October 25 2020

Emerald sky city lights shine bright, the morning sky-light – a medley mix of sun yellows and deep blue hours give power to my wakeful eye, my left arm i raise from under warm bed sheets, pierce frigid and dark air with a wave to early emerald skies.


Green sunrise; i’ve never till now seen such an expensive sight. I’d endured the cold frights of night, winds berating my tarp canopy, my bare black roof in night, creaking loud the wood structure walls, made my night long, constant waking, in and out dreams and squeezing my pillow case like a lover lady just to keep warm my heart. 


I know what love feels like. I do not know what force compels these winds so strong, is it love? What with eyes closed i’d easily imagine myself beachside, those voices the laughing waves of jubilee, save them their passing to and fro for sand in my toes, my notebook pages flapping in a winded flurry. I made coffee, a cup of the name fitting – dark magic. Fro and to wherefore i walked to the bamboo grove’s edge again, nestled in a pinyon pine, covered right by a shivering blue-green juniper. Winds ran like un-hesitant children through all morning, all the laurel grove and threw its cold hands round me. I sat bundled in a flannel panel plaid shirt, peach rose monk hookie, my painter’s coat, red horse polo pants and red beanie from my brother.


I listened still the bird song sweet as diamonds, smooth as the bulbous flower clouds taking now yellow pinks of sunlight, they are caught on saint rose mountain, slowly cascading slopes of this emerald green mountain, these clouds are the finest of wanderers.


Myself, a sojourner as well see pretty, feel accompanied when morning clouds hug saint rose’s mountainscape. Blocked from sun by the bamboo grove’s bypass, i took to walking again, dark magic in my hands. Met a moment with the others, adam, jazz, the couple with alliteration ‘p’ names and i kept on my talk in morning walk. 


I felt in adventure, to be keen to put pen to page and make adoration accounts with God for wondrous things happening here. This is my play, my song. I sing with unnamed birds singing in every direction, flow with the strong winds, warm with the emerald sun, waste time on beauty on saint rose. 


Clouds have grown thicker, softer still cascading their yellow pink brights to deep parma blues hugging the mountain. They make the mountain look small. High peaks are blurred, fizzles of cumulous ocean sky burn into emerald shards, falling into farm land. Every tree, bush, animal, thistle, berry and bramble, every farm animal sound, birdsong and breath, all sways are singular in this wind, all is evidently in one stride, in one God given movement. All is important. All is one. If not bereft breath, all too is God. 


I think the mountains might reach me, the clouds curl over swoop and serenade peaks and vales, come tumbling soft toward me with native song, with natural stories and emerald divinity; but the clouds dissipate before they touch on me physically. I put forth my soul, lift my spirit with these native winds, i am the movement, stride, song, color me the emerald city; in each and all i am, i am writer.


A writer needs a good chair. Yes, this i have. Where birds are, and old trees reside, where the vast is clear and abundant, sun smiles on my pink wind washed face, i sniffle, i’m cold, warming up, black magic sips. A green chair cushions my seat, the bottom of the chair is broke open so without the cushion i’d fall straight through into that deja vu feeling i had when sitting down. I’ve never been here that i could remember before now. When now is perfectly birthing my new world. I’ve been here once when time began, space unfurled fecund in elegance, wind berated no artificial tarp, breathing easy on me, my old tree i was and i am. Ever since i first took to pining, curiously attending to spiritual happening i’ve felt i’ve always been here. The new friends think i live here, now where don’t i live? Wheresoever God is, love is, I am. 



I like the wherewithal in wheresoever. Instilling all space in time and time in space with to me an endless quality for quantified purity. I learned in my recent quantum physic theorizing on energy, vibrations, and frequency matters of importance with which Tesla’s quantifying in patterns a quality can be. I made a mandala on a canvas Jazz gifted to me last eve. I began with a circle, endless loop. Flowered the pattern and watched my hand move all through night with successive quantifications increasing both by quantity and with quantity into higher degrees of quality. A sure pattern with purity, be intent of love, will enumerate easily and increase both quality and quantity together; love is endless, each person is capable to receive love, love wishes to vibrate in our energy matter of being. We feel we matter with importance and we do. We, and all things both physical and spiritual vibrate at certain quantities of energy movement, qualifying a signal of reception and transmission. 


This is hippie talk, this is quantum physics. All natural attraction is positively manipulatable and apt most for love in prayer, for love in endless abundance gives to the receiving all they need, continues through, blessing all they in turn contact. Love is a pure infection, contagious, the cure of hate and secret to the universe. At quantum levels and in our hands, at the tip of our tongues and in black magic coffee – i sip and listen with the birds the song, drift still moving with the hugs of clouds, color the landscape emerald, populate the purer city of portrait i’m personifying; i sit in this green cushion chair on saint rose mountain, look out at saint rose mountain. 


Pinyon pines and spiritual sounds, i sip coffee, i thank God to be alive, i play at quantum physics in a poetic reverb. I am elucidations of days which have come, writer and saint to desert wash, bathed in nature, a baptismal hymnal hum on a 440 hz mountainside; i’m only a rose.



Through early noon i met again, said goodbyes for now, myself being good now at goodbyes; i saw Jazz and Adam off. Ciao and I took off to a desert abandoned log, played our song after song to saint rose. We switched between his ukulele, my drum bells, both of us played by music herself, most harmonious in natural rhythmics, in manifest. I sang soft in hums, then loud hymnals carried in winds till i too saw Ciao off like a cloud through the mountain road. 


Left alone and right with myself a sort of panic set in, i’d been alone by people all along, yes; God with and without sovereignty handed my panic’d have been without nurturing stifle. 


I sat back in the green cushion chair. All of saint rose now blanketed white with the embrace of cloud. Behind me bore the bluest of blue skies while that chariot of yellow shot arrows of burning light, ruling the emerald city sky.


I’d been met by Kosh’s sister, she too had ice blue eyes, the spirit nice and native and kind. Her name meant light, she meant her life to be a prayer, a lamp set bright and unlocking rooms, avenues, hidden cities of love on this hillside. Today she’s master host, asked me my name and thanked that i took well to her light, i allowed her to be bright. I said my name means bear. ‘When we know not where to go, what promises apart love to hold, we bear the cave, the home of our enlightened heart’, light said.


In the emerald city, today’s forecast construed cold currency given in elegant overcast, cool drifts in idiosyncratic flakes of snow. I, so cold, could only be best to rest in this incomprehensible state. The sun yellow and fully bright, blue sky split by an embrace of white, winds in roaring song, birds quietly whistling, snow intermittently falling, dissipating before touching.


Understanding, I cannot fathom. God is pure mystery. To sustain another day in my life, to shed snow to this desert mountain, deliver keys by light, elegance in the emerald city light, truth in the light, laughter in the wind, my brain bespoke. I sit and write with God, soak in sun and snow. 



I’m most enjoyed in warmth, be embrace in God – through orange high-lit glow of tonight’s to be half moon, or the dimly lit sun, her yellow now white eye backlit blankets of white fluff. If only i could teach, or reach a bit higher i’d be in wander of clouds, all the sky is covered, all the life i’ve become accustomed to in four days changes, what these winds have me know is my frailty, volatility, my fear, myself. Nature puts me face with face in myself and i am terrified or is this pining only question of absolute manifest to Self. I tell myself i’m all water, always highly emotional, moving as a mountain and heavy as clouds, vast as snow and soft as desert, alive as dying and future as present. Can i be just something simply said? Swirl and rose petal? To myself i’d like to wish upon a star, sleep the day, wake the night, be blue with endless ocean eye. 


Could i be like a leaf? Drifting easy breezy in winds so seemingly bespoke spiritual absolute fecundity. The vein of a leaf even, that still moving river; pulse of life. Like the slow crawl of saint rose; she’s veiled by overcast. My mind rattles with the walls, holds strong, firm water forming, taught to be above but below, longevity as austere as heaven’s firmament. I am nature.

The mind is one substance, so be you nature, you idiot, you wise one, organize just to watch it come apart you dancing futurio portfolio. Send your hopes to heaven and be harmonic inside my doll, my bracelet, my intersteller space optic eye (free), experiment on me. I’ve contrived in your mind( seven.


Between being i impart love. Every soul breathes the love, every life is right as should be, personify yourself a maxim of impartial progression keeping up with it, spiritual one with a voice behind lips, electronic sounds of the love, nature is is the voice, people and time are love.


There is no joke not true, all of life can be a laugh, all of life is a joke; funny huh; do you feel it: electric city, the green, the gold, international blue matter breathes sweet the soliloquy of wherewithal: check your dictionary, not your art collection. Add this to both; ofsterious. 


Mature is nature. People ought be love, people work and thought is no distinction. When i think i work and its the beautiful game of birthing a new world, a raw language, a voice to the winds of autumn, winter’s cheeky white, blueblack the night of beauty, this is a song, book, painting, (self help read) i like! I love it! It can be anything! It’s new! It’s a spirit always been! Its metaforlyrical synapse, natural happenstance to a book which i’d been writing. So i’m more the reader, before you of the book i’ve helped only to share because i ran out of other books and greatest of the revolutionaries to read and i called nature i am, prayed eternally moment to moment an eternal prayer of love i’d say harmonically i’m sweetest as a synapse. Again and time, my blood is pulsing, oh sweet breath of life permeates all of love, life goes on my golden one, sweet serendipity for California! Oh Desert of silence you are found famous. Moon parades my window where the Pinyon Pine’s been and raymond scott’s manhattan research inc. plays on my phone, i read the artists way, i facetimed Gabi, i just wanted to tell my Dad about the wind and the beauty mystery of pines and mine and the pines verbatim pining. When in the laundry room, cleanliness is pine talk, tree talk, wind talk; watching imitation is the highest form of flattery. Smile! 


You Are. On camera, the angels, the phones, the self that obstructs the capital s Self’s freedom is obsolete so such as one absolute divine feeling given by the nearest brush with eternity by messenger i am fears no death, for tears of melancholy dry like drought, tears of joy water the desert, its really much too cold tonight to go out so i watch and i’ll watch the moon and stars from bed, an electric blanket to keep kept me warm it smiling words on elucidations. Physically turning electrons on their invariable side for positive recollection that i’ve got it done before thirty-five to make my great physics contribution too! WplusE. When facetiming Gabi see she’d asked whether i’d be a musician, or writer, or painting, or painter, or all and i smiled and nodded and she said all and more than a single human should be able to do is all and more in a single every-soul lifetime, this life I am doing it for God. I am love for all and everyone and they are the reason God keeps me round the earth like the stars i watch outside the window and i organize my love into the perfect literature of futurio freedoms in never stopping breathing the beauty in being an astronaut, an author, a lover, a voice in the wind, a color, a continent on drift, a voice echoing, a flower, a painter at play, a lover with wit, humour, half plus half equaling a physician who needs no proofs, i see, a philosophy major, a great big laughing smile, into the empty organization, my own hands feeling my own hands feeling my own hand, my good sweet Lord. Musician, lover, best seller, soul of one. Light. Grammy winning lover. Grammy for best track of the endless, best book, best rose, beat good, best father, best cloud shape, mind. Love. I an best grammy peACE and Nobel Prized to Pinyon Pine. I’m in the Art Hut, smiling, listening, two music, my window rattling in the wind. I imagine i keep hearing voices and be the angels of love and kiss and do tell God is love, is life all Gid and God is all life, all love is God, God speaks to Moses and Me to see I Am has sent me, i’m moreover marigold of sun, oranger than moon, i’m here for love. Love – I Am.