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.