Unsolvable Meditation

At the end of the mathematics
Of the Universe, Hawking
Solved for God; the only
Possible solution for
The unsolvable question.
I am met with the same
Wonder as I sit under
The trees in the garden
Contemplating the galaxy…
And my place wherein:
A drop of water, charged
On a piece of sand, hurled
Around a ball of fire, swung
Towards an enormous singularity…


Break the day

The sun is slow
To rise here.
Obscured by
Eastern peaks
Light streams and flails
Rails and breaks forth
Across the valley first
Then the waking city…
“Wake Up!”
A thousand eyes
Are above you
Looking down
Reaching the light
Before it’s even near you.
Floating, clusters
Of characters, colors,
Bursts of enthusiasm
Blanketing the sky.

“Did Balloon Fiesta start today?”


It speaks to you

I went to buy a book of poems
Hearts, identities, wants, failures
Scattered across pages, books, shelves of books, shelves of
poetic thrashings

Awaking from the same bad dream, writing the same bad poetry
that releases your free will to subjugation and lies
dormant in the pithy pulp, poet after poet
screaming unto no one, until

“I’ll take this one”

The Show Must Go On

Not one echo
In the empty
Open hall.
Plush crushed
Seats Un-touched
Perfect planks
Of stretched oak
Reflecting no wave
Absorbing no steps
Overarched with
ornate gold
Reaching over red
Velvet curtains
Pulled tight
Lights out
Dim luminance
Shadow of a
Need to be
Something more.

Crisp spring
Air, stifled
Indoors with
Full house.
Entourage in
Crushed velvet
Seats, the color
Of sons lost on
Grassy fields
Now remembered
By a return
To normal.
Candle soot
Caked ceiling
Of embellishments
Suffocating on
The exhaled breath
Of the crowd
As they gasp, from
Wooden planks
Vibrating with
The sounds
Of treason.
”The president is dead!”

Upon first inhalation
You smell the
History of a
Place in history
Like church
Or the museum
Hardwood sweat
Tar and varnish
Of time in the
Old velvet Seats
On the stage floor.
Time has not
Forgotten what
Has happened here.
A hundred years
have passed and
We still feel the
Loss of one
April night.
We are gathered here
To breathe in
History and
Experience the present.

When a place
Is alive with
The sound of
Music, theater
Or poetry, every
Timber reverberates
With the memory
Of it. Ghost
Hunters spend the
Night hoping to
Read the energy
Of violence or
Perhaps the
Inhalation of
Hundreds of years
Of performances.
One tragedy for
For a nation
To remember
In one place
That exists now
Saved by the
Of the past
And proffered by
A show that must
Go on.

Notes on my experiments around Place

I am starting down a series of paths to discover what this “thing” is that we refer to as “place”.
Experiment 1st draft – The Show Must Go On

I want to follow a series of poems on 1 PLACE down a structured path of revelation. 1. Place vacant objectified, absent of human interaction. 2. Place historical description of a place as used in history. 3. Place present place as it is used today. Modern representation. 4. Place potential a place can be or become something different. What comes about in a place during a music performance is dramatically different than if it were a theatrical performance. A place can be transformed and transformative. Continue reading “Notes on my experiments around Place”


Classic icon of the West
The great steel horse, chief driven
Western power charging across the
Iron scars of a landscape torn open
With industrial desires and the need for connection.
Ancient mode in modern time, still carrying the promise of the dream across American desert. Anticipating your latest desires, in tow.
“Hey, is #489 running late?”


Some experiments

Standing near Mirror
Lake, myself part of nature…
BROKEN! By a stone.

Face sheered off in time,
Her tall body arching o’er
Me. Shouting “Hello!”

Art Deco stole it’s
Design from a Zinnia!
Scallop eggshell domes.

Perhaps a haiku / but unnatural the tweet / Broken! The syntax.

Makar Rain

Thousands of years of rain
Washing her bulbous face,
Chipping away at her grain
By grain, by boulder by grain,
Until one day a great collapse
An earthquake or meteor perhaps
She splits in two, dropping
Half her mass in an avalanche
Sheets of rock splitting off
Tumbling in tumultuous shambles
Of her once bold face, until
Once again years of rain
Washing her caved in face
Chipping away at her grain
By grain by boulder by grain
Smoothing her, curving her
Revealing her true color
And character.

“Hello” hello “Echo” echo


Whatever I say, repeats itself.
“Hello!” Hello, Hello, hello…
As my eyes roll over her curves
Arching over me, bending in
Streaks of red and yellow
Broken finally by azure
Sky that offers the only light
Inside this giant bowl dome.
A cathedral, a great place to
hear the violin or guitar. A
Symphony or maybe quartet?
If you sing the canyon songs
You are blessed with a chorus
Of your own voices from
The echo chamber.
“Clouds, oh clouds, speak to me…”