Running upon tender permafrost
The fragile life on sure limbs
Scuffed hands with lucent thoughts
to touch
Seasons unflinching.
Still, the settled soil gives way to blue
Clinging to winter’s craft.
12 comments on Permafrost
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Hope is the World. -
Danny sat beneath the Washington side of the Interstate Bridge
14-years-old, drinking a six pack of Lucky Lager
Stolen from a warehouse near the railroad tracks.
Warm beer.
Lucky L had jokes underneath the bottle caps
Silly verse on jagged tin, which he
Stuffed into pockets of his Fort Vancouver jeans
Worn out to near dust before the school year started
Purchased in the boys' department of Sears
On Main Street, a block from Kiggins Theatre
Named after someone he didn’t know
Or for that matter, gave a shit about.
A few feet above his head
Cars travelled from one state to another
Cool-like, 70 miles-per-hour plus.
Their tires sounded electric…
Rippling…as if they were lost static
Flying into ether, with a polyrhythmic crunch.
They hit sections of steel
Truss thumping upon truss
Large pulses of movement.
The world felt like it was breaking into pieces.
Any minute, he expected it all to come undone.
Any minute, he wished for something to come undone.
Next to the Interstate Bridge
Sat the Thunderbird Inn at the Quay
Its deck dangling over the dead river
Supported by a maze of oiled logs
Poles stuck upright
Into the shallow muck of the shore.
A victim of the Bonneville Dam
Creating a wooden maze, a black forest underneath
An invitation to a secret mission for a bored kid
With nowhere to go for no reason, irresistible.
Danny thought “Remember that kid from a few
Years back?
The one who drowned, crawling
Underneath the Thunderbird?
What was his name?”
He didn’t remember.
But he remembered the kid’s crewcut.
The Columbia River never moved
Unless you swam in it, against the current
That’s when you look towards the shore
And notice you weren’t getting anywhere
Like being leashed to the banks, chained
While the river licked you with its green tongue
Of pea soup ripples and algae blooms.
Never drink it, but swim until
The big ships come, hoping to ride the wakes
Like a lost rollercoaster car.
Danny only crossed the Interstate Bridge
When the Multnomah County Fair was at the Expo
Past Jantzen Beach
In the land of the sloughs.
He hitchhiked rides
Passing under the green arcs of the bridge
Expecting an epiphany
Even if it had no meaning.
He had enough money to get in, but none for rides.
He chased girls for hours until his boredom reached
For a wallet sticking an inch
Out the back pocket of an undercover cop
Who dangled a two-year-old on his shoulder.
The cop was quick
Had Danny’s head twisted backwards
Like a Lucky Lager bottle cap.
Other cops, dropped their camouflage
Swarmed in around Danny
As if they had found DB Cooper.
The child never fell from the cop’s shoulder.
Danny’s head twisted in slow motion
Amid the midway of games
Where dimes were tossed into dishes
Balloons never stopped popping
Softballs missed stuffed dolls
Basketballs hit the rims of small hoops
And the occasional cheer of winning.
The bridge through an old piece of glass. -
The old ones
Who witnessed centuries
Of life, love, & lingering seeds
In soil, of grasses, and youth
The greenest and driest
Of our leaves
All born of the same soil
Connected by roots and rock
On this soft shell blue marbled
Mist...manifested
Long before thoughts coalesced
Into abstracting objects of speed
And decay
While days accelerate
For reasons that can't be wrenched
Nor pried from the hardened pitch
Lives measure outward
Until years have aged
Their weathered bark
Skin
Yes, I speak of our skin
No longer supple & smooth
Furrowed, rumpled by
Love’s attempts and its fruitions
As if all truth and heartbreak
Have folded in upon themselves
Movements forward and backwards
Are figments of a collective imagination
Enveloped in ideology and romance
Still
The old ones, reach for the sky
With only the wind to aid their voice
Adding
To lucid stories of the embellished heart
While we, the amplified souls
Listen
A trail near a lake called Burnt Lake. Might be a little hard to see on a phone. 
This is the trunk of an old growth tree. There not many of them left. They look a little different than other trees. -
WordPress handles spam messages well. However, there used to be spam written by bots that I miss. They were so entertaining that I would regularly read them. Now that AI alleviates grammar conundrums, these funny miscues have all but disappeared. Here’s a few of the old ones I received and my responses to them.
“My salad has done better this summer but just in the last couple of months when the weather improved.” –I’m so happy to hear your salad is doing better. I was worried!
“You know a complete lot its almost hard to argue along.” -You’re right. Don’t argue along. That would be taking my side, and I know a complete lot.
“I’ve got much clear idea concerning from this post” –I’m glad you’ve got much clear idea concerning, because I’m much confused idea concerning your message.
“Why people still make use of to read newspapers when in this technological globe the whole thing is available on web?” –Things are indeed strange in this technological globe. I tend to read newspapers, because they hire “real” journalists.
“This enables that you simply much better picture of how your business is creating. We are all human beings.” –I’m glad to hear we’re all human beings. I was beginning to wonder.
“These pieces really set a standard in the indrytus.” –I am so happy I’m setting standards somewhere.
“Weeeee, what a quick and easy soiunlot.” –Wasn’t that cool? Soiunlots can be so tricky. Weeeee!
“This was so helpful and easy! Do you have any articles in rehab?” –Well, unfortunately, a couple of them have checked in. I heard they were doing well in editing.
“Hey hey hey, take a gardener to what’ you’ve done.” –That’s a great idea. I’ve never thought about inviting one.
“That’s a posting full of ingiths!” –I know. I’m full of good ingiths.
“Just do me a favor and keep writing such trnhcnaet analyses, OK?” –By all means. I’m a master of trnhcnaetian theory.
“If you’re looking to buy these articles, make it way easier.” –Mmmh? I’ve never thought about buying my own posts. That indeed is easier. There, I just gave myself 10 bucks. Woo Hoo!!!
“Thanks for spending time on the computer (wiritng) so others don’t have to.” –You’re welcome! I think?
“Continue to be down the great operate! You realize, many individuals ‘re looking near to do this facts, it is easy to aid these products.” –Roger that. I will continue to be down the great operate to aid the products.
“I like to party, not look arcleits up online. You made it happen.” –I’m glad I made that happen. I wouldn’t want you to resort to looking up arcleits online and keep on partying!
“It is possible (and frequently done) to build over 200k crop armies (aka, World Wonder armies) from a six cropper.” –What? I mean…what?
“Why does this have to be the ONLY reliable source? Oh well, gi!” –What can I say? Poetry is most reliable source ever. That’s all you need to know. Ain’t no gi about it.
“I’m making posts about scientific explanations behind everyday ––appearances.” –I knew there was something weird behind everyday appearances. Thanks for providing scientific explanations for this unsolved mystery.
“Stretching is discomfort.” –I’ve told my cat the very same thing! However, he doesn’t listen and keeps on stretching! He looks comfortable doing it though.
AI’s first attempts were crude and frequently you would receive a busy signal. 
Boldly exit where no reader has gone before (Just watch your step). -
A cougar is perched up high in a yellow pine, hidden. Below him, a trail cuts through grasses, and I see his paw print in bare dirt, formed when the mud was thick. Now, it’s dried into cracks, wrinkles in earth, his movement of the past solidified. He doesn’t worry about me, the noisy one, whose feet crunch upon leaves, dried long before the last of summer appears.
The turf is so dry and brittle. It’s a fragile crust. One hard step and I think the entire world would crumble. Flowers of the new spring have already begun to wilt, dropping petals. Their flakes stick to my socks, scratch my ankles.
Even now, the grass begins copying the color of the sun. No matter how good of a watcher you are, you can miss their intricacies, their dance with the wind, a courtship of eons, and their ever-slow movement, a reach for light.
Breaking into the sky, Adams, Hood, St. Helens, even Ranier surround themselves in blue. Their heads adorned with hats made of clouds, attempting to pierce gravity, the last mystery.
Sometimes I worry about movement…the sun, the earth, our movement…my movement. It’s too easy to believe in one singular movement, especially my own.
The cougar will come down from the yellow pine at dusk, when it’s difficult to see him. He is the color of the sun. He will use the sound of the dry flowers and deep grass… and when the coming night quiets the wind, he will search for the slightest movements.
Somewhere near the Klickitat River. 
Eastern part of the Columbia River Gorge. -
How cold this river runs
How cruel this river runs
All light is caught in a freeze
Here, the water has no peace
All is numbed by an endless rain
I swear the moon has a crease
Her voice is just below the ravine
I try to silence the refrain
Her song echoes above the trees
I see her in the river’s current
I think I can catch her
Bring her back up
If only to the coldest of sunshine
My fingers slide upon her skin
But she slips through my grasp
So, I look downstream
To catch a glimpse of her
I drink from the hidden lake
Clear, cold, and clean
I dance upon winter’s snow
On the edge of everything
The leaves have fallen low
No telling what they’ve seen
Soon the river will meet the sea
Where all lies will finally cease
When the Willamette River meets the Columbia River, the latter breaks up and forms a delta of islands until it converges downstream. (A clue? Is this poem really a murder ballad?) 
The Clackamas River near an interesting little town named Three Lynx. -
April is still cruel
And this city? Still unreal.
The snow will melt
Daffodils will bloom
Arrows will still fly
Even Cupid shoots them
With awkward aim
Are we mistaken to listen to the wind?
That whisperer that works
Its way between warm clothing
...Tickles, biting softly
On the ends of our touch
Imprinting its song on our necks.“I would have never thought
You would become my lover
Having passed you
In the hallway a thousand times
Among the smell of floor wax
Cafeteria food, and
The slamming of locker doors.
...Excuse me
I’m younger than that”Now, in the city of Yonder
Stands our orphan
With his gun
Walking along the edges
Of an eternity of assumptions
The quickest way to freeze
Us into madness...oh, do not
Ask what is it?
Even Dorothy killed two witches
And I swear
The sky has been etherized.
For I have known it, known it all
Have known evenings, mornings
Afternoons
Have known
The familiarity of strangers
My nose buried in their bosom
Of warm, warm skin, bared to
Gravity, orbit, & galaxies
Moving...moving...
Moving“What a Sunday drive it was
Unplanned, without directions.
The heat of summer blew
Into our rolled down windows”O you who turn the wheel
and look to windward,
Consider.
In this poem, I abstracted lines of famous poems and lyrics to shape my own poem out of them. Along with the poem I added on of my abstract images. Thanks! -
Cherry blossoms upon brittle limbs
brave the last chill, the wake of winter.
Gathered lovers, having shed buds
from hibernation, adorn pastel dresses
of heavy chiffon, the color of faded hearts.
Waiting for warmer touches
the soft ebb of spring’s smitten sun.
Knowing
the ground awaits their fleeting bloom.
A digital doodle of mine. -
Click on this image to hear the music composition _Landscapes_. (Blue hour on Mt. Tabor) The rate of speed in which we travel is unprecedented in human history. To think that for around one hundred years we have been able to speed through urban and rural spaces. These 100 years are a brief moment in comparison to our combined history.
When I started to compose _Landscapes_, I initially thought of modernism and postmodernism in basic forms. The first pertaining to new systems. The latter pertaining to dismantling of systems. And it came to me that our modernisms are a story of movement, and this movement is accelerating. We’ve traveled through both eras, quickly. Our perception of the world (_Landscapes_) has been altered to perceive it at a different rate of velocity. Different perceptions lead to different conclusions. No wonder people are always telling one another to slow down. I question whether that’s even possible.
_Landscapes_ is a composition of movement, of acceleration, of viewing landscapes at an ever-increasing rate of perception.
Click on the image above or the image link to Soundcloud below to listen. Thanks so much!
Mountains and hills have their own weather. You can see in the distance on Tillamook Head, it’s raining on an otherwise blue sky day.
MoonCat 