Sky pilot angel soaring through space
between planets and glowing stars long gone
now only an illusion to my tired embarrassed eyes.

Soaring through endless nothingness
filled with but crepuscular energy
unseen, unfelt, unfound, unfit 
for gross existence and known only
in apprehension by old soul sages.

Does time rush slow or fast 
neither diligent nor deceased
lazing in endless terrain
where nothing prevails
to pull you back to truth
ejected from such fortune.

Lynx cats gather around 
a shaman named Marcel
while midnight snow fell voiceless,
winds howled through high mountain passes
bears birthed their cubs silently.

Pancho Villa raided my dreams as
I feigned sleep that night naked
in the dry Sonoran Desert south
of the sacred Sedona vortex.

How many days I wandered lost
forgetting the rotting wooden ship from
that distant dead star we
sailed from a light year ago.

Now I spend blue sky days done
from writing songs of youth when
time stood still & quiet for
a life not yet begun or fulfilled.

Do not wait to write your music or
your poetry or sing your songs or
run your races or to dance and love . . . 
immortality is a seductive mistress.
 

Ghosts filled the room where we sat drinking 
our tequila and beer in dusty hidden darkness.

We talked of the hard suffering history of 
Rocky Mountain mining towns still
feeling residual pain, sadness, and death.

She observed us silently from blue ether
where she chose to live her afterlife
in a happier saloon with cowboy angels
who bought her drinks and her bed
when the moon and stars still shined bright.

Water bugs danced joyfully on a polluted pond
of some mine’s continued orange pain 
to music no one heard on that Sunday morning.

Night winds howled 
through slick canyon walls
blowing sweet dreams 
from sleepless denizens 
to someplace beyond 
opium dens of Paris,
dark Bangkok brothels, 
ashrams of India,
underground jazz bars 
of Kerouac’s San Francisco
to a far away ancient land 
where grey eyed Athena lives
with her sacred horned owl.