We are animals. We started with one cell. Then the cell split and we evolved and devolved. The point of existence is survival. In order to survive, we developed tools and structures that are in our DNA and are inescapable. The remnants exist in selfishness, violence, greed, paranoia, anxiety, autocrats, plutocrats, cataracts (that’s a joke) and organized institutions, i.e., government, religion, clans, cliques, PACs.

We played out our animal nature freely in a garden of wonders…  of course, always watchful for predators. Some beings chose to kill or be killed: to kill and dominate all other beings. These came to be regarded as strong leaders. Beings separated into groups for protection and a cooperative effort to survive. We lived with a connection to nature. We had awe, reverence, spirituality and wildness. Wildness is our instinctual way of being. Wildness is beauty. Wildness is joy. It has no group judgments about what is good or bad: smell, hairiness, out-of-control-ness. But wildness frightened many beings. As civilization marched forward, more and more wildness was taken away. Our ancestors got used to ceding wildness; it began to seem undesirable. The result is that we use products/deodorants to mask our wildness; we must put on masks to conceal our true nature; we must act out roles. As parents, we encourage our childrens’ masking and role-playing to protect them from incarceration and – even more – from being ostracized or not being “successful” enough. There have always been outcasts, shamans, wizards, and people with a foot in a different plane. These have been burned, tortured and cast into the wilderness. They have faced the fire and came back transformed (but not unscathed). Their descendants are artists, poets, clairvoyants, and holy ones. The paths to expressing wildness are being bought up by the developers; very few now exist. I have re-discovered my path and I am not getting off. I love my wildness; I love it in other people. When the wild ones find our way to each other, we take care of each other; that’s our sacred pact. Wild ones should not fear revealing their wildness to other wild ones.


I used to lean toward certain colors

peachy pinkish fleshy cellular tissue

raspberry sherbet iridescent lucky lavender twist


with a deep aqua aura soldered translucent copper

coiling silver onyx oil spilling granite mountains pouring

red hot molten crimson carmine cadmium light


darkish burgundy, cranberry alizarin brightest boysenberry

crumble magenta into plum magic purple peeps thru periwinkle

sky, Prussian power ploy 


sexy mad magenta, vivid violet into indigo bound for black

Roy g Biv and Sun Yat Sensate static jet brilliant glossy enamel

chinese, titanium buff to zinc


dusts ivory, wheaten whitened tan tinged ecru aged

with yellow maize and mustard marigold sunshine ochre glow

And now we’ve reached… 


festive zesty gutsy lusty luscious sprout and leafy

lime apple chartreuse neon thyme pale olive, military khaki

sage and grasses growing emerald forest mallard shadows teal and pine


Cairns caskets crypts caves

Always the need to seize to save

When the place of return is the

place of rebirth… then


Why encumber release from the earth?


Morph, molt, melt, mix

A treatise on metamorphosis

Wizard’s brew of flora and fauna

Hematite, copper, fire, and slaughter


A gift to appease the gods and the spirits


Bones stones ageing’s wrath

A tribute to being, an ash epitaph

Dust is to dust as wood

is to rock


As matter to matter to master

to mock


Lichen moss pods bark

A few short hours to leave their mark

Parasite, leucocyte, 

survivalist yearning


Turning and turning and

turning and turning

Endless emerald carpet lush.

Demarcated stone and brush.

Black and white cows dot the lea,

Ovine-punctuated scene.


Patchwork pastures partitioned plots.

Come in from the cold; let’s down a wee shot.

Serrated limestone slices surf.

To moss-married cliffs, the sea gives birth.


Tunneling ‘neath the river Lee,

Strata rich with suffering.

Finbar, Boru and foxy friars,

Roofless abbeys, ancient spires.


Patrick’s quay, Dingle’s Bay.

Wharves and barges, eons of gray.

Daniel O’Connell, Bonecrusher Kelly.

Irish stew to sate the belly.


Strongbow’s tomb, hillsides ‘round Cork.

Mason’s toil, serfdom’s work.

Golden pail of Tipperary.

Druid stones and Ring of Kerry.


Green-veined marble of Connemara.

High kings’ tombs, the hills of Tara.

Whistling winds, knobby bluffs,

Soggy, foggy, boggy… rough.


Little village market town,

Rolling hedgerows all around.

Pubs and taverns, ale and mead,

Crockery chipped with poetry.


Border collie herding sheep.

Lichen-lined headstones, eternal sleep.

Hume, Paisley, sons of Sinn Fein,

Catholic scars of injustice and pain.


Velvet valleys mark the middle.

Uilleann pipes and Irish fiddle.

Town of Sneem, descent to Killarney,

McGillicuddy mist, Castle of Blarney.


Forest of bluebells, broom and gorse.

Seaweed-swept rivers plow their course.

Stripes of shimmering sky-lit blue.

Legendary echoes puncture the gloom.


therefore I will do it

and pledge only

to witness

and not care to the quick

for what is good and

what is bad since

most is inbetweenish

on the continuum of


the quibbling point: what

is the sharp-pointed

Crayola equivalent…

dove gray, steel gray,

slate gray, charcoal,

roots grown out gray…


surprise gray, pubic hair

pretender gray, pre-white.

celebration silver gray,

you never have to do

it again gray.

parents departed

misty orphaned gray.

coal hole that we flailingly

unfailingly try to evade…

until we realize that it’s

not a hole,

it’s a door, an

anything goes

timber wolf gray door, a

therefore door.

therefore I will do it