier than roosters crow. At blue hour i made easy my step, trodding over the blue expanse of my mountainside. Time i knew not, only art, airs were blue, red flurried up the distant east peaks, same colors as sunset’s, only with hope a bright day. The winds so strong nearly swept me off my feet. I called into nature – “what do you want!?” She quieted. 


The colors shown grey, winds hushed, not a sound or light to my echo on my mountainside. All the constancy found halt and i realized what currents of constancy i’d been overexposed in experience and blind to; rattlings at my window palmed, feather flaps of running birds stood still, creaks in pines stood quiescent, voices of wind pursed their lip. I heard asked again – “what do you want?” Nature looked into me, became in me her quiet silence, all powerful petal throat of her winds, paints of her skies, hands finger rapping my window screen, the full autumn winds spoke to me. 


I carried on my walk in morning blue hour to piss. I looked in my mirror reflection. I’m skinnier, moreso lean, tanner, i’ve a few cuts making longer their heal, i’m a more complete human, all too normal, perfectly spiritual, i swam in my own eyes; splashed warm water to my face, rubbed ny right eye with my index knuckle like a child does.


Outside; thrown open a black door, i’d been filled by colors, sounds, delights of morning renewal; nearly, well i did skip my step here and there back to my lodging. Jumped up and fell flat with a spring cushioned bounce back into bed. 


Dreams of night returned and with them their sexual, i felt intensly. I did miss her touch. I got to writing as i do, prayerful remembrances and aksings in our good God’s will – a car, job, home, lover, food, love, and my voice volume maximal. These are all luxuries i know, in each i am sustained day by day, careless as the crows and finches for survival, God sustains the singing one. 


I remember a verse about the birds of the field. I plead this hearse of solitude enhance my spiritual purse, put treasures to heaven, have me be a high voice for lowly expenditure, give what little i’ve got to the poorer than i, reap flowers inscrutable, table with God like Mephibosheth with David.


I dream of a thankful people. When i talk on and to people, first i talk on and to myself. For each thing i write i am thankful. I have life, eyes of colors, hands for pulsings in wind, Spirit for spiritual, nostrils of flowers, lips for kiss, throat for social reform, ears for muse, i’m divinely inspired, manifest with thanksgiving.


I am an echo of these mountains, filtered to beauteous believers of holy expectation, love receivers and transmitter of tomorrows today, i am the way becoming futura, free as breath.



I cannot fathom the grandeur of the mountain. I am a writer my beloved; speak portraits, landscapes, abstract spirituals in imago deux. 



No work accomplishes the satisfaction winds smooth on my bare skin can bring. I write to give myself something to read, some pleads to infancy on natural fecundity, of course my words are all play and i love most this way. 


I walk barefoot on desert, pick cactus pricks from soles of my skin, sheen and shine in midday light, winds are forgiving here, so long as here is adept to change. I carry my kind of being in swimming tides aligned with still waters river moving, plush petals painted lilac to the porcelain reflections, leather petal skin amidst a day drift cloud, then of under water i rise with bubbles, truth popping instantly on my still water river river surface, putting forth love i am found by love, a red dragonfly soars swift smooth and stillness lands on my water ripple surface, rivers of words, whispers in winds run their lexicons along my surface, penetrating at places of spirals, spinning deep in my water, still i carry on, flowing waters of forever wells, poesy, sunlight refracted on me, people came far and enter near, see their purer reflection in me; purity a sense of harmonic inherent honesty; my art is factual mystery. Words made in life lasting, lept alive, flowing because God is. 



Loneliness needs no people. Sooner than sun can sleep the property fills with new faces, sweet souls on singing stories of freedom and escape and longing to, here; actualizing. 


Through afternoon i switched rooms to open sky hut: an open roof and no heating full of window luxury camp, i know i’ll freeze tonight, what with the falling deeper autumn winds, allowing i watch clouds miles since the sea of ocean-drops and drop-oceans converge to air walk and bend shapes unnamable, all natural through blue-white sky. I


I meet Jazz and Adam. I learn the south mountain name from Adam – Saint Rose. Sooner still Saint Rose bends up the clouds, ripples the still waters of sky all the while sunset paints with Jazz the sky orange.

I sit on an old recycled air drifted log. Not dead, though all verdantry has left this sweet tree, still life goes on, i hear lizards push up through beads of bark, bees nestle their suckle hours, stay safe with the warmth of these wood walls.


Nature seeks a lip, a tongue to tip her truth over and in again our remembrance to breath. Who gives us breath? Greens the Scrub Oak. Makes blue and merry berry the Juniper. Pines on Pinyon. Not only I pine on Pinyon, all here seem question to their course of life, aren’t we all?


Wheresoever life leads i leave my sense wayside, merry go round hour by hour, by and by and i seek a flower, a new color, an ever relation, revelation, realization: again God fills my lungs; nature she sings in spaces between land and sky, the wind of her abundance breathing in us, filling our ears with melodies internal and through shrubs, trees, dances of the flower, who has this power? To be patient enough to watch a mountain move, to walk the once forgotten planes, to literally add time to one’s life, in numeration i lose my allotment of my – plans, I’m given only to an I love you. 


I speak to everybody, so human, the natural, the capital S Self, the notes we write and we near, portraits we become, and do hold dear on the darkest hour. 


Could the sky tell all she’s seen i believe she’d sing winds, color sunsets, carry sun and moon, light and shade saint rose, call a flower to dance, to bloom, to find me voicing mystery, echoing me, myself; in colored clouds, constellating nights, illuminating eyes, embracing a world. “I love your travels, sojourns colored winds, i hear you she says, an echo he says, all is well in the desert.



I lost the cap to my pen in the night light of desert. To speak true blue is my favorite color. I’m not one for introductions and nonetheless my most adventurous exhibits of prose incur perceptual mnemonics of another time. Now if i were an artist, let us say i am, okay; i am an artist. Not that the pure play doesn’t still give way: ‘the’s and ‘it’s were entirely without ascension, but still i write as i experience life superabounding, patterning primrose saints of moment to moment smiles, being happy baby in room, living with such little that my life exists in giving my life. What abundance! I speak for a soul now, you are now; you know now i write to God. The God who is good, who’s saved my life forever and, for now and here is what i pleasure in having in adoration, in thanksgiving into water’s flow and fill of container, be my freedom, my tan, and love i feel; all this life is beautiful for you now.