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Edition Size: 50
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Narrative:
“So there my grand lady and I were again,
standing on her eroding echoing-edge,
thundering the exquisite pain;
pushing my luck over the ledge,
noosed by critic’s ever storming shame.

Its where we were now and then,
It's not what we say but how we remark,
gnawing the exquisite insane;
falling deep down in the deepening-dark,
toward shadow’s nightly lonely blame.

There again at the end of our day’s end,
misty tumbling-heartbreak canyon-etched,
weeping darker the same old striated taints and stains,
washing down a river of experience - stretched -
lined with familiar patterns and connection drains.

It’s shadowed thinking out of self,
like we just can’t win - no luck,
unless we start lying,
start stopping giving a fuck,
and stop caring and stop trying.

It’s enlightened feeling inside self,
like we'll just spin in place,
until we stop denying,
start stepping with divine faith,
and start dancing and start flying.

It's grand soulful wondering given to thee,
about striking down our love;
it seems so fearful, wasteful and insane,
while his light shines through from above -
as our storms run out of rain.” ~ Jack Mountain

I sat cold and sad out on the edge of Hopi Pt., and I mused how appropriate a place to look for hope. Deep within the layers, textures and the patterns of my life and our existence, I wondered how a troubled love could persist through its hazy layers, jagged textured edges, and seemingly endless patterns. Out on the edge here, looking into so much beauty, I saw possibility does exist and things will become clear enough to deal with the obstacles if I simply stand strong, patient and compassionate as our storms run out of rain.