Nathan Arizona

I hold a blue mineral colored as the turquoise sky like an azurite dawn before sunrise. or even the deep blue night holding a silver moon. A polished cabochon of Chrysocolla emanates the early spring morning glow or a dreamlike trance that clouds traverse. My grandmother’s oxidized silver ring, is inlaid with Robin’s Egg Turquoise. She purchased it in Kingman back when Highway 66 was in its prime. The blue of the turquoise resonates her own beauty, and her age. Pieces of Chrysocolla Turquoise, and Azurite unite shades of dense blue minerals. The earth painted them from her soul of …

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I wonder the lonely electric, internet abyss twisting with uncertainty while sifting through uncanny piles of restless information. Raw data wants to reach sheltered minds. Screams are muted in the static of internet space choked by joyous or horrible manifestations. Religious or progressive fanatics stretch forth leery hands to offer weary hopes. In a shattered world, tangled up in magic power lines nothing is really safe. Cities sit next to dark oceans towns next to old landscapes. The internet motor continues to purr. I am waiting for the lights to go out. For the story-telling TV to shut down. For …

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I’m the sandstone cliffs, that overshadow cottonwood trees. I’m the dark basin valley that engulfs your little cabin. The shrieking wind is my soul. I am the wasteland that gives you access to sleepless dreams. My age will outlast human eras. My heart will sustain life forever. My wisdom will never die. My grace is endless, eternal beauty.

Rusty, painted figures animate on yellow sandstone pallets- made from red ochre that endured forty centuries. These supernatural beings dance across the pallet. They are living, breathing souls. Trees grow from finger tips, Antennas and tangled hair sprout from alien heads I feel the beating heart of the canyon. I can feel their ghostly patterns. What are they doing when nobody draws near? They look without eyes, Whisper at night. Painted humans travel across the rocks. Headless human beings hold hands, or connect feet. I leave a gift, a coin, Or something.

Eddie was the old banchee-like man with a twisted, hairy face. From town to town he went- singing quiet to himself along yellow grasses and highway. Eddie says he’s the Bigfoot Man. At night-time he sings, while watching the ancient moon rise. Over each belt of cloud, and dark mesa dream.

An elderly woman sits above a sandstone canyon, looking at the moon, in the shape of a cow’s horn. Thin and silver, its rests behind clouds. She deserted her home, before her children arrived to haul her away to the rest home. Looking into the darkness of cottonwoods below, She listens to the tireless flow of the river, traversing an ageless path towards the sea. Her own children betrayed her. They ignored her dreams, with their busy cell-phone lives. This canyon overlaps her age, or the wrinkles of her skin. Her mind became wise from listening to the wind. She …

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I WILL NOT accept the things I cannot change. I’ll break the windows of everything I know! I’ll listen to passionate dissidents. I want to deconstruct civilization. I’m tired of frivolous squares forcing circles to become squares. I’m sick of Uncle Sam the greedy pig, smoking his cigar on top of Mother Earth. I’m sad, because I’m sick of the beast. Squeezed by the left and right to follow their political lead. All I want, Is the safety of thunderstorms and gentle rains and windswept red deserts. Give me a horse, or a mule. I’ll become an old hermit With …

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I’m waiting in autumn for you. I’m freezing in the snow, waiting for the unknown to dissipate, so I can witness a dream untold. Somewhere in canyon country, you are waiting. I see your crystal eyes reflect off canyon pools in summer, but nothing is there… It rouses me, like weeping. Only the howling wind is heard. Sharpened trees, slice the wind. Sunglow illuminates their flickering leaves. The earth pads my tired feet. Everything on the outside, is stirring inside. Something sensual and dark hides in the bushes and rocks, in the infrared clouds. Deep from within Mother Earth, the …

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Chipmunks eat Starburst’sweet, fruity, and sour. It’s not quite like regular seed! They enjoy the hiker. But shy of humans, ravens plane the cliffs looking down on the hiker in suspicion. Junipers yield naked bluish berries, hard like steel between the teeth. The sandy creek winds its way cutting through banks of fine sediment. Boulders sit in rock slide piles, coming in endless shapes. Some without faces. Some frown, or smile, to show glittering, sandstone teeth. There’s the canyon’s shadowy ghost, it doesn’t mind the human, either. Clouds travel the September skies. The hiker shouts while finishing lunch, his voice …

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Deep in the harmony of painted labyrinths, and steeply slanted canyons-hidden in time, I feel condemned or exalted in the silence. As I traverse blue mountain ranges, The lure of Canyon Country is very strong. If absent from its stark beauty, The desert intensifies within my mind. I feel safe with loneliness, my curse. Between Earth and sky, my wandering shadow moves. Clouds shadows creep over gnarled plateaus, dreaming. The wind softly sweeping, sings to my soul. The desert hears my song, my spirit. The murmur of sleepless coyotes shakes me with delight. The darkness of the wilderness quenches my …

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The clock’s ticking; crickets singing Monsoon rains are outside eating August away. Rivers flow down streets. The town at night illuminates cloud systems in dark purple and pink. There are no stars out. Dense humidity smells up the house, making everything unbearable, sleepless, hot. Lightning slams the earth scaring neighborhood dogs, whining and pawing at midnight doors.

…I remember those early silent films of the twentieth century, playing to music and captions; the music always weeping along with muted actors… Humans know nothing of their existence. …I love the antiquity of flickering, and voiceless motion pictures. The art was waged against newly pioneered camera eyes… We experiment and explore because we feel alone in the futility of our inscrutable universe. …I can see true human dreams and excitement escaping through every frozen frame… We can only speculate, and have faith to believe we know where to venture.

Your thunderheads climb the glowing sky, in a desert reflecting warm colors of sunset. You bring sacredness this summer’s night to enkindle a lonesome dreamer. Desert storm of beauty, Your clouds are breathtaking. Your rain visits arid wastelands. Your thunder echoes over painted sandstone labyrinths over cedar berried trees over my sandblasted tent. Your savor is intense. Your sheer force humbles. Your cloud juice is my soul food. You’re my greatest friend!

Laying on my back beneath stars galaxies and glowing gases I think of the Creator. There is no end, nor beginning. There is no touchable ceiling. Earth roams a mysterious-muted void around a young star, quietly roaring. My mind cannot wrap around infinity nor the atrocious chasms of outer-space. What about a 4th dimension? For now, I’ll just listen to the canyon wind singing to my ancient soul beneath those candled skies.

They have felt cold desert rains- the warm air when it sifts through sage. They’ve dipped into fresh mountain springs. They’ve cuddled baby lambs and comforted nervous ewes. They’ve been blasted by dust and ripped over bobbed wire. My hands are simple. My grandmother’s hands are deep mirrors of wisdom and silence- I want hands that inspire after ages of life.

Dark rain clouds wander blue skies where dreams come alive, visions of the land singing A raven cries from a hole in a gnarled tree with twisted whistling branches. Thunder echoes across the desert, Farther than the eye can see The black lava rock is the blood of that ancient beast That was slain so long ago Locusts begin buzzin. An eagle heralds The dawn when sunshine slithers Up over the mountain rim Grandpa pulls up his trousers because Of no suspenders; he laughs Out with his diabetic belly And sings of how he suffers from “Noassatall Disease” Grand kids …

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Those island clouds roll by. The day is so quiet in summer shade. On my back I lay. The clouds twist and turn above mountain tops, their shadows quietly roar. God has been protecting my lonely heart his olden days aren’t forgotten. I dream and know the darkness of the woods. I come here in the day time to feel the wind. These things are clever. I’m broken away from common life thinking deeply on every rhythm of the sleeping hidden grass. This takes me farther away and gives beautiful rain from a dazzling gray.

I Dream of cottonwoods gathered in river bottoms, waving mountainous branches, and knowing their wise spirits. I dream of sandstone canyons and feeling the roaring of flash floods and the thunder of rainstorms I dream of barren isolation, of weaving through the deepest interiors of the Colorado Plateau. I dream of constantly scouring the landscape on two feet, beneath galactic clouds and blue sky. I dream of Creator’s artwork of sprawling wastelands. I dream of the furthest horizon. I dream of someday dying in desert seclusion. Let the wildlife feed on my remains. Let my bones bleach under sunrays. From …

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The Creator gave me life. I was born from dust and clay. The Wind dances in my lungs. From chrysocolla skies my dreams are chiseled. From granite clouds, I was given inner strength. My life and the land are one. My faith flows in sandy rivers traversing painted wastelands, standing ageless as Bristlecone Pines. One day, my tangible existence will expire. But I will forever roam landscapes of beauty.