What the Muses Leave Behind

I. It must have started somewhere, this becoming story - - - out of columns of smoke or skirts of high tide. There is no immaculate conception here. Long ago, sun and water were married, they made love in a turtle shell rattle. Babies arrived: land, rainbows, birds, animals, humans. Grandmother spider ate them all. II. Big bang, black holes, so much to begin and end and begin and end and begin. We see this world as magic ecotone between Venus and Mars. Blue green privilege of carbon-based life rare and precious   assumed - Magi - cal, mutual  more door than privilege        blown wide as a Cyclone   up and up        in helical   path,       to hold            us             ...

We are all in prison - civilians just don’t know it yet.” - Tim DeChristopher Overheard somewhere on the peninsula: Maybe marmot to doug fir. So tired of human occupation... Would that my bones rode a chariot of spore. That they were blown hollow again, bird whistle thin. Would I could gather the requisite dust and drift, Until fountainhead drummed the heavens reborn, axel of creation - the marrow of mushroom  ripe with mineral soil, and at last - one of the ascended  Brown and bitter and sound.