Always Love

there’s always love available. our job is to find it. when we are stuck looking for where its not we won’t find it. only when we commit ourselves to finding the love that’s available, even in impossible situations, will we be able to find it.

Some trees are already bare, and the leaves that remain, may well remain until next year. When a breeze ripples the giant sequoias, they whisper to each other the lost ancient name of loss and pain
—My love, are you awake?

and the dog down the street sounds the trumpet, and the oboe in the moon soaked starless sky whirs from far to near to far

The Only Good Art…

The only good drawings he’s managed to come up with over the passed few years, are the one’s in which he started with nothing. No plan. No concept, no idea of where he would go with it. Start with a few lines. Experiment with technique and try his damnedest to fight those inner demons, which, bubbling, always keep him on the precipice; the knife-edge of sanity. A shape materializes and, if he’s lucky, he’s off into the void. The void where ideas bubble up and he sees it.

It’s here that conceptualization actually works. If you try to start from a concept, you’re doomed to failure (no matter the outcome), you’ll never accept the outcome.

—Ah, so this is freedom!

(And here is where you realize that in order for there to be freedom, it all depends on the situation; the here and now; the original intention, and application, of the design in the first place. )

Out by the Cedar

Sat out by the cedar, lines run along her bark like stretch marks, they seem to be a test of time. She leaned over and said everything’s gonna be just fine, stop trying to live up to good enough, chasing shadows. I know. I know, years ago it was only your burden, now it’s his too. I can’t help it! I said, I’m a child of the eighties, molded by Ray-gun’s greed! Waves of traffic on a distant shore, wrapped in green, shielded by her barrier canopy. Sat in silence, she listened as I tried to repair all those words. Time slowed, until, eventually, it had no meaning. Followed a line of red ants up those stretch marks until we reached a knot, as big as my face, where they seemed to disappear. I felt around the edge, it was warm and soft, like a sea urchin’s belly. So I did what any man would do and leaned my face in. It was dark, but warm, I hadn’t even gotten half way in when I pulled out again. Scared, but craving more, I reached with my hand and tugged on the outer rim, she stretched enough to fit my arm in, then my face and suddenly I was pulling myself inside her, her womb. Was it I that was pulling or she pulling me? perhaps we worked together, until I had no body, or face or any physical characteristics, I was her and she was me and I looked into her heartwood. Kaleidoscopic shades of red filled my vision, a unifying warmth enveloped me and She said: old habits change slowly, with patience, attention and understanding. All you have to do is support him. And when she said him I thought of his face and the pang of despair rippled through my heart, and hers, and we shared the lonely hollowness of fatherhood, knowing that anything we do won’t be good enough, and is bound to make a scar. All the world is conditions, and of conditions there are supporting and unsupporting, choose to be the supporting condition for growth. Then our consciousness expanded; all life is expanding, changing, looking for answers to questions that generate growth. We looked out over the horizon, we were the horizon, and everything we saw was also us, and the warmth radiated over everything. Then I was birthed to the ground in a thump, covered in sap, and bark and red ants. My son stood there, in the dark, cold, wind-swept rain, astonished and he said, da-ad, are you OK? I couldn’t help it, I began to cry. He said something to me and put his hand on my shoulder, and I couldn’t hear him as I looked up her skirt at the knot where I was birthed had disappeared, and I said, not now son, she’s gonna come back to talk to me again. And I cried again. Seeing the repeating, though unable to move, until eventually he went away. Days and nights, months and years have since passed and I still sit at her base, like stone, waiting for her return.

Words Can’t Save Our Soul

Well we know it’s not the same now,

As it was before.

It’s been chewed up and spit out.

Left out on the floor.

Left out on the floor.

All we have is words now,

To save our barren souls.


When will we

Wake up

to the reality

that’s staring us

straight in the eyes

no we can’t

we can’t stand to be



Well we’re not really sure how,

But we’d like to think we know.

Like to think we know,

The meaning’s not the same now,

Its changed throughout the years,

To save our barren souls.


Wake up

to reality,

Can’t stand

to be surprised.


Well we know it’s not the same now,

As it was before.

Everything has changed now,

Gone through the door

All we have is words now,

all we have is words now,

To save our barren souls.

Save our barren souls.


I subscribe to leading a life directed by a knowledge that memory is not only some place in your brain, that memory is stored in the muscles, nerves, and cells of your body and that when you learn to trust that memory you can live poetry.

Carried Away (A Poem)

Carried Away

Scattered leaves,
various shades of chrome-yellow, and currant,
stream endlessly, carried away by the current
over and over again leaves pass, not
too dissimilar to discern the difference.
However, without the underlying knowledge that
there is change, there would only be insanity –
Still, the water, seamlessly drifts –
flashes of silver and white water rush to
the surface, rippling wakes
that never completely dissipate,
but eventually reach the shore.
It’s like this.
BNSF thunders and howls,
trees thrash,
wind ripples molecules
and you sit, sturdy enough to
not fall over, though on the edge
of some kind of breakthrough
that just gets missed and
carried away like the

breath on the wind.


Here on earth

we’re spinning ’round

mirrored reflections

Oh whoa ho

sometimes I catch myself

and everything goes streaming

by this is where I see

I’m a part of it.

Touching that

which can’t be touched

I’m touched.

We’re spinning ’round

heart reverberates

into the endless mirror chasm

Oh whoa ho-o



back into myself

to continue

the mirroring of images.

Stuck on a loop

it keeps repeating

spinning ’round

when I stop

it’s then I hear the sound.

Can’t stop me now.

Oh whoa-oh ho

Can you feel the flow?

it brings you closer

to the hole

inside the mirror.

Crystal Mtn Peak

I talked a lot on our way up the 6,500 ft peak. I talked and taught until I realized that the mountain said more than I ever could. The wind through the pines and birch, rushing water from a distance, the bird’s song, our shoes on the dirt trail, the clouds, the sky, sun breaks, light mist in our face, trickling streams running across the trail, the struggle to climb and keep climbing, the silence in between laughter. I wasn’t doing the teaching at all, my words were far inferior to that of the beginningless change of the forested mountain.

As foreigners, who’ve lost their way from home,

here to travel and explore,

To conquer and accomplish,

We found only exactly what we were looking for

A world of immediate wonder

Telling us that we are not foreign at all.


Breathing in
crags of coral
lungs expanding,
slowly, slowly,
the diaphragm contracts and pushes,
room for further expansion. weightless.
breathing out

the entire world melts away into pleasant joy.
the belly, like a tide
lapping on the shore
if we can be aware of our insides
what else can we be aware of?

slowly, slowly,

loosen the grip. is there a beginning?
where does it begin?

expelling breath
i try to draw the line
between out and in,
but if i were wise,
i’d realize
that there is no difference.

once you start to breath out, you’ve already started to breath in.

who am i?

loosen the grip
no one here controlling
it just flows like a river, it watches.
what makes me so special?

why is it
that i look for
a single narrative to make the difference,
as if that narrative doesn’t hold all others.

in a single moment of expansion,
the whole universe breathes in.
an explosion of conditions
happening all
at once
a flowers bloom
is made possible by the death
of last seasons fruit.
what kind of flower did you just picture?

the earth opens
there is no one experiencing
and nothing to

the perceiver,
the perceived

expand, contract.
the universe opens up,

there is no heroes journey,
no beginning
and end
it’s all here in this moment
all of history
the future
all right now.

i breathe and the universe breathes with me
no lines
no distinctions,
not right now anyway
we manifest new each moment and everything and everyone in history
is with us, again and again

and again and

again and again