An hour west of Tucson tonight with a full but waning moon and giant mountains behind me and clear colder stars above me and Ryker sleeping. 48 hours.
The engine light comes on.
Tow truck chariot 100 miles outside of Houston.
I feel lately that I am on the edge of knowing a vast secret
That it whispers to me in swirls and in my dreams I grasp it
Trout themes. “Oh excuse me I thought you were a trout”.
There are folds we fall into and come through together but different
I sit eating cashews and drinking out of this mug
“It’s a Pendleton” .
The rain drips and the sky sags
The garbage collects and the cigarette drags
The yellow rose crisps
In that dark and waxy bar
And the lyrics pour from somewhere familiar and very far
I sit playing musics and streaming my patterns into webs.
Writing the stories of the things we said.