still wild

i tried that old meditation,
breathe in, breathe out,
called to our caveman ancestors
and later that day,
rocks were a glow,
my insides felt the heat

 

oh! there’s one

radiant gloom

does drum

all day

Three rivers therapy

I stash paranoia and

instead

watch water flow.

*words by Steve

 

Dancing Trees

Acrylic on wood

i woke up one morning….

 

Vue de la cour arrière (acrylic on canvas, 16 x 8)

i yawned,
looked up, and
decided….

« ok, I’ll live another day. »

words by Steve Myers

How to walk in snow

Winter Sun (Acrylic on canvas, 24 x 18)

How to walk in snow
Each step a rocky mountain
3-feet deep in impossible dreams
that instantly come true

repeat
repeat
repeat

Poem by Steve Myers
from the book  Dreaming .400

 

 

Try Me

Try Me (acrylic on canvas, 24 x 30)

satellites don’t tire of intergalactic travel,
but they probably squeak when damaged and
make other machine related ‘ouch’ noises,
till the last battery is drained,
and even then,
hovering there,
for a few seconds anyway,
spying on tundra green down below,
and then like a crashing sky lab,
determined as ever,
to begin again.

words by Steve

En montagne

i sit in the bathtub,
not too often,
but the next time i do,
i will watch the water slither towards the drain and
remember that
water wears down everything and
it will do me too.
then after that,
i’ll exit the tub,
dry off,
and cut some vegetables in the nude.

words by Steve

skateboarding again

i was walking in the 7 morning
wondering if it 7 night
but the bed still alive
“at least that”
i was hoping,
window open too with
wind insisting on
rocket ships, venus fly traps
lord living in quilts,
lovers under sheets
expecting juice and toast,
so i let out a holly-hooooo,
i mean what else can you do,
and happy i was when
the pig chewed its way through
cowboy boots flinging free,
buses running wild,
the transfers good
kites flying
eskimo pie.

words by broken bats

 

sunny side down

mcdonalds was an ocean,
so salty and feeling so good
probably the smell of hash browns did it,
and then the sight of an american cheese slice oozing down an egg muffin side
and the membraneous feel of that flattened egg in my mouth,
the squirt of ketchup and gobble gobble gobble.
i hadn’t even touched the hash brown yet
and even when i parked the mcmuffin
and manhandeld the hash brown in peace,
i still hadn’t sunk my eyes into the beautiful black abyss of my coffee,
but the last gulp had to happen,
and in a blink of the eye
i was back on the street,
nothing but tumbleweed again.

words by Steve, broken bats