If woven toes were felted

meandering, raging, pooling, falling along easy paths or smoothing rough edges – a small channel in valleys feeding trees and birds and goats and mice

– for life and cold places. But algae and worms and cacophonous seracs falling like small mountains themselves or tremendous timbers.

and in winter, entire frosts cut away by  frozen falling

Posted in Raw Ideas | Leave a comment

The indescribable absence. Reluctance, called “patience”. Inaction, called “watching”, “sitting”. Without, called “discipline” or “growth”.

Bottled up, becoming fodder. Thinking it might become strength, wondering if it is decaying and weakening.

Living as half myself on the hunch that I transcends “myself”.

Posted in Raw Ideas | 1 Comment


Night blooming flowers, budding then blooming under starry and moonlit skies.

Long fragrant ghosty petals, translucent white wings with reaching tongues exhaling the most fragrant sighs.  This captivating perfume.

Night Blooming: saved, once per year; moonflower; hallucinagines

Woody Bushes: forsythia, ugly scrub scrap save it’s week of explosive sun gold

Desert Blossoms: after rain; the awakening desert; the dreamy lavender and the release of fresh air

Relentless Flowers: through frost and long winters; those that prefer a beating – you wisteria!

Bolting flowers: from sudden heat; leafy greens


Posted in Raw Ideas | Leave a comment

Last night I was awoken by crippling fear. I had a nightmare of course, something I can’t quite remember; one of my reoccurring dreams, of places far away – not the furthest, but the gateway places that lay at the border of terrifically far and manageable. Our friend Lindsay lives there, and we visit her there. But that is not at all what made the dream a nightmare, that is what made it reoccurring, just the place, being on the edge of very far away, and visiting Lindsay.

What I do remember is waking up with this fear, physically seeing red, turning on all the lights in the room, making my way to the bathroom, being sure not to look in any mirrors, being sure not to move suddenly in one direction or another, or to look out the corner of my eye, making my way back to the bed, reluctantly turning out light and lying down in bed in the same exact position I had woken up in, realizing I was about to return to the same nightmare I had just left. I could stay awake and have the horrible things come, I could already sense them taking form, they’d manifest as a man or woman standing by my open window; or I could fall back asleep into the clutches of the terrible dream.

I then asked myself “why?” It has been so long since I have felt this horror. I almost returned to the aged routine of pleading with the dark haunting spirits that I am not ready to be plagued by them, or to ask the intermittent God I speak with to lift this curse from my room so that I might return to peaceful sleep. But that routine is tired, and it does not answer “why?” The details are blurred, but I had a notion that the terrors haunting me came from the busy run round that has defined my existence for the past year plus. A symptom of my hurried pace and the sickness that has stricken the neglected “artist” (that reflective, intentional, inspired, quietly listening, noticing the subtle and slow) within. A waking symptom, perhaps more obvious, is that I had set 3 day time alarms for myself, to take 10 minutes, to sit quietly and do nothing, and think of nothing. But I had simply turned off the alarm each time, intending to honor those moments of quiet, but had inadvertently, but almost unapologetically, continued to work at my maddening pace.

Now (in this moment of waking horror) I decided it was this neglect for self-care that brought my ghosts, and the only cure was to treat the cause, and so amidst the flurry of whirling nearly corporeal beasts I closed my eyes, took deep breathes and let the images go. I thought of nothing, but saw so much. Of course the spirits moving from my right brain through my left, the tall black boots and creeping hand of the man outside my window, the would be heroes that would protect me, let those go as well, ideas of how well I was doing or how poorly this would go, pride of my self-awareness and how this might be a good exercise for Quen to use for her night terrors. From useful to junk, the ideas entered and I let them go again, from right to left. At times I’d focus on breathing, and that was a nice distraction to focus on. But sometime I didn’t need that either, and could really focus on nothing, and that brought me closer to my peace. My power animal came for a short visit, and for a duration, the thoughts entering and exiting were no longer dictated by my conscious mind. A sort of waking vision played out. And I let that go as well. Soon enough I was asleep again. Waking this morning with words to write, and three new alarms to set on my phone.

Posted in Raw Ideas | 1 Comment

Trust in the

Trust in the unknown.  First you have to believe.  Or take enough time to convince the matter surrounding.  Persistence can be a tool.  Sometimes ridiculous-persistence will bend space.  Simple parlor tricks – illusion can build the fodder for “real” magick.  Then the question comes: “what is real magick?” Or better (further) still is “what is real?” The truth’s subject to the moment and perspective.


you are preaching the same words as if you think you’ve discovered something.


Posted in Raw Ideas | Leave a comment

More or again

Needing more magick; the dark and the light.  The sinister feelings I’ve had of Aleister Crowley and the warm filling up hearing three (two old white men one young Asian man) magicians discuss sleight of hand and double-sided cards.  I see the enormous fox stop and look back on past-midnight full moon mountain turns.  And the cooler air rolling off the steep hills into the canyons below.

I need to reinvoke the artist and stir the crazed poet, the die hard romantic has been dying.  The musician should bang away on tuned percussion with rhythms as arrhythmic as his own tempo.

Plenty of caffeine, gold pressed leaves, late late nights, early earliest mornings, keep your mid days I am asleep with Italy and Spain!

I won’t make climbing sport or reason.  It is the intense “need” that compels the going and planning, thought and process only catches up by necessity.  Consideration shows up on occasion.  That is of course the balance that defines function or dis.  The boundary man or the mad.

Posted in Raw Ideas | 1 Comment

new work on stone

For many many years I held a practice of carrying heavy things.  There were branches, bundles, wheel boroughs, persons, abstractions of course: “the weight of the world!”; the bonds of so many friends, the promise of a purer life, the cruelty of man, the division of our souls from a unifying spirit.  There were animals, stalled cars, wood for building, produce for grand parties or huge juicing endeavors.  The weight of secrecy, modesty, or personal space, on the other hand, were not burdens of mine.  And the weight of a fragile or needy ego appeared and vanished manically for years.

Probably the most significant weight I managed was a stone.  I’ve carried a lot of rocks.  And I’ve moved heavier ones, bigger ones than this one.  I helped Rob Hite make stone benches and stone walls and stone walkways.  I worked with stone on Hudson Valley farms by monasteries and trains dressed in crisp autumn days with long rays of sun, perfect apples, beautiful horse girls… I’ve also carried ungodly heavy things that moments before wouldn’t budge by my effort alone, and carried them through spaces too small leaving other beautiful hip women in fashionably adapting ballet inspired clothing jaw dropped – almost in horror by the seeming magick of bending space and confusing mass – the physical tricked only by unreasonable persistence and maybe disenchantment with the so-called laws and absolute truths they had reluctantly abide by.  (I don’t remember if they were wearing ballet clothes.  I just like to imagine.)

This stone was very much bound by his assumption of being real.  It was as real as we assume: stubborn, rough, dense, heavy, mass.  The weight – the carrying was bound by – conducted by my brutish self.  No illusion.  No “cheating”.  Just whatever fodder I house that can be related to “man” – or bear and beast.  And maybe that thing is gone, spent, hibernating at least.  I’d like to think the passive, reflective, and quiet human being I’ve become is something more of a man – not to compete with myself (the time past version).  Just a residual clinging to images and definitions of role – tangible ideals, a measurable identity – if only redefining.

Posted in Raw Ideas | Leave a comment

Adventure Time Songs

So Jesse (me bro) asked me to write a couple songs for Adventure Time and they aired!

Here’s a youtube link:

Breezy Songs


Posted in Raw Ideas | Leave a comment

village tea room

Golden, red.
Bleached and red.
Tattooed pale arms.
Teeth and squinting.
Dark rimmed eyes
paint scrapped windows
through inside walls
and up stairs
eyes each time tromping up and down
eyes stuck up stairs and red dresses and black tights
then wide smiles
and clicking assurances
.     giant teeth!
jumping from behind corners
with caffeine and sweets:
sugar plum.

Posted in Raw Ideas | Leave a comment


3. Carrying

Buckling, burning, failing, so quickly, three, maybe a fourth step and he lurches forward and the stone stops in the exact place it lands.  He arches back amazed by the relief and in so much pain, everything screaming.

A few minutes to breath and build the will back up.  Then right the stone, to its point, rest, breath like a horse, rest, keep the toppling at bay, wrap hands, point toes, press chest and cheek, look to the sky, lift, walk forward, lurch, toss, and scream in agony.

This is not manageable.  A half-mile would take a day!  If he could even repeat this for hours.  Maybe right the thing onto a ledge, step below it and carry it on his back?  Risky, yes, but he might walk a dozen yards or more that way.  There.  There is a short wall.  With some struggle he can slide the stone onto the top slab.  It is not becoming easier.  Grit, grimace, spit, strain, under the edge, push again, back, thighs, calves, toes, and will, the stone reluctantly slides on top of the wall.  “Christ!”  And he paces back and forth breathing out like a horse again, even shaking his head back and forth and screaming out a little to keep from feeling sick.  Right it onto its edge.  The same.  Breath and curse.  Needn’t bring it to its point, thank God, fit it to his back instead, cupping hands under the edge, belt below the edge as well, head tilted forward for the bulges in the stone.  Let it topple slowly.  Slowly!  Cry and carry!  Carry!  Carry!  Stumbling steps.  Carry!  Carry!  Shuffling, jerking feet.  Carry!  Throw the thing off, oh God!  God!  Hell!

That was further.  That was not a good plan.  Boy is sitting by a tree staring at the stone.  This stone is heavy.  This stone is so much to bear.  He feels sick.  He feels terrible.  This is the right stone.

Posted in Raw Ideas | Leave a comment