Wind Chimes

A breeze
from the northwest
slides in gently,
unpredictable gusts
crescendo and fade
at random rates,
improvisational dances
with cone-laden pine branches
serve no purpose,
no art
save surprise.

My eyes
float wide open,
sharp, clear,
uncluttered by concepts,
delight in full bloom,
well past curiosity
somewhere fascination
quivers between
obsession and release,
desire and union,
drawn down deep
into the present
like a titanium moth
to a white laser.

Stay perfectly cool
through the dense photon burn
like you were born there,
because you were.

All of this
the wind told me
while you fed the dogs.

I believe none of it;
it is as true
as faces in the clouds,
or the rabbit on the moon.

The wind is a liar,
or a storyteller,
depending on your mood.

Either way,
she blows past,
is gone.

Leftovers

The sun sets
through translucent prayer-flags
gently stirring in the light
breeze that comes from
somewhere far away when
the sun first pushed this
soft wind my way,
this tender hand across
my cheeks like
a lover’s caress to
drive me silent under
this avalanche of joy that
pins me to emptiness like
a hooked fish,
a squirming doomed ego
fighting the torrent of wind,
the fiery, empty, unbreathable air,
raging to the last spark of consciousness
against the dying of the light when
unexpectedly it ignites anew,
takes off the sunglasses and
supernovas out from the center of
everywhere all at once.

This changes everything and
I was prepared for none of it.

When the sun rises,
it seems an impossible miracle but
in the next moment it’s
everything else that’s
transparently phantasmagoric,
a vivid yet impossible illusion.

I bask in the sun at
midnight satiated beyond belief by
some cosmic lover who
chooses to remain nameless.

Space and time are
consumed at dawn in
the same way waking feasts on
the remnants of dreams until
they are no more.

Butterfly Effect

Even the ground
is sky now.

The Earth’s weight
on the soles of these feet
is breathtakingly light,
the reassuring caress
of a quiet lover’s hand
on a cold night
when the wind howls,
windows shake,
coyotes mob the moon
and soldiers march
in synchronized obedience
to their doom
and ours.

Say it will not
be so,
it will not.

Even the sky
is ground now.

The blue clarity
on the backs of these eyes
is startlingly bright,
the shock of endlessness
reflected in a real lover’s mind
on a warm day
when the clouds are gone,
clothes superfluous,
cats grace the couch
and dogs dance
in random jubilance
for their love
and ours.

Say it will
be so,
it will.

Even the horizon
is gone now.

It's Funny

It’s funny how the world gets
all wound-up,
how contagious paranoia is,
who might stand to gain from it,
and whether or not they
think you’re getting in their
way, ironically, since they’re
so far from having a way they
wouldn’t know one if they
were standing on it,
but this won’t stop them
from putting you
in the crosshairs
if they think you’ve
become inconvenient.

He drops this morbid train of thought
when he notices it’s not
enhancing his courage.

He’s thankful the line is short.

After paying the ticket-taker,
he glances over his shoulder and
sees they’re still tailing him.

He picks up his pace.

His mind is racing
as he takes in the fairgrounds
with an efficient panoramic glance,
picks up the pace a little more,
starts to monitor his pulse and respiration rate
with the finely-tuned instinctual proprioception
of the highly-trained counter-intelligence officer that he is,
at least in this lifetime,
however shortly that might end.

The last few soaringly spiritual and
militantly ecumenical strains of
“Long Live the Second American Revolution” are
still ringing in his head as he peaks out
his adrenaline levels diving into
the garishly adorned “Uncle Maya’s Funhouse Hall of
Mirrors.”

Mirrors
of mirrors confuse at first
in the rush to get up
the spine of the place
to the heart of it.

He listens alone
in the quiet inmost chamber
lit by low green light;
but there are no footsteps following,
no flashlights swaying down the hallway
heralding hot breath from cold hearts
just doing their jobs,
bearing Berettas with silencers,
earning a living
following orders.

It’s funny how the world gets
all wound-up,
how contagious paranoia is,
who stands to gain from it,
and whether or not they finally
figured out the game is up,
the cover’s blown,
and the run is on.

When he wakes up
it’s morning and he’s a state away
in Nevada when he realizes he’s got
just the clothes on his back
and no I.D. that won’t get him
“indefinitely detained.”

He feels suddenly
inexplicably
completely
free.