Dear Diary,

I made my peace with the floor. Finally. Afterall, it’s not the worst thing in the world to have a solid, flat surface to walk on. As I walk through the house I rarely trip on roots and am rarely scanning the scene for rocks or creatures. Who can argue with that?

Though at what cost? I ask myself.

After a few days, I realized that the crumbs and carrot tops I tossed on the floor haven’t been eaten or composted in any way. I sweep them up.

So far nothing living is communicating up through my feet. I either have extraordinarily dumb feet or this floor is not the living earth.

Furthermore, I fear that the natural rolling landscape that typically lends itself to the muscular flexibility of my feet and legs is now reduced to such uniform flatness, that now my body is slowly deteriorating.

I haven’t quite yet made my peace with the walls and ceiling, though.

I admit, there’s something to be said for a solid roof, trustworthily keeping the rain out, especially in Humboldt County. And hanging posters is a lot easier on a wall than on a salmonberry bush.

It’s just…it’s also a little harder to see through walls and I can’t help but have the sensation that my psychic and sense walls are also being subtly sewn up.

I now have a place to store Ryan’s belt, but search the heavens of the ceiling in vain for Orion’s Belt, and the full moon which was the largest super moon of 2020. I look towards the east out the win-doe and find an ecosystem of houses, wires, concrete, and towers as a landscape. Little barking dogs and gas powdered leaf blowers provide a charming soundscape.

Honestly, most of the time I don’t know if it’s raining or not, or what is on the tip of the tongue of the day, because I am bereft of the subtle cues and the geological gossip the fresh air ally brings to my skin and to my lungs.


Frogs announce it’s bath-time,
but Time and Space are just bad habits
when you take off your robe
to dip into the cosmic hot springs

Ease your wrinkled mind
and wash off all that debris
that’s collected around your eyes and ears
since this morning
when you were just a baby
so innocent and bright-eyed
and full of dreams

Settle in for a bedtime story—
Which is it this time,
the one about the trickster thief
who saved the world
or the one about the drunken saint
who cracked open a thousand hearts?

The dirt and the moon argue
over who loves you more
and owl and coyote take turns
tucking you in with their lullabies—
winking you into that obsidian night
where threads of dreamcloth weave themselves around your cleansed heart

Until once again you awake a newborn
Tossing fresh songs into the sky


In your uncanny orb of night, join these
Gathered ingredients of earth and sky,

Bold eremite of the winter season.
Blushing argent cheeks with ancient red wine

In the darkling hour of your silent
Transfiguration: Let the pot boil.

Hue with bodies heaving spells the spicy
Concatenation of your churning dish.

Accept the earthly shadow and resist not
The wondrous gravity of the moment.
With light and dark thy destined orbit’s marked.

Wax gibbous and grow a pregnant shaping
Of some image towards unfurled freedom

From that uncooked root called fear, a toxin
Spreading through the whole like soured liquid

And festering, sinks a sumptuous stew–
The more ingested, the more hunger too.

Now the lunatic transmutation made
Not by magic, nor with wand of wizard
But by channeled heat and moves cathartic.

Stir with patience the hearty blend within
Until all poison into sweetness changed.

Behold a new fruit, orb oracular!
Transliberating itself down the west
By and through and with that which holds it all.

A peach, vigorous belly earthbound bent
And bruised. — Merely emblem of its ripeness.

Pluck it from the sky! Break your holy fast
With holy hunger and greet the dawn with
A wild and boisterous jubilance:

Sun in one hand, the moon in the other
With nectar dripping down your canny face.

The Stars Used to Fall

1280px-Night_Sky_Stars_Trees_02The stars used to fall
into the eyes of the villagers

back when the birds sang
the morning like a welcome flood
of a new day
and the town rejoiced

The stars used to fall
into the hearts of the villagers

But then the machine came
and its son Power
and daughter Speed
chased the stars away

and with them the hushed radiance
fled the town

You tell people about that time
and a flicker in the corner
of their jet brown eye
utters “I think I remember that”

but like a shooting star
it flares and burns out
and the stars in their quiet
glowburn mystery

await the flame in the eyes and hearts
that will bring them back

because they too miss being seen
and their shapely silence
misses being heard
across the lonely miles