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NovHaibuno – 1-7

1- Quikserv


Waiting for her car
hell-scape of white wasted space
incessant senseless

The TV caterwauls. I know this show. Those times are long gone. Sterile space filled with impatient anxiety. Money for service, paid in cracked books and the shallow breathing of the masked. 5 phones, 2 books, 1 newspaper, and 1 act of pursuing something intangible and not tied to any outcome. Things have changed, but the day-to-day has barely shifted (or so it seems). We offer, you score – a forward motion identified by the inspiration of mother Earth. There is a constant churn of down to earth and sullen sunken akin to space coastering. I’m going to give you the promises of sharing, while sparing you the challenges of staying put. The rodents have moved in. They establish a deep sense of place where they definitely do not belong. They will put in wire mesh but no promises. Golden heat on my right ear competes with rush hour on my left. The brew hall podunk hour has begun. The trees struggle to keep their color and the hops wither on broken vines. Welcome to November.

2 – Drive with Ma

Adventures up high
round the enchanted circle
relleno all day

The unexpected brain had us stymied. Fall descended so un-expectedly expected. A sugar coated surprise lacking oxygen tucked inside a quonset hut on the edge of out there. It is wrapped in the center of a melted sunrise that was distinctly lacking in body and baked blind by the light of Orion’s belt. It certainly paid for itself even though the library was offline and off kilter. Off the road, scars show signs of the dismal song of greed and plunder. The colonization of the senses is the soul of the matter. Her revenge is bitter sweet in its length and arduousity. We can be sure of our sense of empathetic bitter.

3 – Bandelier

The holes in the walls
tell a story past a time
unique and gone

We now know what they did not. A terrible rumble followed by a violent plunge into white. Later they carved out holes, hoping to find a cool spot to lay their heads, or a surrender to the wild swings of weather, or a safe nest to call the soul into place. No one knows, but stories are told. And retold. And embellished. Fact is anecdotal. Fiction is uncommunicative. They whisper to the elements and sing to the stars. You can use the sharp side of a rock or chew vigorously to commune with the spirits of surprise and delight.

4 – El Farolito


Best traditional
tiny remote villages
made with love and care

Make due with what you have, that is the way here. You can step out of time into a place that looks like the back of beyond and be transported to a pinnacle. Up the road you’ll open the hatch, be stared at by forest dwellers, and revel in deliciousness. They won’t stop. They won’t ask questions. They will stare at the sun longer than they stare at you in their pickup truck without license plates. They make due with what they have, and don’t worry about the consequences, or the lawlessness. You go your ways, and I will go mine. There is no secret hand gesture or head nod. The residuals of life are their way of life. Trucks riding axles weighted down by fuel to feed their fires. Resourcefulness is an artform that those that make due with what you have are accomplished. My ancestors rode the wave of whatever come what may in many places. They speak words of “never give up”, “use what you have”, “tread lightly”, “help don’t hinder”, “love each other and the world around you”, and more, and often. The love and care and attention given will always fuel the future of your fellow travelers.

5 – The Capitol


Chiles on fresh lines
lines that speak soul or decor
but never taboo

The capital is as many others – sterile, smelly, full of hangers on, and out of their minds. Up in the mountains are whole towns converted to catering to the wretchedly undermined. They have seen the ghost of the future, and they are scared (and screwed). They buy the vaguest of home made to cozy up their home for a brief moment and then throw it all away. The illusory is a bitter sense of irony. We can hide away and pretend that our mysticism saves us, or we can tell the story of who we are now to all who will listen. If anyone can listen, feel, see, or hear any more over the cackle of deprived totality. We are good at making tokens of gesture. I gesture you this, once upon a time there was a person in a cave who reached out across time with the outline of their hand in ochre. A stationary thin line across time that met with mystery. Only the mystery was ignored in favor of the cavorting tornado of caterwaul. When the golden hour turns to blue hour and disappears in less than 10 minutes. That is when the thin line between worlds will open. But we must never speak of it in case anyone is actually listening.

6 – Rest


Need a day of rest
overstimulated, eyes
minds and hearts are full

The mullein stalks sway lazily in the wind. The thinning sage bush is taking a breather. I raked the wind blown leaf pile over to a protected spot for the desert cottontail. It happily munched away yesterday and then sunbathed in the labyrinth. Everybody is soaking in the dry heat of the afternoon. The drab is weary, but shines silvery with morning dew. The exhuberance is resting. The quiet is so intense that even the eagle-eared can hear the silence ringing. Everyone else is sideways, do they know the value of rest. I look for animal prints in freshly turned soil, none to be found. The winter repose sets in heavily. Even the golden hour is shanked to a barest glimmer. It’s hard to be SAD, even as the light dwindles in gloriously colorful sunsets that fade rapidly.

7 – Greenhouse Vibes

Finished greenhouse base
first critical step complete
food security

We did the best we could being amateurs. Grateful that we never take it too personally when things go south. Shit happens, that’s just the way it is. Sitting in difficult, this too shall pass. The clouds in horizontal pastels. The relentless winds have calmed. The neighbors dog needs to be fixed and is barking incessantly at the coyotes. All the wild dogs on a roll. Woof!

Waiting impatiently as the pandemic roils through the doings of toil and promise. The reading is difficult and dark. To those that have been here before it’s still no cakewalk. The war never ends, and so it goes. Prophecies lay hope on the table. The land sighs like a dog, a big harrumph! Does anyone care any more? Surely they do, and we must! Reconciliation and collaboration are more than just buzzwords. They are calls to action. There will be no satisfaction until apathy goes the way of the Dodo.

Published in Blog

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