Looking for Sign

               I think it was last week that a conversation on Twitter caught my attention.  I have no idea where this dialog started as I did not bother to track it down.  One person’s kink offending another person’s bugaboos goes on far too much these days.  There are just too many people and fetishes have been around at least as long as I hit puberty.  From what I have seen in literature and film, a whole bunch longer than that.

                Licking people’s assholes seemed to gross people out, which would not have even been a blip on the insanity swirling around in the world if not for the poop-sign and watching the granddaughter going through toilet training.  This week my daughter showed me the poop-sign.

               When you are in the woods, it is wise to pay attention.  Paw prints and broken branches only get you so much information.  Fetishists have something to do with imprinting points in development, and unless you were there, you just will not get it.  There is a reason that intimacy is so hard.  Secrets are not easily shared when you know that your kinks will cause revulsion, maybe even your death and humiliation.  That is one thing really weird about social media.  Too much sharing of the deeper, darker secrets of humanity.

                That is why it is best to know what poop looks like on the trail.  Is if fresh and is there something that will eat you in the vacinity.

Spring is Quick

The Weavers

Wind, water, and beak

the weaver weaves,

but does not speak.

Water, wind, and back

plow turns over;

it does not retract.

Wind, water, and time

they smooth away

the pattern of crime.

I am tired of civilized people

telling me what is civilized

and what is not.

Their crimes look

very civilized to me.

Individual plots,

monuments, mausoleums

do not speak of what

wind and water have hidden

under the pattern

of grass and sand.

Atmosphere obscures the

tangled bones and revenants

of unmarked graves

as nests are unmade.

Looking for colorful glass

in the dendritic pattern

of runoff down to the boggy ground,

a body sees the rust of iron

objects discarded from farm

homesteads being slowly unmade

through discard and weather.

The wind is background noise

in early spring sun

looking for vitreous reflection

of manufacture being



The world blushes under the stare of an azure eye.

Chauvin’s Conviction

When I saw the picture of Chauvin being led out of court with his arms cuffed behind him, an old phrase from the nineteen sixties surfaced in my brain, “Up against the wall motherfucker!”

Half a century has barely put a scratch in this kind of shit.  I am still waiting to hear some of the big, fat, ugly bugs go splat on that wall.

Fungal Conks

Life has layers.


               There is currently an old house that I pass on the way to pick up my mail which has stripped out a patch of old, gnarly juniper bushes.  They sat on the south side of the house, below the old coal shoot so the house was probably built in the early 20th century.  When the junipers disappeared, it exposed a dribble of coal down the side of the slope to the walkway.

                I picked up a piece today.  I already have a sample from another old house, but it was just a nice little palm sized example of anthracite.  It made me think about coal in somebody’s stocking if they had been bad around Christmas time.

                It would not be the worst thing in the world to get a chuck of coal in your stocking in the dead of winter if you heat with coal.  It might provide enough heat to keep you alive until you figure out how to be a better person.

Skunk Cabbage?

Further up the drainage.

Places of The Dead

In the early spring, the drainages off the mountain reveal what the snow has uncovered.


Just a reminder in case anybody is intersted, there is older material of mine at this webside: