I place my brain on the dewy grass where it lies, naked pink and shivering like a newborn sparrow crying for comfort. But there is no comfort. Only chilly death comes. And then, devoured by a stray dog. In time, after my mind breaks down it will flow into dog blood and fuel howls. Then, as dog shit my mind will feed dandelions. Oh, to be dandelion fluff carried on a summer night’s breeze is my mind’s highest ambition. Read more

The wind blows angry In the lonely places Where it is safe to rage. Far from the city. I hear her wailing. And tremble. For I wear her wrath A threadbare cloak. The evangelists say, the Breath of God Is like a gentle Dove. But to me, she’s a raven, consuming the dead. Or a kestrel, seizing little living things in her talons And eating them whole. For the wind blows angry. Keening in the night. Giving voice to all... Read more

In deep morning still dark and cool I place my hand on my anchor tree. My fragile skin rubs the rough bark while my soul trickles from skin to wood and slides down into the roots where it kisses the soil. I am planted there with that anchor tree; It stands in my back yard, It stood before there was a back yard. It remembers, so I remember. We share mysteries from beneath the surface, Under the damp grass. And... Read more

I am the wise squirrel who climbs out of the underworld and dances up the trunk of the Tree of Life. Sitting in the high branches, I sway in the wind as leaves clatter, Reflecting the rising red sun. I hear Divine rumors on the breeze, and carry them down to the underworld returning with the longings of the dead. I am the apprentice of the moon-raven who teaches me to look sideways at the world to laugh in moments... Read more

An old juniper tree guards the gate to the underworld. Jagged and dry, he dies. But new branches reach through the cracks. Living and dead, he stands between worlds. The gate to the underworld is between two great ponderosa pines. For only their thick puzzle-bark can withstand the flames. All who come to Old Juniper forget whether they are the living, decending or the dead, ascending. Which way is in or out? Only Old Juniper knows, and he never tells. Read more

The moon is a raven when she sleeps she carries the night on her wings gathering up daydreams as she flaps overhead Never trust a raven to tell you the truth but she will always guide you to Truth she eats the dead bits of your daydreams and leaves the living bits to haunt your waking and your sleeping The raven is the moon when she awakes she glimmers faint sun into night dropping seeds of dreams down translucent beams... Read more