Outside my body the world is getting lighter.
The birds use their little feather breasts
to sing song.
There is one bird singing the lead;
his friends,
the choir.
They, too, contain high intelligence;
high enough to sing
structured melodies,
imitating emotive shifts;
while other's sing a body
of underlying harmony.
I walk with ease
my being infused
by the
auditory.
In the scraggly and shadowy mountainside
an old craw cackle of a crow's call
pierces my heart.
Then there is a rustling.
Secretions of adrenaline send my legs up a steep stone.
Hunched like an Indian I keep my body low,
strategically stopping, using my eyes wide
my listening the same.
I still hear rustling.
Unnatural, it sounds,
like a plastic bag blown from the highway.
Behind me, further up the ascent
built under an outcrop of sandstone
there are ancient ruins
where the dead call home.
I cross in front,
the alarm of their sudden discovery
dampening.
Around a boulder,
where I peek,
and above the violet rim of
an opposing canyon,
the full moon shines direct on the ancient buildings.
The sun is coming into the canyon mouth,
many miles open,
just beginning to blot out the stars
with hues of blue.
And,
on a flattened rock below
a woman dressed in ancient garb
is bowing.
She is praying,
pointed at the ruins,
pointed right at me.
I look with disbelief.
My body forces me downward
to squat,
to put my head between my knees,
to close my eyes and
offer myself to vulnerability.
I tell myself it cannot hurt me, but
I still owe it humility.
Tho', I complain of the posture I've taken,
of suddenly sinking to my knees,
pressing to the earth,
my body reminds me of its near infinite capacity
for yielding.
A calmness comes.
I lift myself again to peer.
I see whatever spirit there was
has turned into an agave.
It looks a hell of a lot
like one ancient
Anasazi.
I turn towards the ruins
their bone gray bricks
their black voids where there are openings.
"These are there homes . . ." I say aloud,
one to his body as if in need of a witness,
"these are there homes . . .
and they are beautiful . . .
for which,
they are well kept."
Together we agree not to enter;
let them be
as they will be
for their own part
in eternity.
Moving from the ruins,
along the ancient path,
amongst the wildflowers of dry creek beds
and, using now, the lightness of the sun
(tho' the moon is still perceptible)
I take my body through
the different segments of trail
I follow.
Each portion contains
an essence;
a relationship to the rest
that is differentially unsettling.
At times my body senses safety,
at times my body senses unease
it tells me to walk carefully
at times my body senses fear
partly paralyzing.
Thick brushes of desert willows
yields two trails which intertwine
after passing a pool of water.
My body says:
I am afraid.
I consult with it:
Where do you think this trail will lead?
Decrypting it's ancient code of intuition
I choose the path which runs right.
Exuding from the stagnant pool is a foul feeling,
the sand of the trail is covered with bird feathers,
rodent hair
and eggshell white chips.
Wrapped around the pool next to the other trail
I see her,
she must be a mother
she is so big
and I can see she has an aged rattler.
My body drums:
Keep your eyes on the path.
Focus.
Don't step on tails."
I tell my body:
Balance.
Ground.
Fluidity.
I pass a one obscured under a rock.
Two more nestle under a small outcrop,
younger.
A brother and sister together,
coiled
so that their heads
point out at opposite ends.
advantage is:
their blood's close to
freezing.
My body stops
the trail takes it
one foot away,
one bite away.
I bend over to them and whisper:
"good morning little ones, just passing by, don't mind me"
I step past like a deer.
A little further
my body feels snakes everywhere.
I study the nature of the trail:
dry creek beds, lots of brush, lots of loose rock,
no doubt.
My present condition is:
fairly tired,
without a snakebite kit and
alone in the middle of the desert,
completely.
Do I
want to die
down here:
I ask my body:
What would it be like?
It would be like a fever,
a dizzying of pain and hallucinatory pleasure.
It would be finite,
it would end
and I would become a part of the land.
You would leave more quickly,
I'd remain slowly returning,
slowly becoming part of the things here
which
are a part of everything.
I tell my body:
I don't want to die.
It tells me:
Someday you will have to die.
I tell my body:
Yeah, but not before my mother.
I cannot die before my mother.
It tells me:
Death is always watching from over your shoulder.
After some silence it says
All will be fine for the Earth is your mother.
I turn myself around,
knowing that the snakes are thawing out,
knowing that I have future opportunity and
knowing I am grateful for the life my mother gave me.
I pass back over the same ground,
past the brother and sister,
the old mother,
every time my body remembers danger.
Finally, safe,
I slowly stretch my joints,
I listen to my body's complaints
responding with movements
that realign my spine
with euphoric popping.
I sit now,
all smiles for my being alive.
I ask my body:
What am I?
You are a sweet sweet boy
who likes exploring
and, above all,
singing.
It asks me:
what do you think of me?
I adore you body,
you are so faithful to me.
I adore you because
you are all the time carrying me,
weathered by me
and,
all the while so honest with me.
I adore you body
and I will always,
despite everything,
despite infinity.
I vow to adore you
until I part with you
and we are reabsorbed
into this eternity.
The birds use their little feather breasts
to sing song.
There is one bird singing the lead;
his friends,
the choir.
They, too, contain high intelligence;
high enough to sing
structured melodies,
imitating emotive shifts;
while other's sing a body
of underlying harmony.
I walk with ease
my being infused
by the
auditory.
In the scraggly and shadowy mountainside
an old craw cackle of a crow's call
pierces my heart.
Then there is a rustling.
Secretions of adrenaline send my legs up a steep stone.
Hunched like an Indian I keep my body low,
strategically stopping, using my eyes wide
my listening the same.
I still hear rustling.
Unnatural, it sounds,
like a plastic bag blown from the highway.
Behind me, further up the ascent
built under an outcrop of sandstone
there are ancient ruins
where the dead call home.
I cross in front,
the alarm of their sudden discovery
dampening.
Around a boulder,
where I peek,
and above the violet rim of
an opposing canyon,
the full moon shines direct on the ancient buildings.
The sun is coming into the canyon mouth,
many miles open,
just beginning to blot out the stars
with hues of blue.
And,
on a flattened rock below
a woman dressed in ancient garb
is bowing.
She is praying,
pointed at the ruins,
pointed right at me.
I look with disbelief.
My body forces me downward
to squat,
to put my head between my knees,
to close my eyes and
offer myself to vulnerability.
I tell myself it cannot hurt me, but
I still owe it humility.
Tho', I complain of the posture I've taken,
of suddenly sinking to my knees,
pressing to the earth,
my body reminds me of its near infinite capacity
for yielding.
A calmness comes.
I lift myself again to peer.
I see whatever spirit there was
has turned into an agave.
It looks a hell of a lot
like one ancient
Anasazi.
I turn towards the ruins
their bone gray bricks
their black voids where there are openings.
"These are there homes . . ." I say aloud,
one to his body as if in need of a witness,
"these are there homes . . .
and they are beautiful . . .
for which,
they are well kept."
Together we agree not to enter;
let them be
as they will be
for their own part
in eternity.
Moving from the ruins,
along the ancient path,
amongst the wildflowers of dry creek beds
and, using now, the lightness of the sun
(tho' the moon is still perceptible)
I take my body through
the different segments of trail
I follow.
Each portion contains
an essence;
a relationship to the rest
that is differentially unsettling.
At times my body senses safety,
at times my body senses unease
it tells me to walk carefully
at times my body senses fear
partly paralyzing.
Thick brushes of desert willows
yields two trails which intertwine
after passing a pool of water.
My body says:
I am afraid.
I consult with it:
Where do you think this trail will lead?
Decrypting it's ancient code of intuition
I choose the path which runs right.
Exuding from the stagnant pool is a foul feeling,
the sand of the trail is covered with bird feathers,
rodent hair
and eggshell white chips.
Wrapped around the pool next to the other trail
I see her,
she must be a mother
she is so big
and I can see she has an aged rattler.
My body drums:
Keep your eyes on the path.
Focus.
Don't step on tails."
I tell my body:
Balance.
Ground.
Fluidity.
I pass a one obscured under a rock.
Two more nestle under a small outcrop,
younger.
A brother and sister together,
coiled
so that their heads
point out at opposite ends.
advantage is:
their blood's close to
freezing.
My body stops
the trail takes it
one foot away,
one bite away.
I bend over to them and whisper:
"good morning little ones, just passing by, don't mind me"
I step past like a deer.
A little further
my body feels snakes everywhere.
I study the nature of the trail:
dry creek beds, lots of brush, lots of loose rock,
no doubt.
My present condition is:
fairly tired,
without a snakebite kit and
alone in the middle of the desert,
completely.
Do I
want to die
down here:
I ask my body:
What would it be like?
It would be like a fever,
a dizzying of pain and hallucinatory pleasure.
It would be finite,
it would end
and I would become a part of the land.
You would leave more quickly,
I'd remain slowly returning,
slowly becoming part of the things here
which
are a part of everything.
I tell my body:
I don't want to die.
It tells me:
Someday you will have to die.
I tell my body:
Yeah, but not before my mother.
I cannot die before my mother.
It tells me:
Death is always watching from over your shoulder.
After some silence it says
All will be fine for the Earth is your mother.
I turn myself around,
knowing that the snakes are thawing out,
knowing that I have future opportunity and
knowing I am grateful for the life my mother gave me.
I pass back over the same ground,
past the brother and sister,
the old mother,
every time my body remembers danger.
Finally, safe,
I slowly stretch my joints,
I listen to my body's complaints
responding with movements
that realign my spine
with euphoric popping.
I sit now,
all smiles for my being alive.
I ask my body:
What am I?
You are a sweet sweet boy
who likes exploring
and, above all,
singing.
It asks me:
what do you think of me?
I adore you body,
you are so faithful to me.
I adore you because
you are all the time carrying me,
weathered by me
and,
all the while so honest with me.
I adore you body
and I will always,
despite everything,
despite infinity.
I vow to adore you
until I part with you
and we are reabsorbed
into this eternity.