I've been scratching a deep itch
that has not been scratched
in a
very
very
long time.

You scratch the itch
low between the shoulder blades
of her soul.

I may play a Masterful game,
and she may melt before me.
But she is not truly mine,
not even for a day.

She only opens
as far as she feels
you'll let her,
no matter how much
she hungers
for more.

I spark a fire
but it burns within your hearth.

I am only the kindling,
the warmth of the flame
is yours.

{Written - July 7th, 2006}

The fish swim about in schools and alone -
eyes roving, praying for a hook.

The worm isn't so hard to swallow the second time around -
and this sea is strictly "catch and release"

The fish know what to do - they've all been caught before.


The anglers?

They are happy in their fantasy that the fish aren't in it only for the bait...

And trust that their fishing buddies will NOT repeat these fish stories back home.

Though the fear remains, of someday over a few too many beers -
being reminded of the "big one" that did not get away.


========
From the Lonely Planet guide:
"The Blue Marlin, attached to Hotel Del Rey, is mentioned here solely because some regard a visit here as a part of the country's wildlife experience. Aging anglers and lithe young prostitutes are the most common species."

We have been fooled by mysteries.
Mysteries are not things to be solved by Sherlock Holmes,
Dick Tracy, or Scooby Doo.

A real mystery can not be solved.

It is a well without bottom,
calling us ever deeper.

{Written - October 24, 2004}

Welcome home, they said
as I drove through the gate.

And I felt it, and said it too -
to others as they arrived.

But this place isn’t anyone’s home.
It is a barren wasteland of a dessert.

Filled for a week with 30,000 neo-hippies,
carting around their Costco-sized provisions
like prizes from a hunt.

No – there is no home here.

This feeling of home we brought with us,
or created here together on this blank playa canvas.

We did not find it here waiting. We made it. It is ours.


They tell us as we enter to be on the lookout
for “Materials Out of Place”, and to pack this MOOP out when we find it.

But is there anything more out of place in the desolate Black Rock Dessert
than a feeling of love, community, and home?

Let’s not forget to carry this particular MOOP
away with us when we leave.

Update: I just discovered (2/23/2007) that this poem I wrote in 2004 ended up featured at BurningMan.com in the "Tales from the Playa" section of the website. Cool!

When love comes knocking,
it doesn’t ask “is now a good time?”


Love doesn’t care if you are ready.
If your ducks are in a row.
If your life is uncomplicated enough.

Love cares about none of this.


When love comes knocking,
will you answer the door?

I do not want to be one who runs from the storm.
I don not want to be one who cowers in the shelter of the eaves.

I want to be one who stands proudly on the roof,
wind in my hair, rain in my face, feet planted firm and unmoving,
fingers stretched out, calling down the lightening.

Some say that lightening never strikes in the same place twice.
But I have ten fingers, and two arms,
and I am reaching towards the clouds
with a hunger in my heart.

I am a swirl of hope and heartbreak
Hope - undeniable in the infinite possibilities of the future.
The promise of love. The unbounded heart.
Heartbreak - the curse of being finite.

An infinite heart and an infinite mind,
trapped and dancing within a body
bound by limits of both time and space...

This is the paradox of being human.