Beleura Hill Dreams, Beleura Hill Blues...

I'm howlin at my memory ordinary in its ability but painful in its variety

I'm howlin at the blue door, the rusted iron above the back porch

Bellua Hill dreaming waking mice under the creaky floorboards

walking to the kitchen where canaries hatched everyday on the windowsill

I miss cicadas singing for their unborn babies

the instinctual rituals before the hollow carcass crunches under my bare foot

my all day telepathy with Sophie and her third story spiral perch

like some sort of birdcage of the coast

I think my first love was you and our white tile shadows

when windy in the bamboo, the sounds devoured monsters wanting my body

I miss the fernery, shrubbery, my summery secret forestry, where the shade kept my milk cold

how often a Craven A was craved in the bedroom by my day seat of surveillance

but the monks never came outside, the cypress helped them hide

attentions drawn to clawfoot dresser of pre-war thoughts

all my summers melted into one photo of my father in the sun

the ocean whispering through his hair shirtless

like the bust of a stone statue pulled from the ocean depths of Crete

ascending to some alter over my forehead

or to lecture from his lectern through a portal with special headphones

buried in the shed where daddy long legs lived, the cobwebs scared me

I only ever scraped the surface through pennies and flathead screws

next to the burgandy Merc with the cow I was used to

a cracked dartboard held together only by dust ready to explode after a thousand punctures

the tackle  the rusty hooks  the fishing books

which rod was Franks, which one was Daves? I wanted the uncle I never met

I never knew him back then, the phantom of Cape Otway chasing rain and waves

my East Coast Buddha of the sea!

my stoic kin wise in medley who doesn't wear a watch

since that night, since it stopped

my emeralds lived in this house

my welsh my dane my british blood passed through the halls

the breath of my reason absorbed by the walls

I still remember the blue door

entrance to the throat of my universe concentrated to human scale

Lady Grey Hair of Seattle Seduction and Pacific Pleasantry...

Soggy basin bellows smoke and steam over the pine holding borders together

The Rocky Mountains look like ice cream, dessert, and no Officer I don't have any grapes

Clouds wrap around mountain peaks like white fluffy halos heralding angels

I saw a rabbit devour a whale in a frosted glass dome with blue background

bending backwards down to earth, in the Pacific Northwest
(shake the snow globe restlessly)
Evergreen guardians of the roadside keep a close eye on me

They hold boulders back, saving falling for sacrifices and mudslides

Road signs are stark reminders of the murder here

Asphalt snakes slither through homes flattening families

and animals now hide from the lake

Construction kills nature-children-babies, and century old movie memories

Distortion echoes forests and wood chips on this trip

Shadows dance and promptly reveal space spears hurled at hills

Riding through clock faces trailing the tail of time in her chariot of fire

the bitch arsonist of prayers

Now mothers don't light candles and fathers stay at home

Children drop to knees when they learn we die alone

Assassins put cross-hairs on destiny cat tails conduct symphonies

Instincts live viciously passed down from pets of history
We have masters to answer to!

Tired beaten boards with seaweed green coats seen rotten socks
of winter Northwest rain, foggy baptisms of sin
and looks stolen from family homes while blue knuckles roach needs a light in gray Wednesday afternoons by 99 south fleeing ghosts
(to beer and whiskey romantic feelings found in dives, and army boots on march and deck to books about patriotic killing)
while wheelchairs creek to rooftop organs blurting and breathing speaking to those that felt lost on a crossroad but never sold their soul though the devil told them so
so doorways of 2nd Avenue become homes behind pedestrian boots echoeing only in hollow

starless night
reverberated off of 19th Century pews and bar stools down alleyways to fountain feature veiny marble hues
street lights drop yellow tears and flicker artificially over gutters and manhole covers across from wall of lava
with vacant rooms for tattoos and black death children neck chain crucifixion devout to finger tip-less beard of England that reached North American youth
and in turn specific soundwave combinations gave way to birth inner demons writing new equations

"Hey you!" the night called to the closed window of showered youth
who levitated downstairs and smoked a totem pole for goodnight ritual
ignoring the cheap cry of Aurora and dread-locked ghosts in blackwall ruin

It's time for future memory image capture with some kind of mind camera
You need more life in your sleep
Eating a beard looking at Sierra Nevada in neon
Millions of people and they're all strangers
Washing travels in a 40 with quarters
I am a student of my Seattle Buddha
The one who knows the seas

Thankyou for being good to me,
Goodbye grey haired Seattle.