Mythville

American 
'Me Time'
on the 
Day 
of Judgment

Saw a skeleton woman

wearing a Nike cap,

and I thought I was

the only one

who owned One,

so my personal wolf

went careening

down a hill of shale

and rolling stone.

Due to this unbearable

pain to sustain this vision

I bought a plastic container

of Valerian root

in a glazed glass

container

at the Fountainhead

Trading Post

because I couldn't

stop bleeding on

about why

sacred beings

slip down

the cascade.

Was it poor health care

at the age of eleven,

the speed of things,

the hard corner,

when the wolf

was telling us

to turn more softly?

Was it the three angels

who snored slightly

in the incubator

of history, two smiling,

the other, groaning

over the false report

on the death

of Mother Earth?

Capabilities

for the darkened

breath, mysterios

with no less of a talent,

led me to go around

spraying cans

of spray paint

to see if the newly disappeared

watchers were watching.

O, some still have that talent,

for charming smaller snakes

into deep despair, or,

climbing the highest mountain:

surviving.

Tapping energy this way

is surely a theft

to restore sun

into decay, but our

stations of transition;

cold, cool, clear,

all swing at the point

of the same vortex,

from many reprimands,

from authorities wearing

big red hats, for vengeance,

for violence, for retribution,

leaving nothing: no fruit,

not even the Tree.

The birds

still sing,

either way.

~ Sedona, Arizona

artwork by the late Fritz Scholder