Awe!!

 Awe!!
ah, shucks
slapping slippery hockey pucks
for the winning points
getting free smokes in all the best hippie joints
while lounging under American skies
eating warm grandma apple pies

 just about everywhere in the great prairie spaces
playing high stakes poker holding all four aces
watching forest trees dance
in an imaginative hallucinogenic trance

 well, don't you know
from tip of head to toe
everything tingles
listening on the am radio to Wild Bill Hickok and his partner Jingles
getting lucky on a date
definitely has to rate
pretty high up there
where the rarefied air
is filled with exquisitely scented flowers
counting the seconds, minutes, and the elusive hours

 sipping rich wine with a mouth full of poetry
anywhere from sea to shining sea
and much more such,
like a lovely skin to skin sensual touch
on a soft pillow made of comforting breast
give me this and i'll be tempted to give you the rest!

 on the point of a needle our brief life pauses
immersing in irony and meaningful causes:
hundreds of millions of years gone by
and still we stand and wonder why.

 well, something never to miss:
a soft, warm, lingering kiss;
an exhale and an inhale and an exposure to bliss.
and then this:
deep in the dark woods getting lost,
one toe stepping timidly and touching frost.

 a deep breath yearning to be free
of the pressing weight of modernity.
Whitman’s wild children fully awake,
singing in the open air by a deep-water mountain lake.

 Awe!!

Idyllic summer at Juan-les-Pins, France, 1920

the Two Nudes were magnificently
conceived as life-sized torsos
with astonishingly perfect breasts
schoolgirl toes
volumetric classicism
imagined at a school in Holland
in 1905
with a corpulent rear end
on both
arm in arm
a full painting
not made for alarm
but to hint at Sapphic sex
to polish a classic subject
in a modern shine
and yet
one wonders
who was inside the glass?
was this a picture of Gertrude Stein
and Alice Toklas?

or random beach-goers who attracted his special eye?

beneath a Copper moon

i slept in the Victoria Hotel
down in old Mexico
and walked on handmade tiles
colored in deep indigo.

Eliot wasn't on my floor
nor was he at the bar
listening to the young gringo
strumming on an old guitar.

i heard he was swimming
in a pool without a sound
with a handful of wasteland dust
i remembered he once found.

he was wearing a huge sombrero
pulled tightly against his cheek
with a slip knot fully made
still showing the receipt.

my margarita had no salt
but i drank it all the same
to not offend the bartender
who asked me for my name.

a Spanish lady with the melons
she was proposing to sell
approached the nervous tourist
ringing the front desk bell.

i came to walk Copper canyon
so deep it smelled of death
where spirits wore historic masks

to take away your breath.

a train would leave the station
soon maybe the next day
and though tempted by those melons
i knew i shouldn't stay.

my coach was full of writers
down on their luck & drunk
on mescal which they all consumed
until their voices shrunk.

we stopped above the canyon walls
& began the long decent
into darkness at highest noon:
i wondered what it meant!

i heard the hidden waterfall
a primitive, lovely tune
and supped on poetry endless
beneath a Copper moon.

the White Witch in the White House

i saw little Red Riding Hood
sitting on a mushroom cap
looking like a caterpillar
simply taking her final nap.

The Tin Men surrounded her
each holding an Atomic bomb
while Captain Kirk went boasting
that he discovered Major Tom
who was lying flat on a city street
where a Mother would hear him cry:

fake news reporters flew into a rage
but no one asked them why.

And behind the door to nowhere
the White Witch drove his train;
he held the throttle open wide
to see what he might gain.

on her bouncing floor Miss Dorothy
kept piling yellow bricks,
so Alice called the Queen outside
and blinded her with tricks.

a space ship called Apollo
on a mission to the moon
found David Bowie singing
with his Ziggy Stardust spoon:

he pleaded for a bathroom break
as two riders came his way,
but Neil Armstrong told him "Negative":
we ALL were here to stay.

then a ghostly sound like sirens
came echoing down the hall
but Vonnegut in Cat's Cradle
used Ice-Nine to end the call.

the operator was intrepid,
ran outside and threw a fist:
he thought he'd remain anonymous,
but she found him on her list.

meanwhile, the White Witch in the White House

proved he didn't know the score,

but even when he was winning, he always wanted MORE!

Hiroshima and Nagasaki

in Hiroshima,
it's a quiet evening
with a fiery red sun,
sitting stoically above the tall mountains
far to the east.

there are Japanese ghosts nearby
who quietly move in the deepening shadows.

a few years from now,
from my front porch,
looking up,
there will be fewer stars visible
in the night sky
because of persistent light pollution.

populations are expanding globally,

bringing cares and concerns and cities.

i'd rather see numerous stars than
sudden fear in any child's eyes.

there was certainly fear in the eyes of Japanese children

from Hiroshima and Nagasaki,

once.

do the adults they have become see the stars in the night sky?

these two cities have been re-born.

the children?  there are stories.

i must acknowledge Edison, perhaps,
or Tesla,
because there's darkness
beyond the nearest strip mall,
some welcome and some not so much,

but the shopping centers are fully alive with

artificial light.

it's still possible to find an absence of light,

but outside of the cities.

how far?

in parts of the Mekong delta,
for instance,
water buffalo still roam
without headlamps or streetlights,
stepping into fertile mud,
raising rice,
raising their heads with huge horns.

the Viet Minh have buried their dead
in that land,
along with their black sandals
and black shirts and black teeth.

they claimed a victory
over US Marines who came ashore at Da Nang,
splashing onto China beach like confident predators,
while keeping a watchful eye at dragon clouds
swirling atop Monkey Mountain.

the American troops were to protect innocent
civilians and corrupt Vietnamese generals
by force of arms and
with accurate shooting,
if possible with an unreliable M16.

but a Marine sharpshooter, living in the World,
sat high atop a campus clock tower
in Austin, Texas
shooting at people
far below who were
not Viet Cong
but were waiting for the Texas Oklahoma game to begin
or going about their morning business.

he might have been in Da Nang,
where killing was expected.

Iwo Jima, in the Pacific,
also had a pretend Marine,
John Wayne, a hollywood actor,
who got his feet wet in the black volcanic sand.

but he
didn't climb a clock tower to kill friends
or strangers,

even though he was said to grow a flower from a seed.

the Duke faded away, holding a stiff deck of cards,
a stiff drink,
and a smoking cigarette,
anxious to begin his shuffle toward a new beginning,
where he could act without killing,
without pretending to be someone he wasn't.

and the war to end all wars might have come and gone,
but it failed to end the madness.

the predators often eat their assigned prey,

sometimes wearing a type of uniform.

and sometimes they eat each other,
naked ambition dripping off chins like cooking grease.

i don't remember if there were any predators
at my high school back in the 1960's,
but once, at a post-prom party,
i wanted to read
The Stranger by Camus.

i was told
by a blond cheerleader i was kissing
to quit acting absurd,
and i thought that was funny!

when i met Picasso, a Spanish painter,
he told me at that exact moment,
blond was his favorite color.

the conclusion of our conversation
was a discussion about war:

we both agreed it was a sexual thing.

he liked hiding in French beach cabanas but i'd go anywhere.

the following summer i returned,
anxious to look for him.

i found that he was busy growing the nail on his little finger
while avoiding the subject of the German invasion of France,
though he did mention an earlier bombing of Guernica.

it was only after Salvador Dali
died that i took a renewed vow of sobriety,
excepting for, of course,
the better French wines which i couldn't afford.

i had seen too many ticking clocks melt into distorted shapes
like the faces of small children who
were once seen at play in the narrow streets
of Nagasaki, Japan one surprising morning
while a silver predator flew silently far, far overhead.

i read about Dresden, Germany
and that ugly fire bombing
and got sick, really sick,
as i had many times in the past

while reading about wars.

i've now been in bed writing for over a month,
give or take,
and will soon go outside for an evening walk,
hoping to find at least one
hungry stray cat,

which might once have been a tiger,
or a dog
which once upon a time was a wolf,
a type of predator,
and yet wants to be by my side
under a conspicuously starry sky.

we'll both start howling to the moon

it's what he did (and we, too)

you (Bush #43) were caught in the deeper shadows held between two lines
blinded by the crowd applause and couldn't read the signs

with arrows to infinity and a moon rise outside your door
you told a waiting nation that you'd lead them straight to war

decrying fresh aluminum tubes and biologic threats
with yellow cake uranium as secret as it gets

in Poland and Iran or was it Brussels and Milan?
smirking as the words emerged al la Cosa Nostra con

the bastards at the Pentagon had hoped you knew the score
with little donny rumsfeld sucking madly as your whore
he whittled down the numbers and sent US Marines ahead
in a lightening strike surprise attack to minimize their dead

it was cheney and mr chalibi who lied about the scope
of opposition in Iraq to give reluctant liberals hope:

yet no crowds of people were throwing flowers onto the road
as M1A1 tanks and troops in Baghdad finally showed

it's good to declare victory on an aircraft carrier deck
& then retire to Texas with a lone star on your neck:

but what's the carnage and what's the cost

when nations die and people cry for everything they've lost?

the Red Block of Saydnaya Prison

the Red Block

known also as Death Chambers,

a huge slaughterhouse for us humans,

sport no safe spots,

no friendly playgrounds,

no smiling children gossiping,

no lovers softly eyeing each other,

no fresh air,

no clean water,

and no football pitch for wildly cheering fans:

here,

underground with minimal light,

minimal sanitation,

minimal hope,

maximal cruelty.

here,

words unspoken,

blood soaked the dirt

after years of torment,

thousands of bodies crushed,

souls discarded,

where fathers sigh their final farewell

for a wife never to be held again,

for a cup of strong Arak never to be sipped

once more by the lips of a free man,

where hope is shackled

and tortured 

until the final moments of darkness.

Assad is now in Moscow drinking

nothing here about GOD
or evangelicals or even a Mormon polygamist
in southern Utah with a child bride

no,
nothing to hide
behind or conceal

as i age while attempting to heal

Assad is now in Moscow drinking:

what is he thinking?

as he looks constantly over his back

for the assassin who's job is to track

this criminal tyrant to his grave

this is not meant to be a blog
where i'm preaching about myself
or nature or Earth
it may in fact have no worth
& i'm okay with that having already fought one war
in South Vietnam a long day ago
which now feels like a distant shadow

before the twin towers fell and ground zero cast a spell
deep into the mountains of eastern Afghanistan
when i didn't understand
the CIA 

or wall street executive pay

no, this isn't about food or being intentionally rude
& not about global warming
or locusts swarming
or how mankind has finally found
freely & unbound
his soul and his Redeemer

i am not the schemer

nor will i use sleight of hand
to lead a lonely hearts club band
into my small white town

Damascus has fallen down

and the most venerated Mosque tower is now calling

the faithful to prayer

is there a horn of plenty for all the Middle Eastern people to share?

but there is nothing intentionally here about GOD

OR maybe there is?

and it's everywhere,

which in retrospect only seems fair

after the many many years of terror and bloodshed

from mainland China!

once upon a time the apes drank clean water from a wildly flowing river,

a small mountain lake, a pond, or a meadow stream;
no predatory tenderness or self-indulgent dream.

or maybe from a leaf collecting its' early morning moisture,
but never from the turning on of a kitchen tap
like a modern feckless business sap
who receives the two thousand mile Caesar's salad
and shirt made in Bangladesh
which are daily flown-in and freshly pressed
like a ripe avocado shipped all the way from mainland China!

once upon a time the apes did everything by hand:
love and communication they could easily understand.

once upon a time the apes joined up around evening campfires
without using FaceTime or the Internet:
at slower tribal speeds there simply was no disconnect;
there was nothing illusory or remote or overly complex;
no derivatives or obsession with balances and checks.

once upon a time there was thriving life on the fertile plains of Africa,
before the modern revolutions in agriculture and industry
made it ever more difficult to explain the expanse of human history.

and once upon a time the planet Earth was spinning freely
without an urban landscape of portfolios and fears.

before the flinging of the supersonic spears,
there were no technicians or aristocrats

for millions and millions of years.

to trouble the world

a loyal friend said,
"The world i knew is now dead
and it won't be coming back!
Black bread
is what remains!"

i decided he was not thinking normally,
wearing his lucky charm while acting too formally,
in spite of the civil war re-igniting in Syria.

tears were flooding his eyes!

maybe he understood the terrible lies?

he kept swatting at a persistent ghost
who was offering him a toast
of the finest Iranian wine:

he knew it was made lousy by design.

of course the news could be better,

reading more like a passionate love letter,

but he had a point!  too many factions and leaders to anoint

and each armed group has a consuming anger and a dream,

keeping them awake at night as they scheme

to trouble the world.

an unconventional art lover

he lived in a large house
in a large garden
with flowers,
where a great many hours
were spent with spring time showers
and a lazy dog
with psychic powers,
licking a friendly kitty

not far from the nearest city

where in the end,
there was little
other than another cat fight,

although plenty nearby people were uptight!

a fading social light,
despite bouts of manic drinking
and attempted thinking,
he was a busted
but trusted
college grad,
at times both happy and sad;
who cleaned the litter box;
washed socks;
searched the sky for Venus;
played with Mister Penis;
confessed too much in autobiographical writings,
his entire face covered in stainless steel,
exactly how he wanted to feel
many an early morning
without warning
when he had to get back down to earth,
hoping to find out precisely what he was worth:

dancing to ragtime;
Louis Armstrong!
what more could go wrong?
he had the lucky number seven;
thought he'd try to live in heaven
with black tiled floors;
minimal chores;
cafe chairs;
an abundance of greying hairs;
phone calls not returned;
piles of seasoned wood unburned
until an alfresco dinner one winter eve
with nothing hidden up his sleeve,
he became a passing rumor
of black humor
and was found sitting comfortably by the fire,

a woman on his lap,
considering a nap
after giving him a French kiss,

which he didn't want to miss.

one he especially liked to taste;
her lips wrapped around his waist.

he could hear her sighs,
those soothing vaginal eyes,
sparkling like a unconventional art lover.

remember your manners

 oh,

it's only a simple song
that came along
well before
the once upon a time
i fought in an ancient Asian war
wearing a proud hat and a big brown bag
over my head
that might not have been the proper size
but i was already too young to realize
what the news frequently said
that, yes, i was already quite dead

and the man
sitting in his big white house
joked that i was just another little white mouse
serving at his discretion serving my time
looking for my street seller
selling a dime
like a poor broke little Jackie Horner
hustling on a busy American corner
his long beard asking me "What's up?"

and I 

taking an unsteady drink from the communal cup
was seen rushing for home
which was no longer there
just like my childhood Sampson hair
falling from the small town barbershop chair
where
for twenty five cents
we smoked our cheap cigarettes inside army tents
cleaning our christian souls
of all the loose women and immoral black holes

I'm Waiting for the Man and memories of childhood

Bobby Darin and Sandra Dee
being swept out to a raging sea
on a raft of bamboo spikes and the salty 8 track
never to be found again and never coming back
like Frank Lloyd Wright and his famous prairie cans

the truth in the American desert is the unrelentingly dry sands
and the perpetual thirst:
i still don't know the answer to the question,
"Who's on first?"
but might eventually know
which television game show
i need to see
before being spanked on the Catholic Bishop's horny knee
as i sit and smile and laugh and shower

i count my days in cotton bales each passing hour
and there's a decision to be made about Columbus and his sailing crew:
did they do what they were supposed to do?

on the islands sinking
what were they thinking

wearing Spanish leather boots while walking on the steamy shore?

those native huts of Hispaniola never needed a door
but the vaults at Fort Knox are built of bones and blood
and southern shacks of sharpened sticks and mud
saw tall men in their plantation suits carry away the keys

so,
remember your manners and always say please.

brave protesters in Hong Kong

The Yellow River

with its' mighty brown flood,

and the Yangtze

with potent dragon's blood:

millions of buried ghosts,

tears dead and alive!

brave protesters in Hong Kong

finding it hard to thrive

inside Mao's little Red Book,

raising their heads for a gambler's quick look.

See!  there's the Great Wall:

a Terracotta army of the first Emperor

holding swords and shields, standing tall.

Dynasties leading deeply into the historical past,

with echos of great tragedies

which last and last.

fields of plenty and loss

almost too far to walk across;

sprawling cities on the expansive coastal plains;

thunder over the mountains followed by torrential rains,

arriving early or leaving too late,

keen eyes sipping pearl milk tea from a special China dinner plate,

too proud to kneel

for another expensive Western meal! 

Federico Garcia Lorca (Generation of '27)

i decided to attend a movie preview
and it was a total flop:
the film,
not my being there.
it was simply beyond lackluster!
later, i heard the producer would henceforth
abandon cinema and
that's a good thing.
the money backers fell into a panic
when they saw actual stones being thrown
from the audience.
yes, it was that bad!
the opening scene might have been of a razor
slicing into an eyeball,
but no,
not even as memorable
and thus history was deprived
of possibly another surprising moment.
the most interesting person in the audience
was Federico Garcia Lorca and not only because
he had once been an erotic friend of Dali,
who was now living with Gala.
Lorca was the highly esteemed Spanish poet who imagined
himself a literary critic, 

but who knew little of imaginative painting,
which was Dali's great strength.
Gala was good for Dali, too, or so he said.
And Dali knew he needed to distance himself
from his ex-lover, so he refused to attend the preview.
Picasso also kept out of sight.
He was busy elsewhere with his private auditions of a young blonde.
she would get the part.
Picasso's wife would get the dog.

Lorca would eventually eat a Nationalist militia bullet.

he's still being looked for. 

on top

the winds stir the chimes regardless of the times it's the evening breeze blowing thru the fall trees while i'm in my bed remembering words left unsaid but the soft musical notes like a dream that floats soothe my restless heart i wish we could make a new start and become lovers underneath these covers or on top and never stop.

I'm sipping my tea

five nights and i'm cooking stew resting by the fireside thinking of you i'm sipping my tea reading a book remembering all the days to here it took then finding a pillow before eleven getting out of bed sometime around seven watching the oil gushing from a hole feeling the silence empty my soul five nights and i'm beyond seventy-two still riding the train thinking of you and out the window beyond the steel track my life as pages with no turning back five nights and i'm riding away but no one is asking for me to stay bright city lights the countryside i can't find a place to hide using my hammer or welding torch i'll make myself a new back porch under the stars by the small pond like a fairy with her tiny wand i'll sip paradise with a chocolate milk and a ruby slipper and a robe of silk under the sky if it doesn't rain i could be reading Roughing It by Twain five nights and i'm tying my shoe ready for hiking thinking of you

stuck between the social cracks

Jim and Tammy Faye
wetting their ministry bed
living in an abandoned bale of hay
moved to a sleek houseboat
with a rich Christian goat
which they milked for millions of dollars;
they drove a 1953 Rolls-Royce
and enjoyed a large choice
of the best cuts of steak
Jim went on the Evangelical take
and eventually went to jail
Tammy Faye took her tanned tail
and married their best friend
yet the Bakker affair
didn't quietly end there
no, more frosted blonde tresses
loud, colorful dresses
and a reality TV show
born-again kept on the go-go
night and day dressing like pimps
anything for money:  you want limps?
tears on the thick make-up
passing around the collection cup
to poor whites with meager social security and welfare checks
more train wrecks
coming to a big tent near you
Jim and Tammy Faye
practicing their special blend of voodoo
it's what they practiced and were trained to do
stuck between the social cracks
found on the harder-edged side of the tracks.

Man Ray

Man Ray snapped the shot
of Picasso's comedic eye
and there was indeed a wry smile
captured on film
which ultimately Gertrude Stein saw 
at a Beaumont party.
Picasso was dressed as a torero
and seemed happy for it, carefully
savoring extra caviar and sweet pastries
with his dainty cup of tea.
Olga made him do it, of course.
Were it his choice: hot beans,
cold sausage, and a few Bohemian friends
from the old days.
But, in this Paris spring and summer he was famous.
In winter, he traveled south, escaping
the fancy balls, masquerades, and the silly
Fitzgeralds.
He did not want to be an international
bird of paradise, as much as he admired birds.
He wanted to be Picasso, without upstaging
the invited guests.
His real eye watched the women, while
the real eye of Count Étienne de Beaumont watched the men,
and not very discreetly.
But he and Pablo remained friends,

even as they traveled to different parts.

Dora Maar

Dora had the body

but
with heated breath on her camera lens,
her smile like an enigma
faded

when Pablo found Francois
visiting his studio
wearing a youthful dress.

on his scenic Paris rooftop
he saw her swelling chest
with his artistic eyes and began
to paint a dream.

she noticed his hungry face redden
but did not blush
nor squirm

nor sympathize
nor encourage his grasp.

they soon became lovers.

eventually, she wrote a book about
life with the great master
detailing his clever approach
to color,
to his love of the classic bull fight,
and himself.

but Dora had the body

and with dark eyes,

abundant mystery in depth,
her French accent on the Rue de Savoie
framed lonely pictures
which only she
could see.

Indira Gandhi

eye slicer and

hair oil

met coconut breath on a back

street of Bombay

under the baleful stare of Indira Gandhi,

before she went completely mad.

of course, she disliked everyone

who talked without an accent

such as hers,

even when her tongue was swollen

by the sensibilities of British royalty.

the taxi driver said her thoughts

were being read by a distant fortuneteller

who sat in an elevated clock tower,

which looked over the enormous sweep of history.

and his fare nose helped steer him thru

the busy streets after midnight,

avoiding brass monkeys and the many cripples

who begged while sitting in piles of dirt.

the ever-alert angels, hawking cheap merchandise,

narrated stories

about snakes luring the innocent away from lush lands,

and snake charmers who know how to dance

without missing a step

jumping between the borders of two countries.

mounting an idle bicycle, a loner,

momentarily balanced in India,

riding a childhood's dream,

began pedaling innocently toward a

woman holding a knife that

drips with blood.

listening deeply

My listening deeply is a poem, an ode to attention and silence, an active movement into space, where i might be sitting atop a 14,000 foot mountain peak deep in the Colorado Rockies, west of the Continental Divide, immersed in the feeling of untamed winds blowing through my hair, and feeling, too, the heartbeat of the rocks, heated by the sun, smoothed by the rains, and then, as if by magic, i might be in a room with people, those i know and those i want to know more about, listening to stories about lives lived and steps yet to be taken, and i hear the breathing and see the faces speaking with lips and active tongues as words soften the air, reaching out, and it's as though we are all together on shifting ground, sitting firmly, seeing the world for a first time, reaching one another across the short divide, across the space until there is no longer space, only the mountain top on a clear blue sky day, and we are all sitting together, as indioviduals and yet a group, a community, enthralled by the immensity we witness, the stunning simpleness of a touch, the power of a kiss, a thought expressed that we hear while humbled by the closeness that listening deeply gifts us with.

Whitman (May 31, 1819 - March 26, 1892)

Whitman would tug manfully
at a favorite hat
upon his head or
without it on the ground.
He wrote promiscuous poetry
under an eternally erect sun;
in the darkness his night stars
like little captions of literary light
showed him what he expected,
not what others doubted.
In Song of Myself, he was
both the in and the out,
extravagantly
making a tune of considerable importance
for himself.
And sing he did, even boasting of
standing amused when he wasn't being very funny.
But he learned to carve a path to values
which he shared in his work.
And while he waits, with no misery on his beard
his eyes still burn.

looking into my private life

if you could see me surfing
myself across the endless mountains
washing my sins in uptown English fountains
hitting the highway at a hundred miles an hour
passing French ladies each holding a single flower
border guards uniformly check out my business
looking into my private life
ask about my finances and my second wife
i'm sitting in the middle of an ocean bridge
west of Montreal on an island in the sand
falling suspended from another person's hand
it's not impossible or even fairly certain
since i'm hiding behind an anticipated curtain
all my lovers are hiding in the audience
i'm sitting in the middle of this crazy intense
bending at the shifting in the wildly blowing time
shouting so you'll tell me what is yours and what is mine?
i'm breaking out while you're apparently breaking in
soaking in the sunset while you're soaking in the gin
there are too many people pointing fingers in this town
holding themselves upright while still holding me down
and always in the new night i'm feeling packaged and sold
you're trying to convince me that i've always been cold
i've come to you drenched in my silly regret
and wonder if this is as good as i'll get
and yet and yet and additionally yet
i never wanted to disappoint
i didn't feel any special need to anoint
i just wanted to get my head out of this joint
watching you watching me
washing out to an endless sea

Berner Oberland

There were no answers in Murren
even though the Eiger Monch and Jungfrau sat
watching me in my solitary descent
from the Schilthorn across our narrow valley,
where wild rhododendron kept kissing my face.
in the midst of this temporary affair with flowers and
with high meadow cows ringing my bell with each step i took,
i could still hear the whisper of the Swiss maid who
poured my beer at night, urging me to fill my blue-eyed well;
in the mornings, she buttered my croissant with her patient knife,
packed my lunch with a promise, and left her message in the way
she folded my bag.
But there were no answers in Murren
even though the rain fell during the morning i made my deepest penetration
into the back country, so far away i jumped over swift moving streams which would
take years to find the ocean.
and when i finally opened my bag for lunch, i heard the Moonlight Sonata bouncing
from the valley walls, each piercing piano note like a stab of recollection, in no
small measure, measuring me as i did the apple in my hand.