roasted mozzerella

while walking at night on alberta, we imagine what we might do tonight. do you drink, she says, and says, i don't, and i say i like wine, and then we find ourselves paused under a sign of a closed wine merchant. later, i remember the other day in whole foods. a clank stops the crowd, an event i, while sampling what i think was called roasted mozzerella, but is actually just some herbed pasta, witness right in front of me: a young woman, serene and bright, replaces a bottle of wine from the tile floor. that's a ton of good luck right there, when you drop a wine bottle and it doesn't break, the clerk says. and i leave the store without buying anything.

want is need

someone is squeezing the hose, you become aware of it in your heart, and constricted, you cannot take it. that's physics, it says, the physics of water, and it has to flow, and that green wall, plastic and opaque, will not hold me back for long.

an ark key

more than a clever pun, it comes into me, and i never do anything with it but say it a few times, liking its associations. it makes a good store name, you say, or maybe a book. it seems like it should be a book of verse, if should exists, in an indie shop. then, one day down the road, you decide (you think randomly) to walk into a zine shop on the haight when you are thinking of the arc concept, and there on the shelf is an anthropology of anarchy-inspired poetry called, An Ark Key.

seams

2. crafting the cut of the artery river, streaming in high definition white noise,
like a butter knife slipping through the grand canyon.

1. the undercurrent spiral-dances, dividing the waters from the waters, and you, the artist, ask me to ask you about any of your works, giving you a way in, because each, you say, has a genesis.

4. this one, you say, is your favorite. it looks like scribble, like any elephant with a brush could do it, with layers of multicolored verticals and horizontals, thick and thin, like a broken television still-frame, on mute, chaotic and scratchy, thick and thin, and i ask if it has a name, and it begins to look better when you say, time.

spirals of laughter respire through heaps of overflowing salamander gills while
arcs of colorized upside-down cameos knot together, into olive vines, not
unlike the herbal rewards you read on a stash tea tab gracing the front of your journal that through free-association, comes
as you pass a green metal fence over an interstate overpass and the sign
that tells you where you may want to go. we are everywhere,

you say that it says, and this is space. it appears as nothing,
but you feel full. this is human, you say. and time is your perception,
just perception. and that is all,

like time. concentric circles pick up with the wind, conforming to the geometry
of your brittle cheek bone and knee skin, and paradoxically penetrating the seams

of your microfiber knit pants. you pick up a leaf in the shape of a bat
and we animate it, making its wings flap. it's a toy, you say, knowing the god that
has penetrated all microfibers. and it's free, the toy, and sustainable, made from one-hundred percent recycled organic fibers.

are we in a vortex, you say, and we receive an answer: yes, and it is free. this is what it is. and we are children.

blue heron

for the first time, i am sleeping alone in the middle of the city (under a plot of trees on a soft dry bed of pine needles), in a mummy-style sleeping bag that's camouflage in the shade of the towering firs above me--and i feel free. . . .i can sleep in, without having to worry about anyone checking on me, and i know i have everything provided for me. in my cocoon under the trees, with cars zipping by in their busy trapped lives, i feel like a little animal looking up out of my hole when i awaken.

today, i awoke to a gray sky, and after meditating on my breath for awhile, i put on my pants and shoes, tied up my sleeping bag, and as i was about to climb over the wall that separates my little forest home from civilization, i found a polished black stone on the bed of dead tree needles. so i pocketed it, seeing it as a gift from the universe whose purpose will most likely become apparent in time.

a little later, i went to powell's to continue reading The Alchemist. in the passage i read today, the old king figure tells the boy hero, the shepherd Santiago to follow the omens that the universe leaves, which will lead him to his destiny, and gives him two stones: one black, which means, "yes," and the other white, which means, "no," and the man instructs the boy to ask objective questions along his path, and the stones will help him read omens that are laid out. just then a butterfly appears, and the boy takes it to be a good omen, and the man nods, sensing the boy's thought.

my adventure is taking a different turn. did i mention i was ordered to stay off psu's campus? remember that day when i was telling you about my bat totem, and we discovered a new path together, at the end of which was the vista bridge on which my story started? then, the next day, on my way to ben's, i decided to follow some runners, instead of taking the usual path, and i discovered an easier path, and some different insights. i started realizing that the universe is guiding me out of a rut, into new exciting territory. so when events led up to receiving a citation banishing me from psu which has been my territory for 2 years, it was kind of a shock, but also not quite a surprise. i am literally being forced to change paths.

i, too, am being called to the SE. the other day, in fact, i stayed with my friend brandon who lives off belmont. while he showered, i walked to get a bite to eat, leisurely meandering, feeling connected, looking for signs. a small asian man dressed in an orange robe struck my attention. he was holding orange leaves behind him, and stepping carefully, mindfully, emanating peace. so i decided, on a whim (whimsical as i am) to follow him (i thought he might be a monk). then a free box called to my attention, to my right. an empty beer box was there, BLUE HERON brand, so as I squatted down and ripped off the cardboard emblem, the monk ahead of me turned around and stopped, smiling, curious. he seemed to be watching a black dog across the street, and i asked him if this was his dog. he muttered something (it seems he didn't speak English), which i thought was, "yes." i showed him what i had found, and said the blue heron is a symbol. it means, "clues dropped from the universe" (my shaman guide teddy just a couple days before had drawn the blue heron card for me in his animal spirit deck). the monk repeated, smiling as if amused, "clues," and continued on his path. when i got up and continued in his direction, the monk was gone, and looking for him, i realized i was standing by the Dharma Center, complete with a zendo and free zen meditations (which i had been wanting to find). later on, when i got to new seasons to eat, i overheard an old man, distinguished in appearance, and an older woman excitedly talking about the universe's mysteries revealed. they were seated under a piece of art that was like something i had made before when i was connected. it simply said, "HEAVEN," in blue crudely painted letters on a white background. i had been wondering earlier in the day if i should try making some money at making art, and this was reassuring. well, after observing the couple talking, and thinking, after seeing all the clues, i should take the initiative and go up to them, i did. the man was a little rude, since i had intruded on their conversation, and i apologized, and said they were a manifestation in my reality, and he said, "here, this is for you," and handed me a small booklet. i asked him if his contact info. is in here, and he said, "yes." the booklet talks about how synchronicities in this new reality are the norm, and contains a 13 moon calendar, based on the mayan tzolkin. the booklet is put out by an organization i had never heard of before, based in ashland, oregon, called "the foundation of the law of time."

i just keep on going, having faith. it is hard, and there are many unknowns, and i am faced with the weakness of my mortality and meager existence every day, but, fearless, i am following my destiny.

Gnarled into the shape of salty storms

I just got back in Portland yesterday afternoon after a week sleeping in a tent with Zachery in his parents' backyard, where I felt like an imposition around his family (although they assured me I was welcome, after Zachery talked to them about my concerns), and this stress on me, although somewhat difficult, was a welcomed change. The equinox and seasonal shift was already switching me into hibernation mode, making me want to focus on preparing a room for myself where I can create.

I was forced to confront certain conflicts I have been avoiding within my own self, paralleled by the roar of the ocean at night in a cold dripping wet tent and lonely walks on the barren and cold beach and through rugged and winding wilderness paths where bears come out at night, with trees that look like bonzais, gnarled into the shape of salty storms. I had been half-expecting these conflicts, or conflict, to surface, especially since the previous week at Wolf Creek. These environments, though, if harsh, have been tempered by a steady wave of love, and I see it all as pure blessing.