We were separated at birth,

the torrent, Alluvion, came

sudden like and the

massacred ego, awash

in the tempest hue,

had no harbor against



The images after, constructed

from Native spirits

untethered in the cold

inferno of an endless winter,

emerged from the

Wheel of Medicine.

They were

Spiritual, ephemeral, requisite . . .


I had . . .

I had so much to say,

but the separation was overwhelming;

I could only scream and yelp in

Beard pulling gibberish born

of the anguish . . .

the anguish of separation prior to

New Dawn.


“Come back to me . . .

come back to me,” I cried,

“and I will beat music

inspired by the love and

the Fury into your wintery


And we will make the love sounds,

forlorn but elemental.

And we will cherish the blue depth

and ride the current together

until death,



And we will persevere into the

New Dawn.”


But the torrential wind

beat down and caste

my plea into the

deafening abyss of

icebound passage

and I was



alone . . .


Love was ripped from me

and I died an infinite

Death, transpired in bleak

ugliness, arisen in

Spiritual famine,

the youth sacrificed

to scarred flesh

Warriors . . .


And I became a man accustomed,

the ten-thousand horrors, the ten-thousand ecstasies,

the ten-thousand, ten-thousand,

meaningless fodder but for

the ancient hymns,

Dauphin elegies,

And the truth became realized,

Eternal Reward,

A mantra of praise, beseeching:


“Have mercy on me,

a castaway drifting;

have mercy on me,

an initiate to the Wandering;

have mercy on me,

an intrepid traveler;

have mercy on me . . . “


And mercy was granted

in a blissful suffering

of color, sound, and fury;

a suffering reminiscent of

life before but fully engaged;

rapture without capture, free, but

suffering still . . .


And the cold Destroyer

beat down upon me,

fleeting moments substantial

in sheer volume.

I laughed, I cried, and

I screamed, “Come on . . .

come on with your furious

display.” The violent lust

of rapture flowed in

rivers of blood,



full . . .


But for a moment suspended,

my flesh torn and bleeding,

did I remember the riot of


And the Passion was Love . . .

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