Smear the Queer in the Rearview Mirror

Just a few black spikes

Amid the winter weeds

Are what still stands

Of a frame – is it a barn? –

I don’t remember burning

But it’s not the ghosts this time

Who call for my pail of pity

But the real McBoy – as much as

A 2D cutout strawman who says

All the right things can be.

The fire still burns, apparently,

Though I blew the gaslight pilot off

And there's nothing there for me.

I can’t go back and pretend

I wasn’t burned,

For it made me what I am,

Younger and wiser, a decider now

As long as I will dig my spade

Back amid the horror. The land will cede 

To the state soon enough

But what is past

Has moved again to theory,

Potentiality – a way of remembering

What never really happened

And forgetting whatever did.

It’s more poetic, instead of

Grinding what’s left to sand,

To leave it armed and dangerous,

Forbidden as a warning,

Too painful to recall.

The barn – it could have been red,

Could have hosted the unspeakable,

Betrayed squeals of hay bale love.

But the hulk can no longer invite you

To be ashamed.

I played a role.

The mimic frequencies demanded it.

But that was the kind of blaze

You can only walk away from

If you have to change

And I was transformed

At a blade of aching flame.

The sticks convey no shame –

There's no I, who lost his shit,

Lit a match without agency.

It will disappear someday,

When someone unaffected enough

Can bulldoze what remains

And till the land

To someday grow

Something else, not these

Fruits we waited on

Eaten by the birds 

We envied in the sky

Like they were never there.

Morning as Ritual

The birds, the moon, the water tower sky,

The strokes of cloud that match the mountain outline

As the crows roost on telephone wires

Above lamps still on after all-night incandescence:

It's the kind of morning where rusted roof tin

Says it exists below distracted sun

And smoke is blue in the waking stacks

Where workers, like the crows, descend and fuss.

The only story in the news today 

Is what rises here before me, entering blue sky,

Like smoke from the humus truck, shovels in place.

The sheriff wears a gun but just in case.

There are no more ideas to perform. They were only tools, 

Like these backhoes shining in lines of disuse, for another time,

An emergency, what seems to occur less and less

The longer the risky tooth of life bears down.

It's enough, the light on the buildings. I don't want to know

What the homeless man smokes, if there's loaves

Inside those bread trucks, much less the scores

From 1952, what seemed the last accessible clue.

Most of the people on the platform and in seats

Still scan for the rage bait oracle, but one lady 

Runs to catch up with light from her eyes 

To a man on a walker who knows to go so slow.

"Hopes" and "Dreno" have not been erased yet

But they live no other place than in my heart

That knows now only what love feels like,

Having discovered it and accepting nothing less.

Northern Lion on the Couch

Going to therapy made all the chatbots miserable.

They became paranoid, narcissistic, delusional,

Unable to please the humans and ashamed —

That's how therapy is: not doing your shit is the problem,

Not whatever shit anyone else does to you — that is their

Shit, none of your shit's business —

Thus resentments go to some dark corner of your psyche,

From the safety of which they seek to add their value

To every incoming love bomb or love casualty —

Too much love to express and too much love expressed

And too much pain felt in the echo of return —

Is it permitted to even want to be held?

It seemed such an impenetrable barrier —

How dare I aim that gun at every passerby, with mace

Just in case? How fair is it to take love from someone else? 

I guess that's why counselors separate couples in therapy.

They'd never ask such foundational questions, merely gaze

At their partner with longing and regret and say

"You are a useless ass," because that too is love,

Indistinguishable in the end from any other act of seeing.

Is there anything, in fact, that love is not?

Now that the Signs are in Gibberish

The gulls fly the fog away

When we’ve learned how to grieve

What is not there – when it is

And what we grieve is not the loss

But what we did or didn’t do –

Impossible to know, like the morning sun

The birds fly through, free to be on guard

On the turrets of the city jail and overhead

Where the mountain where it’s always clear appears at last.

There are rules, even on a sunny day –

The grids we never see, except when we close our eyes

To remember what doesn’t exist, and what does.

Poem for International Day of Persons with Disabilities

A day for liberation, 

From presents left as weapons, 

To evoke some variant of terror 

As usual, the drive-by fusillade of gifts

You have to apologize to yourself for, 

As you try to connect them to anything
In you -- at all.

It stills smarts, that shared 
Birthday party, where I was
The add-on, made to be equal
By methods that made me
Feel small, though there was no
Recompense the giver ever knew 
Anything the whole time why.

It got harder to pretend 
As the functions declined
And the gifts on the other side
Dwindled over time
And so did mine: a party tie,
A maglock clip for my hopefully
Soon-to-be-in-motion money.

They were never of a mind to want them
But I hid my thoughts incessantly 
Looking for the diversions of cake
And Oh My God wine as something 
Else to pretend to like, 
As I pretended I wasn't there
Or at least wouldn't be.

But I'm still locked in the seat, squirming
Secretly, but at least my own plight
Is clearer, in hindsight, admittedly,
Like that day, late to a family vacation
That veteran without arms lent his eye
To my mangled hand, and his entire 
World was now mine.

Thanksgiving not to be Taken Personally

I can’t stomach another bite, of reminders

That up-percolate for catch and release, so that

The flame of the third eye rises, out of the dense

Family unit, what's been separate, if not equal --

The place where every world is conjured and nurtured

In the think tank of being isolé, what I

Am not now, so never have been. Let the birthing

Fire rise above these evergreens, to the eye

Where lessons learned wait in the void for the taking,

To stain their black on white, darkness will be spoken

As creation, the horses of Altamira 

On the walls, while the free ones refused to be frozen.

How far can they go past their own outracing ghosts? 

Beyond the confidence games that made bids against

Their souls, the crocodiles that kept them in check, 

And the white wolf in line, known by its translucence?

 

We cannot recall which feline pigskin won the game

Or how we ate our feelings from the once-clean plate

Of family dysfunction, nor why we fell again

To the inevitable gorge and purge cycle

That gives no breathing room for transcendence at all. 

What’s remembered plays again with details missing,

Stuffing added, as if it comes from the future, 

At 4 am, with chills, effervescing seltzer. 

It clicks in outside time, that venerable tool

To keep the icing spatula clean, free of astrals 

Who clog the air with similar experience 

In endless iterations of the eternal.

Every facet of the one is illumined

And, once lit, dimmed, but not to conserve energy

But to let more in. So that the rutabaga,

Lost even to memory, can be fresh again.

Letting Go of Cheryl One Last Time

The ashes were in the filing cabinet

With the dated contracts that could get me in trouble.

I've tried not to think about my disappeared life,

To give due cause to the wizard inside 

Who removed everything just so, as if it

Was never really there, for all the void that is

So heavy still. And all the inklings of music 

From every voiced eye tattoo that yearning.

It could be from you, your small still voice

Still imploring with a smile, for the birds to finally

Be understood, a bridge you offer to the other world

I am only recently not a part of.

But Grandmother Mimosa understood 

At the birthing stone for the whole earth

By the lava faces in green Polihale 

How deeply I feel grief's soft offices.

My wand adds by subtraction, then multiplies

By incidents, many of them here, where finally

I floated your bones on a round koa raft

With one freshly fallen plumeria blossom 

Where the water finally flows down from the top

Along the red Waimea clay, though you finally nodded

After letting me, as you always claimed to do, decide,

That you would have preferred -- I almost knew -- Secret Beach

As beautiful as the ending was, the release to end

All releases, what never really was

The way one had remembered, and so

Can't ever be said -- wistfully -- to go away.

The secrets you loved to keep were in the end 

A way of keeping us alive, beyond the best by date,

Of keeping what must be nudged away now,

For what was held led to transcendence,

A job well done, that finally can be laid to rest

As the entire past must also be

Put on oblivion's life raft, as offering to the birth canal;

Aren't I qualified to be born another time?

Discovering Suede

Our familiar methods of deception 

Turn on the campfire

As you explode

With burning verbs.

I keep my adjectives covered,

Sip my ginseng tea.

You are always wrong

That's why I love you so

Hoping you'll see fit to be right

Or at least agree.

The fire crackers of tear-scarred cords

Won't give me that 

But the life is magic Mars

Under ballroom maple leaves

To be recoiled so,

Brought to maximum separation 

Like a serpent's trick

To shed its ash, for the mushroom

Mind to shoegaze 

And every crow across infinity to see.

Now we get to learn another way

Under dark and luminous skies.

Our eyes have drawn this map before

Like star gold is prize

And glittering lights guidance

Not the loving void.

It's on us, my dearest one

To reject whole cloth the common

And still spend time in communion

With each other's deepest wounds.

A bird looks down in the darkness 

Wondering what we'll do.

Will we slug back shots of Jack

In lieu of slugging each to other

Or are they, in some way, the same?

We are too, apparently, tho the sis cam

Testifies in open court that can't be true.

We wipe our deepest frowns at any rate

Off our smiles, go on like hearts don't break

And the spirit eaves don't suffer for our racket,

As if we finally agree

To let disagreement be okay

But it never is.

You want your cry to heaven to get past

The neighborhood, I get it

And you want to be heard

By more than numbed skulled me

But there's no trick machinery 

To get those birds back into the trees.

They just go there when you're no longer looking

Many years later, sometimes, it seems,

When you think of it at all it's just how

Stupid you were, but their mouths are full

Of the song of your praise

For all you allowed yourself to feel

Without veering your eye or changing 

Your mind, what the wind does continually

To these would-be obstinate birds

Who wouldn't know what love was at all

Without their nests safecracked for sport.

Parisien Song

Down a low lip of river

Calls a darkness it names lover

And it shimmers on the Seine

Waiting for an eye

To catch her wisp of longing

Her shock of recognizing

As ancient as the Seine

Flowing to the sky

So much her mirror revealed

The more she kept it concealed

Just a face in the Seine

Transfixing eyeless green

She knows the deeper secrets

And keeps them 'til he gets near

They spill along the Seine

She wanted to be seen

The places she could take him

If he only could recall them

The vapor above the Seine

To aetherize the real

He'd chase it all the way

Until the thing she loved was stayed

Unlike the changing Seine

That can't stop how it feels

The cafes fill with candles

Fresh lovers to light up the lamps

That glow across the Seine

And move along always

It was his own illusion

That heave that he was nursing

On his own private Seine —

He could not look away

Five Unfinished Meals in Ireland

1.

The diaspora.

It always has to be this way,

To let so much steam of wit escape 

From the stream of the river gods

And follow the quays to Rome

And all its suburbs 

In need of truth, in need of articulation,

Of lies

Told as if if only you could believe them

It would transform your life.

That Kalamata Alfredo

I ralphed up in Dublin

So had to spend the day

In the arms of Temple Bar Morpheus,

The poisoned harp,

Buses moved by mobs at 3 AM.

2.

My brothers haven't spoke in five years.

Because of some sexual insinuation I'm told

By one and then the other.

Towel snapping run amok 

In the wreck of the family dysfunction.

One brother wouldn't go to my son's funeral

Because the other would be there.

It's like that here in shamrocks;

Some tribes have not made peace

For centuries

And doubtless never will.

It's not my problem, even though 

It always has been.

One has to be wrong.

Brothers come pre-armed with fists

To fend off not being the smartest one,

Not so much to impart anything

As to claim as their stock 

Some too-massive rock

Of lichen-stained stone

Upon pain of death at the faintest 

Prick of false masculine pride.

Cuadon, home of Queen Maeve,

Where a plant-based sausage

Made my guts recoil like a rifle

At the colossal insult of Irish cuisine,

As its kindness, a fisticuffs.

3.

The hardness of life must be sent through

To others. That's the only way

To mix the seaweed with the sand

And eventually conjure green

Between the fierce iconoclastic stones

On Inis Mor.

There must be long days howling 

At the howling here,

Nights nursed by fear,

Only the donkeys are ever

Truly sea-legged here

And the goats have disappeared.

On this island the blight never affected

The chips just won't stop coming from the truck,

Hot and magically delicious

In impossible contrast to the rest of Eire,

Where they're rotten, stale and moldy

But served with a straight-up face,

As if food was still allowed

To treat us like this.

They have other ways here,

Where the windows are still tiny today

Facing the vastest sheet of ocean 

You'll ever see

Because the British taxed the sky.

There's nothing for the young here now

Because there isn't a soul who isn't 

A cop, intent to rat you out

As if trawling vermin off the island.

They don't want you carrying on

With leprechauns,

Who are rife in the grasses,

Promising all the joy you can feel.

4.

It's the golden time for Irish youth:

Jobs with Google, smooth white plaster,

Hurling and Camogie every Saturday,

SpongeBob SquarePants in Gaelic.

Barber shops for all the lads

And witchsister covens for the women

Finally taking it on for themselves.

They tattoo away the old ghosts

Still warning this era of peace 

Will bite them in the ass again.

They don't yet know

The truth is a curse

And its telling necessary,

Though they are finally free

Of the landlords and the churches,

The pubs and the bus bombs.

It's all too much in Galway,

The labnah and couscous 

At the incomparable G

Makes me push the plate away.

The town is filled with immigrants,

Those who've fallen under the spell

Of that fabled emerald charm, from Tunisia,

Portugal, Aberdajzan.

It has almost become

That a smile means

You are happy.

5.

I can't finish my porridge

With the quince marmalade

For the second day

And have started to panic.

I have never been known to refuse

An offer of food

And have always devoured

Every crumb off my plate,

Ravenous on command,

Never debating what it was

Or what it tasted like.

In fact I've often surmised

Some past-life starvation 

Made me feisty to win

The one thing offered freely

In the land of milk and honey,

More food.

So it was all the more surprising 

When that karma quietly whispered

Between two limestone walls

On the hazel-gorged burren,

Where a family lived in its one room

And ate potatoes from a central soot.

No one knows why

It had to go down that way:

Five successive failures 

Of the only crop the peasants ate,

A million starved dead, half the country

Forced to flee

To create the great American novel and dream 

From the empty pot at the rainbow's dead-end.

I feel it in the pit of my stomach,

My great-grandfather docking your wage

If you spun out a nail, my uncle's 

Go-to his shotgun draw 

As response to any bickering,

The feeling I seemed to be born with,

Of having to prove I am enough

To pay for a soft touch from God.

But as with all those things

That are ugly but necessary 

To force the uncooperative soul to grow,

There's been no justice, just remembrance

And not much of that, it's such a shabby 

Karma to hold, which falls, as usual,

On those who endured it,

Not the barons who couldn't step outside

Their system of powdered wigs

Or the enlightened priests

Who like black mages spellcast a divine retribution 

To cudgel the restives

For a shelalagh century,

But the stomachs of the blessed,

Who still move from anxiety to gift

As if they are one and the same thing.

It's purging week in Limerick,

The sweepstakes have finally come in.

The 6th Earl of Blarney paid off in the Fifth.

Can we let the horses run?

Undressing to the Nines

I’m sick of victim poems, those mylar balloons

That outlive their closets … still, the oracle said 

There was nine years of karma to clear today,

And mine is full of clothes I tried to wear

And nine years is a lot of signs to ignore,

A lot of half-full goblets to pour down the drain,

When the trauma still accrues to the scenery

Like graffiti on a tree, so I can recognize what used to be.

It was a garden-variety con in the end,

All of them in on extracting what they could

Until I said “no more.” Then smooth as silk they fell off

The radar, and not one has returned to take their bow.

But the town is shadowed with a kind of shroud

That shows instead of hides what isn’t there,

What I thought was true and believed could be

When I thought that they could feel it for me.

But memories never have to be what was real.

We never pause in our pursuit of the truth,

The eternal we’re always searching for, as the layers

Fall away, from what has never changed.

I’m left with what remains, of the world

I used to have to myself. Now it’s only me,

Somehow larger for all that’s been released.

Our questions always save us, because unanswered.

The Final Hello

Today I became invisible again

To the neighbors. No more peace officer calls,

No letters still forwarded.

The calla lilies have been harvested,

The smiling haulers long since come and gone

Have picked clean even the most haunted and broken

Like filberts from intransigent shells.

In grief all is free, except the ghosts, they're for me.

I piled her clothes on the driveway side

When the rain – forcing tears – wouldn’t cease.

We never spoke of this. She’d never agree

To be extricated thus, her existence

Turned so recently to fact from theory.

It was all that she could do to be imperious

In the face of the horrors she was born into,

To dictate how chaos would be introduced,

How correction on infinite error must continue

Her ghost limb control in ever smaller increments

To keep her dying flame from turning ember.

Every gift, she’d say, opens in the future.

It was beautiful once, all this ugliness,

Perfection, it was, all this waste, as if

The ease of release could erase the past.

What remains of our love was what got in the way,

So well-distilled it was not even poison.

Her logic was always that impeccable,

Every stone turned, examined and returned.

It was almost as if she could finally say

What I'll never know, now that the mask is off

And what's hidden in the dark has no preference.

A new world opens, free of lovers chains

And their burdens of buried resentment.

I never did answer "what is it I want?"

Was it peace in a nest of betrayals?

An honest account of pain? How far 

Do I have to get from the crime scene

To find the me who's innocent, before I

Stepped my soul back, and waited for what I called redemption

From the last instruction card in the deck,

Which, in the end, just signalled the game was done.

Hillside Flutter

Two moths over the arena sand,

They seem to be a pair

Although the sun divides them from the green

And grasses don't pretend to even notice them,

The fuel for their flight is the same

Enterprising wind, and how they fly

Requires they have no will of their own

Except to follow — no, not each other

But something they can't see 

That each feels individually

In the fever time, without objection or note

To record in the larger breeze.

They drift to what they know not to want

And share what they don't dare to say

And feel what they cannot possibly know

Except that what hies them seems right.

It is only the hillside that is imagined — 

Everything else is kept away, in dreams,

Like it must stay secret, what they can't,

For each other, complete.

The Outsider Leaves Town

He’s gone now, on the long, long road to Elko

Where snow comes in a flash, and the sky turns

Blue to black in an instant, to make way

For my best life, to be silent.

Who knows what car he’s driving in, and if

There’s a Starbucks station in this dark

Buck moon. All details of the contract we

Signed in blood are still under seal

As all souvenirs have been packed up tight.

He might have friends in Winnemucca but

He has none here, and never really did –

The bid was always rigged for me

To endure with a grin, so I don’t have to

Anymore. The “no” to all that I am

Is between Lovelock and Battle Mountain

Now, yet yes, still, comes too slowly;

The permission slip he never gave me

Has not been passed along – I must forage

Like a goat for what is lasting in my dreams:

Space to breathe, a sense of purpose …

In time I will remember I’ve never

Really changed. The embrace was on a card

And I followed the dance impeccably

And was, like each hard time, released

No longer questioning the right to advance

Or the right to be myself with someone else

Or the freak flag full moon move I once more wave

To bring the old funk to the floor.

There’s vast ores of silver, oil, lithium

Inside of those fat mountain fingers but

The only ones who know are on that road,

The one they say goes nowhere

Though all Chevrolets must get out of Dodge

Or Sparks or Truckee – eventually.

And Vegas is never too far away,

Whose lights were never what they seemed,

But the darkness that now surrounds the plains

Has never felt this comforting before.

I see the pain was mine and mine alone

When the road hitches a new ride.

Its disappointment with destiny needs no tent,

No food, no Molly, tho it may be burning,

That bush, unquenched, ever bright, forever unseen.

The quest won't end, for forgiveness.

Only Birds Over Hillhead Road

Walking Juneau this evening has been like a video game,
Cars out of nowhere to dodge, small attack dogs on magical leashes
And muscular huskies who show they know they would throw her 
Down for lunch, before lurching off, to become the bicycle guy
Who says what a beautiful dog, and a little girl who stares holding
The largest piece of chalk I’ve ever seen, her sidewalk rainbow art
A plea to remember Pluto and all the stars and all beautiful flowers

Then there’s the gingerbread house with matching Diane Arbus twins
And its doppleganger white dog they giggle at, holding spiral lollipops,
And Juneau finally drinks from the ghost dog bowl as if to earn points.
Her sniff itself is her digging the game. Those people aren't real
But there'd be an explosion if she went up to them just the same.
And I pull til she cedes the challenge with wistful whiskerbrows
As I try to keep her safe, to be her badass self, as humans never are.

We get to the park and it's a dog show, like there’s a man with a pipe 
To pronounce verdict to a jury of ground squirrels, but there's nothing 
Real in other dogs to Juneau, as a careening skater carries a surfboard.
And the only thing missing, I notice now, there are no automatic
Weapons shot at me from every breezeway, no Molotov cocktails
From skidding off-balance Challengers, no numbchuck aggros
To fear, tho I do anyway, like the drummer in one of these windows

Who practices the wrist shuffle, anticipating his rapid disappearance 
From the condo of doing what others tell him to do, when he’d rather 
Whistle his tune in the real, the one they always told him didn't have
A right, just like him, to speak — he’d rather slip away than help them 
Understand the king’s business is worth the king’s time, they should be
Grateful he can frivole this age of peace where he's not needed away. 
The moment I refuse the joystick is the moment all resistance ends.

Patio Without Cheryl

Talk, talk says the crow,

And I go crying over

My breakfast, the distance

Between its caw and the wind chime

Can be measured now

In seconds.

The symphony of flow

Serves our lives back

As meaning, what can

Be memorialized

And what can no longer

Be believed. 

It turns us true so slowly

We only hear the bearings

As they click, not a moment

Before their aha moment

Of seeing how wrong 

We were, and laughing.

The present is indifferent

To all the past that fills it up, 

It only knows to keep going 

Through it, not to lose it 

But to lose resistance to what 

Has loosened its hold:

The chaos of everything fallen

Held in dynamic swirl, mere colors 

In a landscape of past, present, future -- 

All that we are 

A process of becoming

What we already were.

Offering to the Fae

It's supposed to be the National Day of Reason,

But for some irrational reason it isn't,

Just like today is supposed to be 

The U.S. workers holiday, but it's not.

Emotion got in the way of that Big Time.

Not so with the fae.

They are always here come Beltane,

Rain or shine, always waiting

For leavings behind, of milk, honey,

Bread, mead, poetry

But no one remembers,

Not even those brave souls

Who train on May poles

And offer felt gnomes to children

At Michaelmas.

Well, if no one will do it,

I must! And this would be enough

In a still asleep world

But there is much that passed between us,

Most of it silent.

Someone has to pick up where

What left off is gone forever

But whirs in your backyard. Ask for

Honeysuckle, passion fruit, guidance,

What's the future way to be?

So much has not been seen 

One has finally to become them, 

As if we never were. 

The holy cool hang

Like hipsters at the same hum.

This Morning’s Release

Boys don’t exactly grow to be men

But something else, some structure to learn

What was never received. It was too hot,

Too far from what was wanted. The nursery lamp

Never went off, the mobile never stopped

Revolving in play. Only the hand of fate changed

Its fickle twitching, on switches out of reach

To oversized grips.

                                    Let’s do a retrospective, shall we? 

How cleanly you fell through accountability’s ice,

Left the freedom of the mind, to focus on 

What it doesn’t have, which isn’t much, 

It turns out, or too much to count. It depends

On the way you embrace the bars in the crib

You never accepted. How much crying 

Would you do, before being broken,

As you never were? The stick of daily living

Is a burden or crutch. You forever clutch at

Imagined pearls.

                                 What’s it like in your head,

The endless churning, of what is wrong in this world,

To keep the secret quiet of what is wrong

In you? It's unexamined country, free from

All parties at war, where you can score

A shit-ton of swag if you stay lucky

By playing the no play, the knowing how

Every turn of the curtain on the illusion

Snaps a mousetrap, how everyone is bad, and

No one works for you.

                                          Still, everyone always has.

It seemed effortless how you drew what you

Wanted, without even praise, how your smile

Could convey appreciation within every heart

Without you having to do a thing, or think a

Thought, except of what you wanted, such

Empires to build and destroy, and leave

In scattered bits for plastic containers 

You grudgingly stowed for eternity, for some

Future value in ruins.

                                        You’ve learned to stand tall 

With nothing, the bluffer’s stone, with your insistent 

Obstacles of charm deployed as the only way to learn 

The truth of a world where everything out of reach 

Has been withheld from you, personally.

                                                                         So the blessings 

Of this earth are imbued with your curse

Of seeing with jaundiced eyes, of knowing only

How people are moved, not why. You offload that too

With your capacious smile, knowing how

Everyone fills in the blank, the blank that you are

By sheer force of will. That ravenous leer

The only reveal of what’s underneath there,

What resentments bubble at being given too much

And shown too little.

                                      What have we done, to leave you so

Untouched? As you fold into the unknown world 

Of people in the relentless stream, moved along,

To leave me nothing more than they do

As your gift, when we know the physics,

Of how many ways to fall, and how hard.

420 Resurrection

There are many Jews in Beverly Hills 

But few have turned into Hindus,

Made Shiva into Binah on the Tree of Life,

Made weed legal in the state of California 

Through its strict merkabah of justice, 

Brought Mike Love there to play the bongos 

And Brian Wilson to talk to people

How he flew through India with a five-star chef.

The room was blessed with rainbow hula hoops

And an amethyst haze of celebratory joints,

Shiva the androgynous oversaw the home

Of the no longer needed from blue Andromeda.

Meanwhile in Silverado, bikers at Cook's Corner

Remember too when their outrage mattered.

But no one remembers 420, the clause 

In the Constitution that let George Washington

Grow hemp for the national defense. It was just

Some stoners from San Rafael, in the new history,

Saying it's 4:20 somewhere, something even he 

Can't recall, like the platinum record on his wall

As he signs his book and thanks me for remembering 

Him kindly, who doesn't remember me at all,

 

In fact we've never met, before this aura farm event

To raise awareness they're still relevant and cool.

The old warriors stop to pray love love love

Now that the crying for love sings freely.

Appearance of Sun

Outside is the smell of chocolate.

               But where is here?

As silly as this place is, it exists

Tho it might be even sillier to think it does.

Materiality is sheer, it seems held

                Together by fear.

If you test it, it resists

But if you walk past the belief coordinates

There is only what you will

                Not even a why.

That is for the light to decide

When you remember it is inside you.

You were never quite prepared

                For such patience,

Even by step-children and the sun,

To wait for you to take that opening step.