Nestled 7200 steps high in the southwest corner of Yosemite National Park, you find the groven gem of Grouse Lake. The trail shoulders beauty; talltower emerald trees and glimpses of gorgeous granite-gray craigs guide the way. From the end of the path the lake itself seems a navy-night blue, but sunlight strikes the water, the surface sparkling golden hues. Such besotting sight makes it well worth taking the strenuous hike.
In a patch off the path encircled by oaks, you pitch your tent, hear nothing of the whispers, the warning leaves, lost to the dreamy birdsong. While gathering wood you find small footprints around the underbrush and chuckle. You imagine brazen explorers just before you, hastening towards the lapping of the lake. But, maybe there are no other signs of another, family nor traveler. The shoe steps fade out at the creeping edge of water.
Night shies from campfire light, found flickering on fervent face. Fire exhales, crackles in the quiet darkness. Belly warm and full, you are fell to find safety in the gentle shuddering shelter of light.
And yet, you cannot seem to slip off for sleep. You might simply stare up at the silver stars through the tiny tent opening, letting the mountain gauze brush softly across your skin. You might find yourself smiling as you breathe it all in.
Then, you hear it, ah--
--A wail, faint on wind's breath. Definite.
Listen close. Your chest frozen for an instant, an hour, mere seconds, you pray you do not hear it again.
You are unanswered and you hear it again, again, louder this time, the same cry. A young-- so young--cry...
--you go out how you came in, with your tethers looped around. the door opens and the severity of the look and pause behind it strikes you makes you wonder if your cheeks are chins...
in the jelly light forest your
arms around my middle keep
part of me here, i feel how
your nerves and your chest
beat aqua green marine life.
i want to stay wrapped in
an itch beneath my left shoulder
close to the spine where i can't dig
into the muscle drives me fucking
crazy, it's a shock more than an itch
but the best i can scratch is skin...
i don't really know who these poems are for so i don't know if i should keep doing them
or if i'm seriously trying to put out a book, it's stupid to ask for money if i think my...
it's not a brooding stare
it's a squint, and you look
pained with gastrointestinal
the potentially nice things
about you don't make up
for the crumpled rucked up
weird, the convictions you seem
to need, the system protects their
murders instead of the species
extinction, ocean dead
and oiled for the lake of fire
ozone opens like how i'm
is there a day we can get through
wherein i don't disappoint you
i don't actually want always
to be right or things to go smooth
but it is only okay if i am doing
things to improve?
each step back is three
like-minded in the quiet
types, where is my tv
sitcom overture to let
me know the shitty
parts are done with?
woke behind but not
in the past. the night