I. The Poetry of it all 

Seeking Elk

We are like children for them
Leaning out from the bed
Of the blue Dodge,
Wide eyes brimming with curiosity
Still groggy from dawn's haze.
We count from a distance
Things we cannot touch:
Antlers and legs, bodies sleek
With survival grace.
We are like aliens for them,
Gawking, suddenly unsure
Whose planet we inhabit;
Suddenly forgetting our very language,
We seek theirs instead.
I am bewildered
At my own bewilderment,
How something so ordinary
Can strike such intrigue, and I am
Amazed at their neighborhood,
Amber lawns rolling softly
As far as we can see-to think
How lackluster, how mundane
Are the habitats we create for ourselves.
We don't intend to inspire awe
On a daily basis; we hold our breath
Instead, for moments like these:
Heavy morning breath masking
The clarity we lack, eight elk grazing
From a hundred yards, pausing
For a moment, to examine us,
Before returning to their breakfast,
        Still hungry,
        Unmoved.

(Late Night Free Write)
(After Watching Fireflies on Maggie's Birthday)

is it
Possible to merge,
become One with anything, at all?
Or is it we are
Stuck     in the amber of
Existing as a singular force with Ourselves,
-Egomaniacal Entities, unable to truly
Connect,
inseparably, with anything,
at all...? Is it that we are able to
Accept
the everpresence of Cycles
around us, but Never allowing
our own cycles
to Escape
the tightly interwoven
Obsessively chiseled
Internal Coils
we create?

is it that we don't
Ask     enough
Questions, or that we ask
too many, lose interest before the
Answer surfaces? Our Vision
is fleeting, unfocused,
our nervous feet tapping; our blood is
Rushing impatiently,
Hands empty.
Time
does not take Breathers, as we are
Constantly aware; Time
does not take retreats
to summer homes. She pulses
incessantly, in the veins of
every landscape; grasping for
Her coattails, we have fallen
Centuries, lifetimes   Behind-

        (but something in the Silent branches
tells me
Evolution
is inevitable;
        something in the Matrix of Constellations tells me
        some things   Never change-)
I am   Reconciled,   considerably,
by these whisperings where I thought
No One   was listening; spontaneously   Aware
of distant wires,
Interconnectedness,

my internal coil a Maze-then-Labyrinth,
        and for a moment I am   suspended
in the center, overlooking
   e v e r y t h i n g,
just long enough for my skin
to quiver
as Time
Stops
to take a breath.

(Nature Erotica)

On Going to the Forest, Leaving Your Human Hands Behind

In your absence, I have found myself
turning over new leaves
seeking new means
to soothe the fire
in my core.
I have searched for your skin
in the smoothness of Sycamore shuck,
cupped my hands
against Hemlock branches, craving
the stubble of your
3-day beard.
(The bark peels away,
the needles fall
through my fingers,
to the dirt,
every time.)
I have immersed myself
in icy streams,
hoping to shock my nerves
into tremors,
the way my body responds
to your touch.
(In your absence,
it's harder
to adjust to the water;
the goosebumps
are not the same.)

But s l o w l y,
I find myself intrigued
by the pleasure
of mud sliding between bare toes,
the heaviness of my breath
after climbing a slope.
In search of
her highest peak,
along sidewinding streams,
unfinished trails uphill,
I have traced
the interior
of our Mother's thigh;
in the absence of your human hands,
I find myself seeking parts of her anatomy
I'm not even sure exist.
But in the harmony
of my skin with silent stars,
excited wind,
I feel a trickle
of the sunburst that lies ahead;
in the heavy-panting upward trek,
in the absence of
your hands,
already,
        I am
                Satisfied.

(fields of allusions)

                the Way the fireflies imitate stars,
                        the stream : wind-
             the mud between my toes: your flesh;
                                        She showers us with
                              fields of allusions, then peers from her window,
                                                    laughs softly
                                                with grandmother delight
                                                   when, finally,
                                                  we catch on.

(no words)

I snaked up your slope
Fingers hooking loops of
Moist earth and hemlock roots
Miles off the trail
Searching
For the perfect poem-

At the top and drenched
With my sweat, your earth,
I Unfolded my breath
To the cerulean sky,
To the amber-green depths
From which I had climbed;
What I finally found is

There are no words.

On Being Born

Last night I watched a cicada
coming out ofher husk-
a surprising bronze and shimmering pink,
kelly green around the edges of double-paned
window wings-she
pulled herself from her cracked brown skin
with steady patience.

Imagine:
you've lived your
entire life in a shell that is only
a mold of yourself,
covered feet bound
to solid ground, then one day
you pull yourself from your very womb;
turns out you have wings,
are specked with green
and shimmering pink,
turns out
you are beautiful.

(poem about god)

god never asked me to
capitalize her g-
in her modesty,
she never
insisted I use her
smoothstone skin
or arboreal features
as my teachers...

god never
used a human voice
to preach at me.

In the earthen silence
of sinking sun
and timbered choir
she whispers
streams of secrets
I will never understand,
an alphabet of fireflies and water lilies;
she teaches me how
to explode her name
with waterfall intensity,
        mountain stillness,

leaving no residue,
making no sound.

Independence Day Free Write
(Inspiration from "garbage")

   Freedoms laid out
before, within, around me-
        the freedom granted by Archie R. Ammons
to open the garbage disposal in my mind,
let all the components,
the smelly, the crumpled, the fruit
        gone terribly bad,
                to swirl in mechanical torture,
                dismembered by the silver blades
                that only surface at
        disposal time,
let all the components swirl, and come free...
                        Independence Day:
                freedoms spilled, freedoms revoked
        with every
                passing
                        minute.
The best poem of the century shares a bunk bed with
the worst, in some remote forest somewhere;
they have bonded over being so noteworthy
        and yet
so obscure, that no one even notices them
on a daily basis;
        they alternate personality traits, one staying out all night
while the other folds laundry
        over the dead
   fluorescent buzz
of a television screen-
        poems are
                living things,
we bear them for some time
before giving bloody birth,
        and as mothers, fathers,
                we revoke all control of their destiny
   once they have spontaneously been born.
They live on
for ages, many even after we are dead,
develop new traits, new limbs, some: even tumors,
they continue to breathe,
and cough,
and hiccup
even after their parents
have died.
        (The key is,
   as parents,
we must stock them with enough of our own
living juices, wrung from the wetness
of our souls,
        to counteract the stench of honesty,
        the debris even we
        don't know the origin of-
                we must whisper
                        tiny truths
                into their cavities
before they have fully developed,
                breed them with the will
                to never stop
                pushing forward.)

Free Write about Ghosts

I am not an inhabitant to this land-
        I am no native,
not even a resident. As an empty-handed
observer, I bring nothing to this land,
stare gawkingly as what
        is not
anymore, hoarding the spiritless
spirit of Troublesome Creek-1700 years
        of things that have passed
flooding my veins...
                things never pass
                entirely; 7th grade science taught me that.
        Remnants remain, simply changed.

Even when all the trees have been pushed
down, transported out
of town, when the green has been translated into gray,
        into black.
I stand selfishly, empty-handed, breathing in
        because I have to, but terrified
to exhale. I have nothing to offer you,
        Troublesome Creek, no green to refresh you,
no fresh oxygen, no life-I stare gawkingly, terrified
at dinosaur cranes, scooping out your insides,
tossing them aside; I stare gawkingly from
        tumbling rock flesh, yet somehow
I know the ghost of your magnificence; she speaks
softly in trembling whispers,
begging weakly. Restoration
        is a long shot from here, but pleading
for recognition,
at the very,
very
least-pile of ashes, tumbling rock flesh,
You are a graveyard
where a fairy book garden once lived,
and you are slipping
beneath my feet. The sun is unnaturally cruel
for this climate, elevation; yes the machines
have disturbed even your sun. Your ghosts now are tired,
have wept without ceasing
for years-I stand gawkingly, empty,
bewildered at the silence
of no more tears
left.

II. Letters to Bear

Dear Bear 5-9,

If I could speak to you in a language you would understand, this is what I would want you to know. There are stages involved with trapping a bear:

I) Building the Machine

This is the recipe:
        silver cable, looped at both ends,
        snare with spring (like large mousetrap, rusty brown),
        twenty pounds of donuts (jelly=most desired)
        pulled plant limbs, dry underbrush,
        fallen branches, sturdy trunk.
Mostly organic; can be found right on the site,
Convenience always a plus,
        Bears prefer the path of least resistance;
        man does as well.

Branches, underbrush = true decoy.
Set up so that there is only one place
for bear to put foot.
Silver ankle-noose, rusty spring trap
hidden beneath
maiden-hair fern, rhododendron leaves,
sticks, duff-
        After years of trapping, one comes to know
        The things a bear assumes natural,
        the things he assumes to be home.
        Man is smart enough to know
        that bear is not stupid;
        man knows bear
        down to his favorite donut.

If a small child
hungry for jelly donuts
stepped into this machine
he could pull off the ankle noose
with few problems.
His thumbs would save him.
Bears have no thumbs.

They give us
three questions to consider
before leaving the trap.
The first is:    is it safe?
The last:        is the safety off?

II) Lurking in the Shadows for You

After setting the trap,
we trappers return to camp to find
the sight of two overturned trash cans;
this is important, means the bears are out-
        possibly watching us?
Darkness cloaks the campsite soon;
I wait deep in the night for another sign,
eyes finally adjusting to the blackness
of midnight,
skin hardening against
the crescendo of rain.
        My hungry ears create rustling
        footsteps where there are none.
        I have never met you but I am certain
        I would recognize your breath.
Adrenaline keeps me awake,
won't let me find sleep.
        Is adrenaline fueled by
        fear or excitement?
        Is there really
        a difference?
I invent games to entertain myself:
        I am your predator, lurking in the shadows;
        my vampire fangs and fingernails
        intimidate you; my back swells, voice deepens.
An hour passes, then two. Still no sign.
My game changes.
        Now I am the coveted one;
        you are seeking me, obsessed,
        infatuated by my smell, waiting
        for the perfect moment
        to show yourself-
The perfect moment
doesn't come until I've finally fallen asleep.
I awaken to two more trash cans
turned inside out, spilled twenty yards
from my tent.
Watermelons and banana peels remain.
You weren't even hungry.

III) Back at the Traps

We trappers: still groggy at 8 am;
        Wind brushing face from the bed
        of a moving pick-up
        is a decent way to get ungroggy.
The sun pushes powerful beams
through the scattered canopy.
Our world is
yellow and green dawn breaking through spaghetti vines
and broken branches-
        feels like jungle
Your howls startle everyone-
        a dinosaur in the distance
"We've caught one,"
they say, hands already
grappling for the dart gun, the hallucinogens.
They piece it together effortlessly,
the experts,
hands so familiar with the process
that they never look down.
It takes only
twenty seconds for them
to disappear behind the curtain of trees
where you are chained,
to silence you with tranquilizers, to return.
I wait behind until your howls subside,
then, at the motion of their cue,
move forth on my quietest toes.

IV) This is What We Did to You

At the trap site again,
we find the machine we created
distorted, tom apart. Branches misplaced,
leaves strewn.
You are chained to
our sturdy tree, bark splintered violently.
        the skin on that tree
        was so smooth yesterday;
        will possibly never be the same.
        Did we do that?
You're body is slumped
to the ground already
by the time we arrive.
200 pounds of dead weight
knocked cold by 500 mg of Telazol.
Intended for "the use of domesticated animals only."
The box warns of possible
transient apnea, vocalization, erratic and/or prolonged recovery,
cyanosis, cardiac arrest;
you are affected only by a deep unnerving sleep.
They already know who you are,
Bear 5-9;
you've been tagged before.
        This is not the first time
        you've fallen for this;
        the mess of jelly donuts
        is an embarrassment
        though your cheeks show no sign of
        humiliation
        (at this point, you're too far gone).
Your old costume:
bulky radio collar,
red and white tassels streaming from your ears.
What's new is the purple bandana
they fasten over your eyes
        still half open-how asleep are you really?
Measurements taken:
        158" from snout to tail
        neck girth: 52 cm.
        chest: 94.5 cm.
        testicles: 8 x 4.5 cm (left)
                the right is 8.5 x 4.5
        temperature: 1.04.1 degrees
After the measurements, it's time
to implement the "only permanent human marker"
your tattoo" Green ink clamped tight
on inner lip, inner thigh.
        Your tongue instinctively starts
        to lap at nothing; the puddle of green saliva
        is like pollution foam on a river.

The experts encourage us to
touch your fur, smell it.
"Like nothing you've ever smelled before,"
        and they're right. Your fur feels like
        dead grass growing on fresh, plump soil;
        smell: musky, like pine or cedar
        but spicy and sweet at the same time.
Your paws are like sandpaper
        perfect, like a huge kitten's
Your fingernails are like mine, only larger.
After twenty minutes, this is what I know of you:
You weigh 170 pounds, are 158" long, are 104 degrees inside;
        you have an aversion
        to the taste
        of artificial ink; you sleep
        on your side, arms folded over,
        kind of like me.

V) Awaiting your Recovery

A stagnant period follows: we are still observers,
still awaiting your next move, but you are unmoving
save deep and unsteady breaths.
To pass the time,
our experts invite us closer to your
heaving body; show us two scratches
on your belly. They lift
your back leg to reveal
a 4 inch gash in your skin, fresh, pink, still open.
They point out the slight patch of beige
on your black chest,
shaped like a shield.
        We've taken down a warrior-
Time moves steadily; your breaths
terribly out of sync.
        I am increasingly fascinated,
        searching for a pattern-
As our fury of
probing you and taking notes
slows down, I soak in other surroundings:
the heap of jelly donuts
mashed into an unrecognizable heap
        jelly donut junkyard;
we are standing in amaze of rhododendron blooms
        almost too many rhododendron blooms;
the ground is wet.
        I sat in the rain for you two hours last night;
you are trembling
        with nerves of defeat,
your breath a mist of moisture
rising like smoke from the tiny grunts of sleep
        maybe you're with some lover
        in some world I will never know;
        maybe you're floating
        in a beautiful dream.
There's not much to say
after a point. Our group botanist absently notes
that the rhododendron bushes
have grown out of control these past few years;
they are suppressing
the other vegetation.
The experts agree that it's time to move on
to trap #2. Volunteers to stay
with Bear 5-9, they ask, this bear is not ready
to move on. My hand instinctively
volunteers.
The crowd dwindles from fifteen to three.
The bandana falls off your eyes
almost immediately.
        Suddenly you are a drunken man
        asleep on the bathroom floor;
        I am infatuated by your eyes,
        half open
        but blind.
Occasionally, you blink.
        What are you dreaming,
        and will you ever wake
        the same?

VI) Still Waiting

Now that there are only three of us,
it's so quiet that the buzz
of circling gnats around your head
is almost deafening.
        The gnats assume you are dead.
        They don't know what it means
        that your breaths are still coming.
We immerse ourselves in silence,
not intentionally, but
we can do nothing else but watch your every
half-asleep/half-dead breath;
we can do nothing but try to put ourselves
where you are,
nothing but wait
for you to rise.

VII) Apologia

Trying to love you
the best I can among
new tattoos
green saliva pools
choking collar
heary sighs
sandpaper paws
adorable feet
        curled up like mine
        when I sleep...
Trying to love you
the best I can among
diminished dinosaur howls
mutilated tree trunk
jelly donut junkyard;
trying to climb inside
your defeat, utter exhaustion,
your hallucinogenic dreamworld;
circling gnats
pom-pom bicycle tassels.
Trying to abandon
the way fear turns to lust
once you've been sedated;
are no longer
a threat; trying to avoid empowerment,
to bow down,
crawl under your skin,
look up through
your dead
bear eyes;
I'm trying to find my place in the everchanging cycle
of your breath,
to wake you up
through osmosis,
to transfer all the energy, the logic
the strength I contain
unto you;
to sink into your hole in the ground,
watch you fly away.

VIII) You Rise

It's been almost two hours since
we put you down-
        earlier I may have said "they."
        I'm accepting my role.
You've made several attempts
to lift your head
but it is too heavy for you yet.
Eyes opening; registering our bodies and movements.
For the first time,
you know we are here.
        You probably blame me;
        I'm willing to accept that.
After forty minutes of
weak attempts to rise,
sinking back down,
jaw clanking against the ground,
body rolling over,
you do it. Sitting
is the first step, but then
you start to trudge
away
        you know that either
        you don't belong here
        or we don't;
        you make the move
        to leave
Our eyes still glued to your
body as you leave;
after a few minutes of
silence once you are gone,
staring at
the aftermath:
        jelly donut junkyard,
        mutilated tree trunk,
        drops of green ink like blood
        dried saliva soaking into moist earth
        resolute silence,
        sun still spilling through scattered canopy
        circling gnats
        with no center for their attention,

        the soft, empty place
        where your body used to be,

we follow, can't help ourselves.
You don't realize we're behind you,
are expending all the energy you have
into being able to walk.
Finally you settle
in a patch of
oppressive rhododendron bushes;
        if not for your ear tassels
        you would perfectly blend in-
We are still a mess
of anticipation, a quandary of emotion,
holding our breaths
for the chance that you will
possibly
        possibly
                look back...

Of course, you don't.
Eventually we turn and retrace our steps.
We don't look back
either.

III. Connecting the Cycle

        So here I am, back in the city...still tingling &om arboreal intoxication, but something is definitely changed. Is it possible to be born over again, over again, over again? I'm reminiscing on the phases I've undertaken over these past years of my life; more particularly the past months-trying to discover a cycle born of various stages. (Is it circular or is it a labyrinth, ever spiraling away from the starting point?) What I mean is, here I am again; back in the midst of concrete and CNN, sirens and traffic lights. This is where I came from, where I was born. Back in the city, falling back into my place here, finding a new place here-something is changed...

        Looking back on pre-SEWP personal journal entries, I see that this notion of circles and cycles has been nudging my thoughts for a while:

What happens to our feet after so many circles so many stumbles do they tangle up, embrace, become one or do they eventually leave the ground?

Suddenly I feel
Like I'm in the Real World
Fuck all the liars on MTV...
This world is filled
with real
Most of us addicted to the media substitute
I don't miss my car, my television set
I don't miss my supermarket, my home-
I've relocated
Moved out of my
Fiction movie screen
Diorama of a life-
Suddenly
In the real world
For the very
First time.