psychedelic homogenization

Methodical mysteries fill the

endless night with startlight,

firelight, sight, flight of

the planets turning.  Winged mammals

emerge from their darkened daytime

haunted hollow roost; synchronized in

formation, migration of galaxies,

connection, speculation, revelation,

a dead sattelite’s reflection in a

still mountain pond, full pool;

still flowing, not knowing of

beauty or destruction, consumation,

damnation, overpopulation.

Gravity leads the wayward water

downhill, soundlessly slipping past

gnawing beavers to the sea.

Turtles in the deep creeping,

rabbit on the shore nibbling,

owl on the prowl asking not why, but Who?

Concoctions of the mind bubble up,

blended beliefs, pureed practices,

psychedelic homogenization of culture and religion,

abstract reinvention of soulful activity

leads me from the bush to the shore,

to adore the breathe that fills me.

wylder chase 2002

Seed on the Breeze

A seed on the breeze

must land somewhere

in order to make a flower.

The wind must blow

through the limbs of the trees

to subtly show its power.

The rain must fall

down from the clouds

when the weight becomes a burden.

If the river is forced

to leave its course,

the sea it will still end up in.


wylder chase 2001-08

(sometimes they come a line a year)




feathers on the breeze

soaring above the seas with

ease to foreign lands




she calls from afar

an angel’s voice in my ears

gentle muse come back





two high curbs to cross

for an old veteran man

two broke legs, big heart




He talked about age

He said it was what ails him

that and the old war




plane crash in Japan

nineteen fifty three, the draft

chills a drunk Diné




his aunt spoke English

she spoke to him in his tongue

that is Navajo




he was mad when he

found out she spoke English good

he now knows his aunt



he spoke English well

learned it in Indian school

all braves spoke English




he learned Navajo

in a Texas Army school

when it was useful


he learned Navajo

to become a Code Talker

not to please his aunt



the raven watched us

meet in the gravel between

two high curbs to cross




a walker rolls slow

in deep gravel real real slow

as the sun gets low




five drunk humanoids

stagger through the gravel deep

the old man looked down




the drink stops the pain

makes you want to take a dog

or ask for money


kids laugh in the hall

walls in motel six are thin

after three days here


empty walls of tan

lines of lighter tan between

the big black t.v.


two high curbs to cross

we stood on the gravel there

six legs says he soars


I regurgitate

the memories as I go

so much more to say


pounding feet above

on the ceiling or the floor

children dance heavy


I wrote a song to

to the joyful beating feet

it sounds like this one


how could I complain

steal the joy from under them

churning over silence


unencumbered flight

is not allowed here in earth’s

magnetic embrace


depression is in

America is crippled

focus on the love


locked in houses

watching the bad news unfold

turn it off right now


back in the village

twelve years ago i lived there

in that old brick house


uplift consciousness

connect the shimmering lights

scattered and dying


sitting still is good

so is sweeping wooden floors

and doing dishes


without everything

we would have nothing at all

that would not be fun



change the story now

it’s the only time we have

it’s neverending




work gets done by men

cigarettes hang in pursed lips

nails get filled with dirt


she is merciful

she listens quietly and waits

wind takes her away


these poems are for her

she inspired me to write them

she reads now she knows


she knows i love her

no less than i did that day

when I heard her shoes


this invitation

to live and let go be free

made me sad again


tonight I thought once

a hundred poems is a lot

of sadness to write


the prettiest bird sang

today in the sawed up wood

hiding from the rain


she felt my sadness

she opened her wings for me

she sang soft and pure


immersed in music

liquid lights with Bassnectar

pleasure in my veins


stranded on the road

albuquerque took me in

made me feel at home


i stayed for five days

waiting on the Pretty Lights

with some new old friends


she is my mirror

crouching in the strong wind

in some far off land


collective thinking

harmonious progression

evolving at last


closing off our hearts

caused these ailments here on earth

open up for peace


moving west to east

the artist old man winter

working with snowflakes


a sharecroppers dream

two sun rises everyday

some food and warm clothes


just enough money

to eat for a day or two

after bills are paid


the first drops of rain

make loud clear crisp smacks on tin

wetting the surface


submersing young plants

in a toxic neem oil bath

prevents bugs and mold


circular structures

split the violent gusts of wind

produced in strong storms


the ocean’s center

a place that is hard to find

always in motion


a blank canvas

bent around a plastic frame

reveals nothing yet


solitude sinks in

deep down to the core of self

nothing left but joy


withdraw in winter

to analyze the inside

fix the holes and cracks


take a dip and float

fancifully on funk from

The New Mastersounds


lovely rainbow locks

low down in the dirty yurt

will we meet again


ganja concentrate

some people call it hashish

makes me think a lot


breaking the habit

modify cells one by one

renewal is slow


drove ten thousand miles

over forty days and nights

some days i sat still


food is medicine

one morsel generates life

combat scarcity


the look in his eyes

bewildering hunger pains

flopped on the sidewalk


tonight is the night

the supermoon equinox

synchronize the clocks


flower farmers fuel

conscientious explosions

of freed emotions


food farmers provide

nutrients and vitamins

vital to our lives


only two roads in

one road covered by a slide

one road is holey


i see stars above

shining brightly on us all

cohesive thinking


the frogs say thank you

when i turn on propane heat

in the steel frame hoop


coyote on watch

ear deep in the tall dry grass

the trickster crouches


fire is our old friend

thousands of years passing by

warming humans up


lost ocean in fog

wavering across the ridge

feeling for the shore


tears pounding on the rooftop
“no need to worry”


rest easy dayglow
child the days are getting warm
live out your half life


Yonder Mountain Strings

play Eureka theatre

we burned down inside


historic hotel

five Presidents stayed inside

wonder how they slept


Soulive and Lettuce

smooth riffery with good bounce

the horns blew me home


the war is over

Osama Bin Laden killed

celebrate Murder


oh why did Tang die

astronautical delight

sunshine in a can


deaf and pissing dog

sleeping on the wooden floor

humbled by old age



placed symbols made out of light

represent my thoughts


naps in the garden

rejuvenate the body

after morning chores


diffused by the fog

muted colors of sunset

pale green refraction


she brought me coffee

traditional eastern pants

drama and romance


loving illusion

blowing smoke spreading honey

she wanted money


Jesus died for us

Jesus died for Judas too

now that is true love


wide open pages

my soul laid down upon them

read my emotions


uprooted to roam

with permission from myself

to go see and learn


American made goods

are hard to find in the stores

one must search and search


American made words

are freely passed between us

prepaid with dried blood


futures are built

from ideas and culture

working together


futures come to us

past consequence our burden

we can start fresh now


action or non action

the only choice we must make

things always work out


see act balancing

before the iris opens

it buds and grows up


healing wounds take time

causing further injury

slows healing down more


lift each other up

do not tear each other down

stubbornness divides


life is hard enough

plants search for water with roots

animals have legs


war creates chaos

wasting time and resources

people starve and bleed


stop and take a look

what do you see around you

does it bring you peace


needlepoint focus

is required to wrangle in

unraveled heart strings


intentional life

the one we choose to begin

defy circumstance


the divine within

animate inanimate

projecting outward


warm willing able

bodies needed to suffer

for commerce and war


seeking peace with you

that is all I want to do

now and hereafter



Wylder Chase  2010-11

on Politics

I thought it might be appropriate to address politics now that this election cycle has broken wind.  Let there be hot air.

First, in the ancient rhetorical tradition of rhetoricians and scholars, I would like for us to take a look at the definition of the word politics.  Now that I see it in blue it looks queer to me, maybe we should turn it red and righteous.  What if it was purple and passive?  What if we turn it green and politically correct?  What if it was clear and functional? Now that would be a fucking miracle.

I’m not here to talk about politics in the way of the polls and the candidates.  There are plenty of folks doing that already.  I would like to share my interpretation of the political landscape in these Divided States of America and focus on what common ground exists between all 100% of us.  Now don’t get frazzled because I included the 1% with the 99%.  If they are as all you wing nuts both right and left declare, then we the people are gonna need their help.  Who the hell are they anyway?  I’d like to talk to em’.  This is about ‘us’, all of us.  Now if anybody is offended by the term wing nut I’m probably talking directly to you, calm down and breathe.  Join me on this journey, let us walk down the double yellow line and see who jumps first when the future comes.

So what do we have in common.  We eat, sleep, poop, drink, live, and breathe and die.  That’s about it.  The only consequential differences of any account are related to height and weight and the amount of dirt that we’ll each make.  The individual human experience is what we are all having.  We each exist and react to stimuli as time passes.  Our decisions are governed by circumstance.  Now I could romanticize or politicize or religicize any of the aforementioned terms, but that is not the goal.

The art of politics is getting people to believe that there is a cause with meaning and that by aligning oneself with that cause and supporting it the process of eating, sleeping, pooping, drinking, living and breathing and dying will be easier, safer, and healthier.  Personally, I don’t buy it.  These days it’s mostly salesmanship and pandering and when someone does get elected the resistance rises on the other side of the aisle and stagnation of the process occurs.  This may not be a bad thing.  I mean look at how the economy is doing or the fact that most of our soldiers are at a home base somewhere right now, or that gas is cheaper, or that the dollar is strong during this phase of governance in which our highly esteemed politicians have been locked in a stalemate over principles and values and campaign contributions.  Like most of the disillusioned, free thinking, open hearted people out there I simply want to live my life in peace.  I’m sure the people in the really dysfunctional war torn nations would like to live in peace too with full bellies, but they too are subject to the ramifications that arise from conflicting opinions.

I think a lot about the consequences of two-party politics.  The suggestion puts two forces in opposition.  How can this system adapt to the many different sets of circumstances each of us individuals confront?  A lot of people desire more parties.  I think that it is a noble suggestion, but in a way I feel that it would create more noise.  So far I haven’t found anything in the Constitution that says we should have Republicans and Democrats fighting with each other while our roads fall apart and our turds pile up a mile high.  At this point I’m so over it that I think political parties should be banned.  Candidates should run on their merits, if they aren’t accomplished enough to be known and respected and liked by a majority of Americans without the support of a whole network of fundraisers and gossipers then maybe they aren’t the people we need guiding these United States of America.  Hell, in this day and age we could have an officially sanctioned website where people who wanted to run for office could make it known and we the people and our reporters and savvy conspiracy finders can sift through the dust for the diamonds and place them in the light for a cost that is next to nothing.  Instead we have a system in which we waste a bunch of money that could be used to fix things on all this rigamarole and hoohah.

So if any politician is listening and they want to negotiate for my vote;  I’ll be up early  going to work and I’ll be way to busy to listen to any of this horse shit I’ve been hearing.  And to anyone that may be reading this and has the desire to convince me to vote for your candidate of choice please don’t repeat any of the aforementioned.  And if you are in the 1% of the 1% and actually have a voice, call me, I have lot of ideas and no time to waste.

an excerpt from #the Dove


She awoke in the hospital. Some type of drug altered her vision and she was feeling no pain. She stood up in a panic. The television light ran down the wall in blue, green, red, black, and violet liquid streams. The curtains undulated as if caught in a tropical maelstrom. The twilight could be seen through the partitioned curtains; the split in the middle opened on the strong beats of a salsa rhythm, the buildings beyond swayed, flexed, and pressed in on the glass, dancing mad children in sequin costumes. The TV made groaning sounds, drawn out groans, the wavering psychedelic drones of a Theremin; she had to turn it off. She sat up, exited the bed, and walked up to the beast. The colors still running from the towering screen, running down the pale yellow walls, running onto her hands and arms, turning crimson, she reached up, fully extended on her tip toes she could barely touch the power button. She moved to press it and nothing happened… Where’s the remote control?…She turned and saw it laying on the nightstand beside the lamp. She saw many other things when she looked that way, but only one disturbed her.


There was an I.V., constantly dripping, marking off the odd metered phrases with the sound of a triangle. A stack of monitors on a rolling stand kept track of her breathing, her heart rate, her blood pressure and other vital information. Every flat surface, the dresser, the card table, the shelves below the TV that stretched the length of the wall opposite the monitors and the bed, even the top of the generic particle board wardrobe in the corner, were laden with vases full of flowers. Orchids, roses, lilies, and mums living in suspended animation; their colors did not run or waver, the petals and pistils and remaining leaves did not blow in the violent magnetic way as did the curtains. The flowers sat still in the vases, singing the melody high above the mad rhythms of the machines, a choir of angels singing prayers. Notes clung to the glass heavy with the words of those that cared. One lone card stood on the food tray by the bed, an empty plate, and a chair. Someone has been in here. The chair hovering close to the bed. The covers clean and fresh, unwrinkled as if it had recently been made. Her body was still, steadily breathing, heavily sedated, and unaware that she was not inside.


I choose my words and if I don’t find one I like; I construct them.  Post-Dystopian is one of those words.  Now do I feel like I made it up, certainly not.  I put it together like I would a couple of 2×4’s laying on the ground and maybe somebody else has too.   Fundamentally, a word is comprised of many constituent properties, always relative to context and descended from events that resulted in that context.  Just like the 2×4’s that were once a tree.

The meaning that I interpret relative to the word at hand may be different than what you would.  To me post-dystopian signifies a transformation.  A transformation from a world of despair and beyond the naivety of believing that utopia can exist.  I know some will argue that utopia is possible.  I agree to a degree and I can’t prove it, but I certainly will not sit around and wait on it to happen nor argue the possibilities.  That in itself affects the manifestation of my personal utopia.  That’s also part of being a post-dystopian.  The realization that my utopia would be different from anybody else’s, leads me to the conclusion that two utopias may not be able to inhabit the same space at the same time, much less 7 billion utopias.  No wonder the word dystopian emerged in the first place, 6,999,999,999 people were in the way each of us getting to our own personal utopias and got us depressed and miserable and hopeless and looking for the answer for all the ails of society.  See the craziness.  Let’s get over it.  We try to fix things on the wrong end sometimes.  Dystopian is a state of mind just like it’s antonym utopia.

Now, I know we got problems, but living under the fear of doom and gloom and/or the impending apocalypse and/or listening to jibber jabber about whatever conspiracy wool is being pulled over whose eyes for what political agenda that makes you cooler than the next guy because you spent 97 hours in the past week researching it on wing nut political minded websites and are now the authority on secret information that was published for 7 billion people that are being directed by marketing to their own personal utopias to read, doesn’t help any.  We must act from places of clarity.  We must stop the noise.