Brought the Bhavagad Gita
on a weekend trip to the mountains
but didn’t read a page,
arguing about bullshit instead.
Each night I experienced a lucid dream,
one with three dimensional t-rexes reaching
across my brothers bunk, one with a shadowed
man, silhouetted, tapping on the window glass.
During the day the dog swam for sticks,
aggravating his hernia with each fetch
while breathing through the mouth, paddling hard.
By the fire I consumed pages of Yaqui Indian traditions,
the cutting, planting and ingesting of sacred plants
with and between valleys casting pastel sunsets,
contemplating my spirit animal in between moments
where happiness was impossible despite my sincere desires;
heart cast unto itself, the loon, diving beneath cold water;
heart cast unto itself, the coyote, hungry, angry for action.
THE FILTERED PRESS 