i want to write about the hills of
i want to tell stories of riding horseback through untouched lands; stubborn cattle crossing dusty roads, lazy nights between the sheets and the sun's glare on the water at dusk.
i will never lose the power of those lands and waters; the humpback whale, huge and silent, breaching by my side; the enormous cracking of mother and calf, father and son, against calm pacific waters. i want to sing the notes of being underneath the water's turquoise surface - loud aching blasts of saltwater and rock.
to be at home in mexico-the lands of jalisco, and nayarit-names carved into me - el anclote, sayulita and san pancho, the names of handsome men dancing on horseback- hooves on cobblestone streets, trucks on dirt roads. the names of huichol women, coming down from the mountains-braided hair and ancient love songs; drums, chanting, clapping and stomping.
love like a twenty foot swell, too huge to grasp and wonderful to ride - a cliff, a river, a mountain. a world where blood and water are hot, where fires burn all night.
i want to hold
there is a beauty lying in the greens and browns of those mountains; there is a passion for life. there is a horizon that never ends.
Apr 30, 2003
i want to write about the hills of
I told myself: Gina will not have the life I've always dreamt of
"I say we call all these people we know' because man, all these people,
they just come and go... and
like shadows dancing on the wall-swaying back and forth in the light of tonight, tonight (and we can make it right tonight) and in the morning, they're gone
and dreaming of Kerouac, Kesey, Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg; I could just live in a New Jersey spring time forever.....
at least for now....
New York City!
South of the Border!
.....the USA is such a broad and complex question of identity
I have a love hate relationship with the land between these borders
and only love for its neighboring vecinos
I want to move my heart south of here
to the sandy shores of Mexico
where freedom rests its lazy head on the surf-beaten rocks
and you make love to the ocean from your long board
the love of my life stands in front of me, figuring
how much he owes to the figures
of my past (and I listen, painting the scene onto this canvas)
"or we keep some...
and just pay tomorrow," he says
(because paying tomorrow for the sins of today always seems the easiest solution)
but that never works.
Oh to be a beatnik's whore!
......just a fly on the wall of literary amazement
and I always think this part of it all is over....all these temptations and horrors
but it just feels so good
and surrendering to you
is so easy
once I get started.
the waves move silently beneath us;
half a moon away, under the equatorial
and unforgiving stars, I watch
as the ocean turns her sides towards us
dark strips of silence through the black water.
you were moving beside me,
your soft skin piercing the ocean’s deep
and your quiet eye staring me in the soul.
it was daylight;
the tiny lake-boat
shook and rattled
against the Pacific,
fragile (as bones) in these
your father on the wheel,
stoned and silent at sea;
Diane by his side, drinking
beer before water
and talking nervously
I watched the horizon—
seagulls and pelicans
holding tight to tall rocks,
the waves breaking white
and frothy against their
until she rose.
there is no silence
like her pewter body
rising a half-moon
above the frothy surface of earth
and falling heavy
back to mother.
it is snowing this afternoon
basset hounds on elm street;
i am smitten for winter.
funny, the attitude
of a rain shower;
a snow fall, the falling
a sort of love making,
strong and brute
force, a storm;
calm and smooth,
soft rain drops
against virgin grass.
through the white snow