All day it has felt like a Sunday, although It’s a Friday in late October, 1893, and The rain is softly falling from the uniform gray sky — Smothering the blue above, and blotting the sun — In this old gold mountain mining town in Oregon. I drink from a beloved handmade ceramic mug That my daughter made for me My afternoon Lapsang Souchong, While pacing on the porch of this tiny cabin. I’m startled with happiness when you appear; Thou others cannot see you I know you are real, even if All of this is a grand simulation.

If memories make for a good life Then forgetfulness takes life away In tiny fragments that tumble down The embankment of our disappearing self — To the river, then to the sea. Each day I lose so many treasures — Of friendly faces, Of familiar places, Of Hemingway’s Robert Jordan, Of the horrors I am capable of, and The terrifying fears that define me. I have slept and I have dreamed of Borges, I have screamed at the approaching tiger, now I’m forgetting so many things; yet There’s a solemn magic in forgetting — To see things anew, or To read a poem for the first time, again. With bravery and stoic determination I enter the silo of the unknowns.

Awaking from his sleep he arose in the night, and Stepped outside onto the porch to cool himself, and From this vantage saw a warrior Indian Standing near to the yellowing Tamarack tree in the yard. The warrior was silent like the sound of the sun, yet was Swinging a hatchet that dripped with blood and bone, and Wearing a simple loincloth, and ornate red-orange headdress. The man was too afraid to stare at the warrior for long, For fear that he would be attacked and scalped, but Before he could look away the Indian turned ‘round and Slowly crawled under the low branches of the Tamarack. Once under the tree the warrior sat, and Smiled a concerning smile at the man, and Slowly disappeared like déjà vu fading back into normality.

Somewhere in the weaving labyrinth of dreams, Outside, near the long forgotten turquoise truck-bed Bathed in early rain and low angled silver light, I saw you, standing alone, Wearing the brown dress that was your favorite, and Speaking with a person for whom I could not see. You were radiant, vibrant, and Very real to me in that moment, so much that I quickly lost myself to your possibility, Remembering the way you danced, and kissed. I cried out your name with all my breath, You turned towards me, becoming a falcon, and The Oregon forest was now sand, and I became the ocean above you.

An Idaho summer dust storm enveloped them, again, Agitating their eyes and lungs, obscuring their vision, Turning the blue sky sandy-brown, and Producing only a few raindrops Which did little to nourish the crops or their souls. It was a difficult time — Covid killed and terrorized, People suffered from inflating fiat currencies, Money buying less and less, while Masks and lockdowns muzzled dissent, and Throughout the west droughts persisted, worsened. Fires raged in the forests and deserts, Smoke smothered the sky, The weather refused to cooperate with their hopes, and After some time there was a darkening of spirits, and A growing malaise and hunger, which Redoubled the pace of entropy, Confounding the situation.

From where I stand Beneath the sky’s southeastern sun and water-tower, Inline with a few riddles of time Before travel was banned, and Outlaws roaming dirty-wild in masks and spurs With gallant horses fierce in battle Protecting monolithic foundations at the Temple of Jupiter To praise Athena and the much older sun deity Shamash, Lived a tribe, in the deserts of now Idaho. Happy people, doing their best to survive.

There will be a tomorrow Until our consciousness Melts into flowers, and mud Cascading down a river with Red-brown canyon walls and birds circling to land Before night scares them from the sky. Did he want a watery grave When twisting currents took his final breath, or Was it his reward for so many efforts, Valiant and otherwise? Tonight we danced to the music and silence Me, and all my other selves Laughing, at the wonder of it all, My soul glowing Brighter than distant stars in the dark.

There’s gravel in my gut Aseity is my form Asteroids orbit my Angkor Wat voice Fortify, multiply, resupply… Demystify the horrible events that await us As diversion from the truth — Powerful financial terrorists and spies Undermine capitalism, our freedoms In their ravenous lust for power They print endless amounts of money. Financial terrorists enslave all With lockdowns and masks For…

Sitting beside the black diagonals of the rubber doormat Is a pair of Chaco’s in the dirt The sandal straps, green and blue, rigid in place Waiting patiently for the next step Down a well-maintained USFS gravel road, around Twenty meters from where I’m parked, camping Alone, except for the…