Waking to a yellow poisonous sky in Paris

Waking to a yellow poisonous sky in Paris

A dark kitten purrs softly on my hotel window ledge….

I cross the early empty streets toward a taxi….

Heavy fog at gateway

Small rabbits running across the tarmac….

In the airport lounge in San Francisco hours later

Sipping an old crow and seven…..

Later in a rainstorm in a phone booth

I light a cigar….

Drifting toward a waking dream….

A white field of broken skulls in Yemen

The only darkness the holes….

Where their eyes were…

Lines from a revisited image

Bologna 1.11.19

What has arrived out of this silence

What has arrived out of this silence
Secretly kept….silence of tears…

Silence of years….

The one who has slept to waken to the shining you
Left behind….

A shining so pure so alone….
Standing now by an ancient road
Made of blood and stone….

This glass dream that sounds of rain falling….

This dim recognition
Where emptiness folds itself into everything…

The sacred

Watching from a distance….

November 18,18

Sweat Lodge Song

Eyo haugo…
Ema koeed….
Shards of burnt spirit light all around….

Pieces of grey fur caught on the stacked wood

Old ones have passed here….

‘It is raining hard’
‘It is a strong wind’

Emaome ehmin
Sweat lodge song

For peter and Lynn.
October 30, 18


My grandmother whispered to me in a dream….
Beware the white cities…the ones filled with hatred and fear
The ones where the ones who can see are
Imprisoned by the blind….

The ones who live from the dead meat of others…
Devouring their eyes that are staring at them….

The ones who have arrived from the putrid underbelly
Of human waste….

Formed from the shit of their ancestral darkness…
Carrying the heads of their dead gods
As tokens of their devotion…

Eating the white plate of their deities
Forced upon her as a child..

She looked at me whispering


The white cities.

Tricase italy

For minimic,tsistsistas
Rena cook,cheyenne
August 7.18

In the Andes above Medellin

Why have I awakened here
With the watches of the dead scattered like eyes
On the floor….

Somethings that are left of me
Have found their way here

Where I am kneeling….
Praying for you….

Along this rain soaked columbian road

Where singing arrives out of the darkened trees
Small wrens

sitting among the tears
Of the missing….

Drying on the frosted leaves….

In the Andes above Medellin


From a twilight dream
of open eyes in a dark room


Hope an emaciated silhouette standing in a burning forest….


Our seized breath….

Guardians of an emptiness we cannot remember….
We cannot forget….

From the stronghold
Bologna Italy


Beetle and Locust Singing on Facebook

on the occasion of Lance’s birthday.

Gerald Schwartz sang:

We are the brass locusts, as tides wane/ and the air is rich/ with what would rather be forgotten;/ and hard on the moving/ on these changing winds/ we are the eternal locusts sounding our sharp despair:/ This rasp of autumn, this rasp of heat,/ metal of prophecy but not of peace,/ awl in the ear to make us/ bondsmen here,/ brand in the flesh of mind;/ beneath the beat/ of sun, of light rain, of dazzling/ earth/ we lose the visioned,/ the encompassing eye;/ we are the brass locusts boring into the noon/ speaking for the alien/ and all to come:/ the fools lift their heads,/ remembering cold,/ regathering wisdom,/ as the sun grows old. …… The Very Best of this Earth-Arrival Anniversary to you! Cheers!

Lance Henson sang in reply:

I saw beetle…
carrying a piece of moonlight toward a secret place…
fish waiting there…
in the lighted water, out of our Great Mother’s womb,
weaved into this patterning of life,
where Sundance and peyote songs thread into war and sorrow…
laying these burdens at the door of peace…
hoping someone is home.
we are home.
thanks for the honoring.