structural haunt

It hangs there often ignored now. Just a pier. Something from a bygone era. Ships no longer dock at it. Only a few scavengers haunt it now. A lone fisherman waits in the fog. Barely existing in the forefront of anyone’s mind. But it is back there. In the deepest fog. Haunting minds with its ragged sculpture. This bare skeletal thing. This shadowy presence that hovers somewhere between memories. Some kind of phantom bridge. From the unknown to the unreachable. Affecting in its indiscernible way. An atmospheric link.

ebb / flow

“Ebb stung by the flow, and flow stung by the ebb” – Walt Whitman’s words rang over and over in my ears as I stared at the ocean. Some lines bury themselves for years or decades but seem to work their way up and break back through the surface again. And when it happens, it adorns me with its initial mystery. Like when the words first crossed over my lips. And I couldn’t stop reading his song aloud. Feasting on something with more flavor than I could apprehend. And now, still stung by the ebb and the flow. Shocked by that old lure, once cast and forgotten, jumping again. Electric.

Desert Looming

It’s 93 degrees Fahrenheit and climbing. The trail winds around another rock obstructing the view. What looms behind it blots out the trail underfoot. In a dream state, I stumble forward as the heat steals my stamina. But I’m not paying attention to my dehydrating state. I’m lost imagining about what looms around the next turn. A crow glides right over the crest and I see the feathers on its wings twitch in the wind. Only through its eyes do I see the folds of these mountains breaking into the wide desert beyond. I pass by another mound of scat – maybe the third or fourth one – full of juniper berries on the trail and think of what shaded spot the coyote must be panting in right now. Slipping by another rock face, I find a shallow cave with the shade I had yearned for seconds ago. And I sit there to stop the dizziness and sip a ration of water. There is a juniper tree with a burial mound at its feet. These rocks before me speak of Technicolor dreams with danger behind every turn in some old Western movie or the multitude of uses this place had for primitive fantasies and alien planets on film and through this sense of simulation I wonder how this place will seep into my dreams when I pass by the final obstruction of the day and fall to sleep like the crow cradled in the arms of its juniper tree or the coyote curled up in its stone womb.