White Sun

(In memory of Henry Gonzales)

I will not be attending

your burial. Eight hours

of driving in one day

are too much for my

old bones, I’m afraid.

But I can imagine

it well enough – the cold

Ortiz Mountain air, the

circle of extended family

blurred by tears, century-

old stones decaying under

a white sun, desiccated

grass and sage, a Buddhist

chant or two, a hymn by

Jerry Garcia, perhaps a

pair of ravens playing

in the high desert wind.

Still, I will say farewell

from five hundred miles

away – toss corn meal

in the four directions,

bow to a stone Buddha,

and play a game of chess

in memory of your

excellent endgame.

~

Cryptical Scripture

Where the erotic

illuminates

the sacred,

like a ruby

in the moonlight,

this is the place

gods are born.

~

Diminutive Light

I am searching for a diminutive

light in this long darkness.

Sometimes I fear everything

has become fragmented,

broken into scattered pieces,

the sky an overcast abyss,

abandoned by the great sun.

The saving dream of red flowers

breaks through, seeds of flames,

forgotten ancient alphabets

revealed in the drifting petals.

The dwellers of Oraibi worship

the sun. They still possess the

elder languages,

the light,

the key,

the healing metamorphosis.

~

The Long Journey of the Sun

This is where we are from:

The source of architecture

found in the scaffolding

of Lascaux. Outside, white

flakes swirl down from the

pale sky to melt in the

black, equinox earth.

The crescent moon nests

in the cirrus clouds. Holy

raven tells trickster tales

in a naked-branched tree.

Crimson hills fade into

the distance, describe the

path of the stars in a secret

and ceremonial language.

Foundations crumble,

yet the sun remains.

Where raven leads,

there we all must go,

the silver path to the

four locked chambers,

beyond which lies the

sea, shifting in our blood,

an animal tide of wisdom.

~

Into the Mirror Lands

(for Woytek)

Into the Mirror Lands

we journey. A realm of

smooth marble and glass,

the Mirror Lands give

poor purchase for the

over-burdened camels.

They slip over the earth

like Charlie Chaplin’s

spiritual companions.

We’ll never reach

the Iron Mountains

at this rate. They

hover ahead of us,

carmine in the haze

of a pagan sun.

Why did we ever

come this way?

Whose orders

were we following?

I say we betray our

vows here and now.

Hand me the shovel;

I’ll bury our ancient

orders in the ground’s

broken glass surface.

Hear the sounds of

shattering plains,

the screams of God,

the praise of great,

dark Olmec heads.

Too late to turn back.

Let’s build a city here,

name it Cesium, the

future world to come.