I scratched out a poem last night on the back porch, thinking about the day. I had nothing else to update, so here you are.

Titles are for philistines:

You can see Mars over the house
and the dark form of mountains
forming the coordinate latitudes
of the city.

I follow the words and actions
onto streets of blinking white men
and their red-handed dictations.

Sway to a passing bass-line,
light a cigarette as you turn left,
follow energy patterns–
dharmic coincidence, leading
scotch into glasses
and words into notebooks.

Thanks for dealing with that, here’s a really weird link:
The Dreaming(non-aboriginal)