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That this mountainside looks like a face is accidental,

which is a shame, for I dearly love to laugh.

The touch-smoothed redwood cross-section, in its rings

of growth and brightness,

seems like a sun seen from underwater,

wobbly as jelly, mocking my

inability to find a job, my food stamps,

and saddens me to see

the teens tagging themselves in nearby places

to earn a virtual friend's respect, or boasting

other symptoms of youth while leaving

their greasy fingerprints on the thick lenses of my glasses,

mocking my desire for artwork

to remain packed in straw, and in music

for sleepers halfway awake to grow wild in.

It all gives me faith in arranging, I guess,

when there is nothing else I seem much good at but fuss

and copy and paste, with a head full of so many other worries.

Got a check today. Bought a book I can't read

without it putting me to sleep

with its out-of-date luxuriousness.

So instead of reading it,

I stayed up and listened to Harry Partch's song

And on the Seventh Day Petals Fell in Petaluma,

dedicating it to the memory of Ramon Novarro,

hoping it would arch electrically above him

with all the characteristics of fire

all night,

all day,

and soak his early spring colors in a late autumn

sun as pale as silver and fern-green skies

to draw light

through midnight

and steer instead his valley's vista

toward my own simple neighborhood loneliness

with nothing better to do than lie back and lecture

those cultured Internet boys

on their own death's primitive and permanent cartoons,

to walk carefully and not step on any snails,

the poor,

the rough skin bundles,

or shiny boners poking out from satin robes.

This light, is dark.

And on the seventh day petals fell on Petaluma,

forgiving those who hurried past before

stuffed with poo and feathers underneath the hot yellow heat

that I wish would ignite all the unopened envelopes

piling up on the table by my front door,

(and burn up all of the time I've spent

on all of the things I can't

put my finger toward).

I went for a walk this evening

and found a speckled turkey egg

where the river settled

into the mud of the salt flats.

I looked at the burnished iris

of the eye of a trout.

A gleaming Atlantic coin.

Thinking even the wind tonight could speak,

blowing in seeds not yet caught

on the coat of the dog. Still, life.

And all the needs in this world.

Source: Illustrated Games of Patience (The Song Cave, 2015)