“You’re one fat rabbit.”
“Yeah? And your point is?”
“Just that you are one large rabbit.”
“I like to think I’m portly.”
“My point is you are the most epic rabbit this side of the Rockies.”
“Oh, I see, you’re a rabbit ass-kisser, that’s what you are.”
“Just big boned really, I thank my mother for that.”
I don’t want to go home.
Just want to drive into the prairie.
Where the sky never ends, and the disappointments don’t echo.
Not sure where my home is anymore.
Might as well be the open road.
I heard the coyotes again last night.
A loner, identifying, then the band, coming in from the cold.
MR Stuik 2017
Blue on the red hill.
A fallen one has come to rest.
Knew the weather of averages, the yin and yang of time.
Anguished, over after 4,000 years of enduring.
Dies in a deluge, washed out the roots,
revealing this face of persistence.
Wild flowers bloomed in memory of the tree’s spirit,
yellow blossoms burst.
MR Stuik 2017
The storm came on quickly
into the valley.
You could see it 50 miles away
sputtering on the hill tops.
Home of the Ho-Made pies.
See, Ho-made was a design decision.
The sign was little,
so to save space, “Ho-Made”.
It wasn’t until years later
that people started to realize
that hos actually do make pies.
Everyone was mortified.
I mean just beside themselves.
Cross built into the red rock hillside.
The red blood of Christ implied
in what was once clearly an ocean floor.
Long before humanity was even possible.
The notion that Earth is six thousand years old
is like saying the sun is a hot balloon.
Why does Christianity need to make natural history its victim?
Chapel of the Holy Cross built in 1956. Inspired and commissioned by rancher and sculptor, Marguerite Brunswig Staude. Design executed by architect August K. Strotz.
On the site of one of the Sedona vortices.
It’s raining diamonds on Neptune.
In the deep blue hydrocarbon seas.
Strangely beautiful and completely devoid of life.
Here on Earth we have a deluge of water.
Inconvenient, but more valuable in a million ways.
The queen of diamonds represents two diverging paths.
Which will be ours?
Preserving our treasure or
drowning in inorganic riches?
Here’s a window into my heart.
I’ve reached a place where I don’t need love.
And it’s not at all out of bitterness.
I don’t long for, anymore.
I don’t pine for rapture.
Nor is it out of a sense of defeat.
And there is no malice.
I’m mostly happy and free to just be.
It’s a big time money deal.
So they play the race bait.
To get the cash come rainin’ down.
They cyncially market with the color animus.
It’s the Irish boy’s brain,
they don’t give a rat’s ass about.
The head trauma pays.
The race drama plays.
They’ll have few years before
the hand shakes start.
I may have seen
through the fabric of the universe.
On the day of the solar eclipse,
I sat in meditation and felt
the metallic yin.
The moon cold and decisive as Ulysses’ sword.
It was the approaching night
that I would, thankfully, only witness.
But I saw it,
like a spectator in the coliseum,
the steel grey blades
that killed the gladiators.
63 words, I am forever free from 55. Now, it’s about how ever many words I need to say what it is I have to say.
Pearls to swine, but even swine have dignity.
And shouldn’t be talked down to.
Mud is not their fault.
The mule was huge and so in love
with the 35 year old filly.
I bought a beef heart to taste the fire
of the Verde Valley.
Organ meat is always served to the medicine man.