Certain Voltages


Remember when our love
was blooming
and the dirty city felt as fresh
as flowers,
when the wars always
orchestrated by men
became faded video footage
from the 20th Century
and Italian grandmas
prepared feasts for destitute
immigrants on their island

Now it is
the lip balm I carry in my
to protect me from the winter
or the leftover Holiday candy
I keep around to spark certain
voltages in my brain and

Now I’d like to throw my cellular
phone into the river
and walk with you
in the Western woods
where the old old spirits are


An Astoria Love Unborn

You ran away. That’s it.
Places of America.
Answers in cafes,
treelines along highways,
the unbroken horizons of the stolen
Medicine far away.
A different cosmology.
To wade in saltwater far away.
Pancakes in Delaware.
Toss that electricity into a portal
on the other side of the Milky Way.
We will die before anyone truly understands
any of this human or American stuff.
We will die before it’s you that realizes
you ran away.
Does consciousness realize itself?
Is there a memory called love
or an overturned wooden rowboat
on the beach in Oregon,
is that a metaphor of a Saturday
that is too old?
That is gone before the jealousy
of the ocean’s fury
with children in red hats
chasing the seaspray’s reflection.

The Forest Companion Speaker

the forest

I walked barefoot through the woods for you.

Your creamy scent of the Viennese summer

Dreams of pastry shops.
Royal drapery.

No, these were the woods of the West.
The big woods.
The vast ones.
The ones acquainted with receding clouds
across the mountainous sprawl.

I walked and walked, continued,
with cool soil, pine needles and moss
underneath my barefoot steps.

I was earthen again, like animal,
but somehow still a man.
A quiet, nonverbal human.
Something timeless, something ancient.

Chills ran down my spine.

So I listened and had eyes for you.

Your favorite birds came, the delicate finches.
I thought they were your thoughts.
They fleeted with the sunlight and looked forever
for some seedlings.

All I saw were blue afternoons beyond the trees
and the echoing cavern of midnight
which left me wondering
and searching for a cabin where a candle might
be burning.

From its interior this forest was always like
the ship of a giant mariner turned upside down.
A laughter of stuff left on Mars.

Then, you ran across the busy city street,
all this vanished in a moment,
you were rushing on your way to a meeting.

The forest froze inside my mind,
and so these days go on forever.


People Of The Word

People change. People never change.

People change.
I’ll love you forever.
People never change.
I won’t love you anymore.
I love you forever.
If you haven’t matured.
No, I’m talking about maturity.
We are closer to death
once we’re born into life.

Love is always being unborn or
unbore by mortal ones.
Unloaded and let go of.
You do portend to stop bearing.

Love is like death.

In the empty Brooklyn warehouse.

It’s going back around the corner
into the brick building
by that intersection,
back into time,
back into the streets of Portland,
up the western hills.

People change.
Or, people never change.
Or, people change.

In the empty Brooklyn warehouse.


Cult Of Ideas

Asking for the interview

Not the cult of celebrity

But the cult of ideas

We’re interested

When sitting in the cabin

On the stagnant crusty carpet


By the river Clackamas

In the winter

With the cosmos swirling and swirling


The cult of that which

Makes us

Unmakes us

Undoes our heads

So we can have biological life

Not in any form like synthesis

To the speaker speaking to us


Phases From The Universe

It was extraordinary

to love the days I did
with you

There were days
in the
Bagdad Theatre
in Portland, Oregon

I lived with you
Before I even knew you
There were days after you
Days between LSD trips
when knowledge became

I saw you there
in the flesh
over the low trimmed carpet
moving your curves
the daylight
in the lobby

Then, there was a breakfast
around the corner
where I remembered your smell

and the sun came out
to tell me the fable of how
time reconciles itself
in the various phases of the
physical universe

It said, that was the point of
you and I

to notice what goes unnoticed

to love what is fleeting with
the textures of mortal soul

to become information


Simple Math

These people
were asking about me
marrying you.

There was yellow.
There was light blue.

We’re not Swedish
but it was Summer.

And they asked
if I still think of you.

I don’t think you’re in
any mental space
to understand how
all these exchanges
are delicately computational.

Lofty clouds off in the distance.
A kingdom that’s become
or they
never existed to begin with
for the
sacred realm of words
up there

that materialized
and echoed today.

There is disease in my heart.

My consciousness is a dance each day.

A beat that is slow, bad and good.

An apple
I remember eating atop Astoria, Oregon
while bathed in sunlight.

At least this was not you

. . . so I can somehow still live.


Ascorbic Acid Or My Everyday Sun

I snort ascorbic acid because of you
Because of you
it’s my everyday sun

This languid depression
These languid incantations
These humble blood transfusions
could not replace the hateful words
you said
to disassemble me

This lost generation
The one that’s begotten
The one between purpose and money
The one by the park earlier today
forgot the sun up there
I go down to chat with the homeless
John Two Axes
who played an Indian in
Dances With Wolves
Because I have forgotten the sun

and need something else in my blood


Oregonian Restoration

Our love
between seasons
goes down under water
without air
the molecules continue
between mountains
and crevices.

Our concepts
take off
before proton shields
in outer space
they’re trying
to talk to them
other civilizations
could beam
the radio signal.

The civilizations
and survive
in the brush
of Deschutes Forest
chalk dust
dusty moss
ancient stones
under this sky
and forever
for us and everyone else.

We become
in our flesh
that once touched

The bacteria kingdom come
the little nation
undergone a division
the country
our bodies
a landscape united
once was.

We have
the dimension
and summer
dimensional time
a remembrance of courage.

We last in the journey
up a mountain road
July in Oregon
with children
I’m writing of
right here
these hands.