MattMain

Rain rains, the winds taking your dreams into the leaden skies that they then might be poured out across this big, living earth! There is a humming – synonymous twinklings of time, space, temporal thought and smiles. All convene; lifting you from soggy soils that you might jet about both free and forgiven seems the most basic of their capacity, their fuel.

Phosphorescent thoughts lead you to heavens you didn’t quite know you possessed. Another drink, another breath, another bit of watching the moon rise through sketched, legitimate filters, of dead and dying pine. The light is naked. Surfaces are still. Sound has fallen to a frequency you can’t quite spin the dial to.

Days can be so easy, full of smiles that carry tan arms and legs ‘round and ‘round — the merry-go another pastel memory. Complaints number few. This chance to be is temporary as the season. I’ve no reason not to love. Somehow it surrounds [me]. Somehow what we’ve been handed remains in hand. Do tread lightly.

There is a dawn and I’ve just born myself as witness to it. Spruce that ride like birthday candles atop the ridge flame and flame and flame. To light them out is say that the dead, sifted ashes of night have once again been turned into the interminable brilliance of another heated day.

Sometimes the body manages to carry the mind to top shelf heights. In this case it then asked my eyes to witness 11204 ft. This marks the highest I’ve yet dared to tread on blessed earth. Tomorrow, I head deeper into those mountains that I may nestle myself safely away from steeling noises and nights without. October will see my emergence. Throw kisses to the Void you weeping souls of this town, that city. I’ll do the same.

What is language and why doe it rain on some and burn through others? What is it that we say when we speak? Simple questions given a thousand times to different answers. Memory has got to be the most sophisticated and overrated tool of the always backtracking mind. It’s enough to be here and alive; it is so much more to feel wind and hear elk fording a high creek at dusk, making sounds like an old man choking beyond a closed door. Mallards dropping into the water like dead satellites or lies. Deer moving like vapors, their black hooves clicking on the roadbed, matching note for note the drops of rain which fall upon your cheeks. And one horse, full of breathing fire, stirring his 20 peers into action. They become storm. Hearts are exposed. Soil is torn from the earth. Things arouse. A dance commences and is witnessed.


My arms tenuous coils that serve to rein the twin serpents of my hands. People ask for for terrible amounts of everything that there might then be enough to choose [from]. Choice paramount to freedom; to breathing.


Along the spine of the Tetons I ride, thinking none of these thoughts. Rain mixes with snow mixes with wind. It’s a good time to scream — may your hate be sucked into no one’s next life. A king sun sets behind the pawn of clouds. May marches. I live quietly.

When you’re waiting for someone to show up, walk into the trees — they’re a ready source of towering, potent company. Right? Right.