Babylon Born

If your neighbor throws a birthday party and organizes a trail ride, I would encourage you to say yes. It’s certainly a surprise where community arises, and an honor to take part in and witness such incredible horsemanship and stunningly beautiful horses.

I’ve always enjoyed magic—the kind that unfolds in unique and unexpected ways.

A few days ago, I set off from the property hauling a stock trailer to Colorado. Before departing, I began a multi-day food fast—still in progress—and then settled into an 18-hour drive.

Somewhere along the way, I discovered that Poranguí was playing Red Rocks Park & Amphitheatre . A little more digging revealed that the lineup also included Dirtwire — artists I’ve seen many times and who never fail to summon the “dancing shaman” from the deepest canyons of my psyche.

Also joining the bill were Thievery Corporation and Trevor Hall, neither of whom I’d experienced live before.

Having never attended a show at Red Rocks myself, I secured a last-minute ticket to the nearly sold-out event, booked a room, and made the pilgrimage solo.

As I entered the amphitheater, I heard my name carried through the crowd. A longtime friend and his wife—who had purchased their tickets months earlier, unbeknownst to me—were seated just behind where I had stopped to find a seat. Neither of us knew the other would be there. Yet somehow, among thousands gathered beneath the sandstone monoliths, our paths crossed in the exact same row.

The kind of coincidence that feels less like chance and more like a wink from the universe.

What followed was nothing short of extraordinary. The rhythm, the lyrical mastery, the energy of the crowd, and the grandeur of the amphitheater converged into something difficult to describe—one of those rare moments in life that feels less like entertainment and more like a rite of passage.

Sometimes the road gives you exactly what you didn’t know you needed.

This was one of those times.

Oh, how my heart yearns
that words could convey the message of my soul.
An image — may be worth a thousand — yet,
I close my eyes and
can only feel the pressure upon my chest,
where your head lingers and rests
listening to that which I cannot fully express.

Pavonia lasiopetala — Texas Rock Rose, photographed with fresh rain adorned as jewels upon its petals

And not a soul lifted a finger against the injustices of this town. You won’t find me walking in the crowds but you’ll feel my presence like a shadow coming to steal your crown.

The Obeahman’s Wanga
Is she a queen writing poetry for ears of the dead?
A womb withering — laying lonely in bed?
A moment lost, surrendered to the ego’s discernment —
Oh what an illusion, he whispers, you definitely earned it.
Rise, oh goddess. Urich has returned.
Head to the crossroads — hear what Inti observed.
Mayahuel’s blooming sacrifice
bleeds the pups from the ground.
A two-tailed Tolok beckons,
symbols spinning all around.
The Wanga is fixed.
The shadow is caught.
In the death of the bloom,
new luck is bought.
A poem for a poet,
a mother-to-be —
come quick, come hurry,
the world wants to see.

The Mystery of the Man Eater

Olyyo Aner, she stilled the beating heart;
I leaned in close and breathed the toxic smoke,
Apollo’s vision forced the tongue to start,
as darkened words the prophet then awoke —
where Hero stood in Sestos by the sea,
she raised her torch to light the lover’s way,
nor knew the altar winds were set to blow —
how death would come to be —
for scribes to press their passion into clay,
the embers slowly fading from their glow.

A single stanza Keatsian Ode in strict iambic pentameter with one trimeter line.