my eyes went dark as i spread the devils seed

planet earths strange ghosts

This is how some of my summer has been.

Emma and me went on a mini journey in search of the mountain gods.





We found a few and they were good to us in their holy grove.







I found some mysterious alpine valleys. I found many large quiet boulders and they sat on stools while I passed, their arms folded and their eyes crossed. Corn lilies and mountains pride. I tried to ascend Pyramid Peak but got lost in my wandering. I stood at the top of two granite peaks. They were like piles of fallen acorns gathered by shadows. I named them (Mount Lobo) and (Mystery Train Mountain).







A good man needs rest and a lick of whiskey after mountaineering.





Proper food and home.







The Three Monks.





Night Red Light. The White Lady.





Cold blood of the world coming newly from the blue veins of the hills. Awake with the eyes of the owl and the quiet watcher in his dark hut.





All journeys must end and write the roots of new.







And later, friends.












Emma built a good strong fire.



And I carved me a good wooden blade.



Good cakes and hot coffee under the cedars and the pines.



A strange dream in the land of good mysteries and old bones.

boat music, mountain song

this is a link to my Dark River page on thesixtyone.com

thesixtyone is a site where people post music they make. to share it.
so check it out. ive put up some new songs and i am going to start using this site more often.

Weary of Gunthunder and Sudden Death

i am a blue blood cell on the red river.

it is not over
when
things wash away
because away is a place.

she howled from her great red depths
into the canyon of dust.
car alarms shut off
and dogs did not howl.



a waterfall is a thing of great old force
a canyon is the son of its mother
an ancient man watches the shaping of things
a long white beard is hanging like a rubber tire from a cottonwood limb
i dream about the living things
i live about the dreaming things



the living of things
the dying of things

a red blooded girl at the edge of the world
dropping pink stones into a pail.
one for each fish that she saw
with a bird in its jaws.
her papa used to tell her (once told her)
'if you find shed antlers in the woods
it is a good sign.
take them to the shady meadow and
bury their bases in dirt so they stand up
crooked like tiny old oak trees.'
and that is the end of the road.

toothpick legs.

a volcano on the black horizon
happily spewed freed demons
from its red mouth.

you could not stop your screaming,
like the screams that come
with the birthing of things.

i could not stop staring at
the long toothpick legs
of the brand new baby crow.

some fire went out in the rain
on the tin rooftop
of a dead mans warehouse.

you looked glorious, beautiful, ugly
like a spider. standing on
that haunted spiral staircase.

dont come falling helplessly into
my arms like the cold burnt out
stars. come warmly.