Land is Identity 2

hands on stone, gripping to survive
fear exuding out like a final gust
moving upward
surrounded by gear
rope anchors harnesses
ballerina shoes coated in subtle compounds
mind strains to focus
body strives for succinct
graceful fluidity
wind blows through the ropes
chalk outlines on the rock
of each hand that has passed
like a pilgrims penance for chthonic sins
climbing a column or crack or slab
mantling or laying back
seeking to express freedom to oneself
and one's peers
physically expressing a lust for life
and a hatred of meager existance

Land is Identity 1

Many of the writers worth reading
loved their land, whatever land
there was to love
Thoreau loved the Northeast
Ed Abby the Southwest
Muir the Sierras which define California
for so many artists and hikers
The Northwest has Gary Snyder, to some extent
but he went all Nipponese and Zen
I love the parts of California that have died
scenic ghosts of happy pasts
buried beneath a lahar of stucco and chain stores
feeding off the tribute of dessicated
Eastern Sierra lakes
Built at the edge of the forests of yore
now standing murdered by the
residentially oriented fire suppression
that contributed to preventable
bark beetle infestations
droughts and dried sap
views lost beneath the lead and sulfur
there are six ubiquitous
criteria air pollutants
California now reeks of them all
from the ground ozone
to the nitrogen oxides
my memories are smothered
and as such I am in the Northwest
Portland, the 1950's California I never knew
that I had adolescent dreams of
healthy forests and local agriculture
water and rain
community and conservation
but I have to wonder
where are the bear and lynx
now so prevalently absent from
the Southern Cascades

Vanities and Flames

the fascism of pop culture
fashion mall make up counter
dancing boy toys
1 centimeter deep conversation
this magazine is a catalog of veneer
for your pitted ill used spirit
you are dead to your chthonic heritage
dead to choral arrangements
to the swelling of ridges
dead on a pulpit
thrust up from plate tectonics
dead to the sermons
with the rage of volcanism
without such, you amount to nothing
the enemy will destroy us
and you liberal tendency will agonize
the loss of the gun and the doctrines of power
your feeble hands will clutch
at the lost straws of your placid vanity

stiff sacks of dead animal
grimaces plastered tragically
loves and fears forgotten
paths of distinct lives
disrupted by super highways
to a pretensious nonce
our urban lives
a horde of murderous lemmings
fleeing our created nature
hiding from death
in large vehicles and terrible food
Americans falling apart
as they are rent in two
by red and blue
an idea as bad as that rhyme
we lack nothing save everything
we hate everyone irrationally
sadly isolated by small ideas

Poem for Ken

An inclinometer measures the angle of a slope
you use it in gauging the avalanche risk
when mountaineering or bragging
to buddies
back on the flat
to wow them with your superior stupidity
and endurance
my buddy Ken and I
both have inclinometers
his measures bigger angles than mine
but I am man enough to handle that
not that I would handle his inclinometer
that would just be awkward

A Subtle Loss of Human Dignity

many are those who would strike a viper
with a stick
many many more are those that would snatch a child
from the crushing path of a steam roller

many are those who would build an army
to prevent the subjugation
of the weak
by the tyrannous
few are those who would volunteer a stranger
to die
for the financial gain of a third stranger

some are those who would fight a war
not for ideals but for short term
economic stability
a few more are those who would strive to defeat
a cabal
of impoverished hapless citizen rebels
with one trillion dollars of munitions
many more are those who would deeply regret
their bombs painted with the blood of housewives


few are those who would not strike a tyrant
with a sword
many are those who would not strike a child
with a rifle butt
even if it meant the loss of national status
as a dominant political power

the dew collects on the brown velvet
of the elks rack
he looks up as we pass his world by swiftly
too swiftly for his survival
too swiftly for our own survival
the lights of our cars pollute the quite country road
our engine chases a raccoon off of a fallen hotdog in the gutter
raccoons are survivors like us

If basic human goodness were the natural order
beauty in art would occur effortlessly, like rain
crime would be the realm of dedicated artisans
no one would pay for movies or music or literature
because we would barter in ideas and statuary
meaning would flood the streets

instead the debasement of life
is the best selling product
victims hang like low hanging fruit
pinatas for the crowds' amusement

what if we started here, in a cathedral
large epic architecture surrounding us
would it communicate the ordered intensity of the universe
or the hateful burden of dogma

what if this was not a cathedral, but maybe a beach
would you enumerate the grains of sand
and correlate that to the number angels that fell from heaven
or would we make love on the maroon Navajo blanket
or fight about the wearing of sunscreen

what if this was, let's say, a forest
lush as only the Pacific Northwest can be
green and brown and the clarity of rain
would we hike amid ancient sylvan giants
or, tripping on roots, would we tear our pants and bleed freely

perhaps we should start in a small wooden church by the sea
it incorporates all of the best elements
we would stroll awkwardly hand in hand between the pews
our cloths catching on hymnals and the communion cup holders
to the window facing the sea
we would kneel there praying for so long
our knees would splinter and our backs would ache
God would be seen in the sea
God would be seen the humble wood of this Baptist church
it can be a Presbyterian church
if you are afraid we have not
gotten rid of enough of the dogma yet
God would be seen in how gently we treat each other
and in the sincerity of our entreaties
for peace
and healing
and humble personal absolution
the blood on the cross is a sunset
as we raise up we both think this thought
and smile as this is the best we can do with our lives

Nezmith Point

I walked deep into the snow
wading up to my waist in fresh powder
I met others bent to the same purpose
struggling against the terrain
gaining feet at the cost of minutes
the sky turned cerulean, if but for a glorious moment
I paused in that desolate winter trek at the sound of a wood pecker
grey and black feathers working hard into the bark
to pull, by force, some life from the otherwise silent tree
as we turned away, we came to a rock formation
which I shall always know now as a friend
snow spinning wildly off the trees and the frozen water fall
sprays of it landing percussively beside me
reminding me that the woods could have swept me over
the sharp rock escarpment and down into the river below
that would have been a different ending,
to an otherwise spectacular day