Feeling lost and alone
And without one word
I hung up the phone
Having heard what
No one wants to hear.

So long my old friend,
I will remember you
And the things we used to do.
Who knew this was the end.

I went to the refrigerator,
Found what I was looking for.
Stepped out the front door
Drank that cold beer while
Watching the sun disappear.

So long my dear friend.
I will remember you
And the things we used to do.
Until we meet again.

No song will I sing,
No tune can I hum.
At the close of day,
Only the unspoken trial,
A memory gone numb.

So, so long my friend,
I will always remember you
And the things we used to do
Where we will do them again.

I don’t always carry all my groceries from the car to the house in one arm, but when I do, my keys are in the wrong pocket.

With a need to escape smoky skies and my own aloneness, I decided to go photograph a tunnel I’d seen south of Yerington, along US 95A. And while fresh air, blue sky and sunshine were not to be found, I did drive directly into a smoke that was worse than that which I’d left.

With the air still full of smoke, I finally found the tunnel. After snapping a few pictures, I returned to my truck, finding it was stuck in the sand and had to spend extra time stacking stones in front and behind my back tires so I could get unstuck.

Back on the road, I took the Fort Churchill cut-off, following the dirt road that’s the historic route used by both the Pony Express and the US Army as they moved from the fort to Virginia City. Having traversed the 15-mile wide Carson Sink, I came out at US 50, east of Carson City.

Here, I got my internal compass reversed, heading the wrong way, realizing my mistake when I drove through Stagecoach. A friend, who lives there, rightly describes the smoke filling her skies as a ‘London fog.’

She’s correct, as one can envision Charles Dickens’ “Bleak House,” where he writes: “Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snowflakes – gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun.”

Once turned around and heading in the right direction, I finally found the freeway interchange and pointed my truck homeward. That was about 10-hours ago.

Since then I’ve been sitting up, coughing, unable to lay down because it’s hard to breath. And with it approaching 0230 hours, I’m wondering if I’ll get any sleep by the time the sun rises in the smoky east.

It’d be great if pillows recorded dreams and we could plug it into our device and enjoy them again.

Whose Molotov cocktail is that? I think I know.
Its owner is quite angry though.
He was cross like a dark Othello.
I watch him pace. I cry hell no.

He gives his Molotov cocktail a shake,
And screams I’ve made a bad mistake.
The only other sound’s the break,
Of distant glass, of heat and bake.

The Molotov cocktail is fire, destruction and deep,
But he has promises to keep,
Tormented with nightmares he never sleeps.
Revenge is a promise this one will keep.

They rise from their cursed bed,
With thoughts of violence in their head,
A flash of rage and they see red.
Without pause I turn, leave them dead.

You know journalism’s in trouble when the headline reads, “Planes dropping colorful chemicals helped squelch this fire.”

Not savage eagle’s prey nor hunter’s meat,
The turbulent wind lifts you far on high,
Through winter chill or searing summer heat,
The turbulent wind lifts you far on high,

Better to flee your home than be outcast,
The life before you is your paradise,
Above grey clouds you’ll soar in flight at last,
You soar above red sand and blue-white ice,

Now leave behind a life that’s closing in,
Steel nights of silent pain; bronze days of rage,
Rise from your bed, worn body, and frayed skin,
Open the book of shadows; turn the page,

Fly free of summer’s burn and winter’s bite,
On swift storm winds soar jubilant in flight.

I jus’ asked myself if I’m crazy. We said ‘no.’

There once was a man named Joe,
Who said, “To the White House I go!”
They were all hoping,
He’d quit the damned groping
But he couldn’t resist the ‘Toe.’

sunlight aurora
a wild, old coyote sings
out of sand castles

near high afternoon
a flat, perfect rock unmoved
betrayed by the snake

nighttime eventide
the hungry, yellow owl flies
after the rabbit

shivering nighttime
dark, a wild scorpion hunts
among the pebbles

abandoned, ancient
dead man’s body sleeps
in his pandemic

an eternal void
shrill winds that whisper and sing
the voice of God