The Rise Of The Black Marauder

Black Bunga, circa 2313. Oklahoma.

Of the river and the road

Messages sent upstream
From my rocky morning bluff
To the creek waters of a hidden spot.
Smoke and blue-eyed
Rippled conversations.

Thoughts sent to windy northern roads
where the calm and freedom drove
with good talks and good silence and rolled down windows.

Known already.

In the fancy resaurants.
In the dive-y-ist of dives.
Alone in the routine machine.

Workhorse yellows

And there's the voice
That became a dim echo
Back in grasp

Keep your hand palm up
Let it stay like a butterfly.

we called it:
shedding the skin veil

sometimes:
shedding the skin vile

Today I was the river
All of the pig carcasses had floated away
The current now calm,
water in smooth ripples
breeze
Soft of self and emotion
everything and all
and awake– in bed
blowing with the wind

'You were gone, man. A ghost.'
Welcome back

It's trajectory was manic and deliberate. Crazed.
The black sparrow diving directly into my left knee with such a force
It's beak impaling through the knee cap, splitting a canyon into it.
The bird flapping wildly–stuck– I reached down and with a firm grip took the bird
and pulled
What didn't happen was a surprise.
The beak did not follow the rest of the bird. Instead, it separated from the bird's face,
continuing to gnaw wildly through my knee-cap.
The beakless bird flies away, and I pinch my thumb and forefinger around the end of the chomping triangles in my leg and pull.
Finally.
And what is left, a large crevasse with blood red rock and sinew sunset.
I roamed the rest of my life with this vista.

Find me Coto.

In dream last night
I walk through a dim room on a float and a drift with a gray soul. At the table underneath a hanging work lamp everyone I know is seated in folding chairs. Friends from past and present under the harsh light track my cold body as it crosses through the room, in one door and out the other.
Somewhere in that trail, my soul seems to actually separate from the body as it walks out of the room. It lingers – hovers over to the table and listens.
"Have you noticed something?"
"It's sad."
"Yeah. His inner light is fading."

"Do you think he knows?"

They call that the 'Dead Man Shuffle'.

...to The Great Sage

You are missed still. I thank you. I love you.

Cacti and Succulents

Things are moving smoothly
Charva skin
Keep your head high and in balance
Grand Inquisitor
Running wild with the multiple pursuit of dreams
Slow Western Ghost Tentacles

And one day
little budding flowers for all.

i no longer know what to do. i need to drift out to sea. afloat on my back. my ears muffled beneath the waves. eyes to horizon-less skies. and go.

Quantum Entanglement

Video piece by Vanessa Michel and Zach Passero

House Of The Rising Sum, Pt. One-Half

Are you sad? Are you mourning the death of one idea and the birth of another?
Has the time slipped you into a situation you never new the inkling of?
Mouths open with the chest loose breath, expanding up through the neck –tickling loose the skin around the brain stem. Hair growing thick. Wild with notions. The eyes see with a prescription years old, longing for a clarity, but welcoming the blurs between the realities.
We're fishing. A few good little minnows on the line attracting the bigger boys and girls. Gotta make that minnow dance a bit to find the big bite. Then put that one on the line for the bigger, and so on.

And on this side were sitting in open windows. Basking the new sun on the skin. Soaking the warmth deep into the soul when possible.

A great combination of "Here I am." and "Where am I?".