Last night i heard voices from 1972….faith in God…rejection of many ideas and a denying of myself yet a revelation of the future ….deep seated wounds-year and years to heal- love, love love found among the diamond days…cold rushing water- white hot lightening mixed with black sooty soul madness- hatred of me v.s. love of me

Drinking in solitude after dark caused voices from 1996…Utah cabin in a Sundance Canyon…Habits to relearn…snow falls hourly

Reading Beowulf by a fireplace glowing with pine knots and no television- my 16 year old self paid a visit – “I’m back…never to leave again” – a new path that we shall trod- mountain living among the ghosts of Kerouac and Ginsberg…discovery of poetry buried deep inside…’WHAT ELSE?”…panoramic projections in a land of petroglyphs and Ananzasi spirits

Whiskey dreams……….ghostly screams

paper dolls floating in the rain

Witch heart trails……..lamp post fails

midnight dancers die in vain

Purple and gray …brain waves stray

the hot club cools at dawn

Colored notes ….across the sky

youthful dreams almost gone

dance hall shoes…electric blues

hips sway wide across the floor

Purple and gray …wires do fray

the organ pumps through the door

On the Road…Bible in code

dope and sex in the heavy air

another day of winter gloom and memories of sandy beaches where the blue waves did lap and seduce our hearts-up and down the worn out shocks bounce across the freeway as the trucks roar and heave-hunger pains long for another In N Out burger or a Tommy’s breakfast burrito of 2,000 calories- my heart burns for another chance- calendar on the wall solemnly says “no”- tee shirt days and Birkenstock afternoons are just around the corner and then the sun sets just right- I hear a Charley Mingus horn accompanied by a snare drum roll with brushes- when my mind finally settles then the PURPLE AND GRAY JAZZ NOTES BLAST LOUD IN MY HEAD AND ALL IS RIGHT

Tip Toe Tip Toe past the crying girl at the dirty bar with the meter maid vibe and the dog catcher karma

And the god damned world at large where people live on a garbaged street pile and politicians sell Trump-flavored shit to big Pharma

Find find find please find a market where some soul is still living and principles are more valuable than the lies we hear

It may be found on a street corner bar where sorrow is met with the generosity of a nondescript kind stranger buying you a beer

Or a beach cove tent where waves pop loud in the middle of a thunderstorm of love making and passion

London London London public house with dark oak corners and a tattered copy of Dylan Thomas while sporting a late ’60’s fashion

Calling out the past in a sea of strangers and finding yourself alone with just you and your soul and its secret ways and means

In the middle of a hot summer baseball game when you don’t care they are losing and the flat warm beer tastes like an American Mark Twain dream

And once you find “it”, that “it” that is you, on a Dostoevsky page, or in a cold leaky tent in a wilderness area, or flat on your ass

Or a million other days or places or people- you want to explore more of “it” and when you are in one of those places not built of brass

You know that life is here and is so fleeting like a rain drop or a the way light reflects off a face as the ice cream cone disappears

And the day is a setting sun, a soulful sound of a long time spinning lost in the wind aging sphere