m.t. whitington


A force majeure, female catalyst, futurist, polemicist, psychonaut, epistemologist. Ruminating between the lines with a clarion call and extreme unction.  A global writer with southern roots.


soul quanta

soul quanta

through the fragmented forrest,

a stealthy bobcat on wildlife corridor,

Aluna watched the early nidification 

amongst the blooms of cherry trees.

one sparkly ribbon weaved branch

set trilogy: flower, bee, hummingbird.

hedgerow of butterfly rose mixed sticks

for the coming backdrop of bent trunks, 

thimbleberry and lupine hint of cat piss.

Pythia mounts three bones of the finger

against creek trails to the highest peak.

clean spiderwebs top dusty cobs of truths:

gold screw, earthworm, red-legged frogs.

to the source, to the summit, to the howl

of the mountain lions on Hood Mountain,

the standing place of me embodies yaca. 

going to the limits of my longing, a sign…

“let’s do it” in the middle of Mayacamas.

french under pink moon peaks and vales,

Fornia ran from the breath of the beast,

a hot furnace chewing up dirt of become,

melting seasons of promise and despair.

maremmas, golden eagles, black bears

symbiotic relationships seed the soils.

one simple act turned stones upside down 

twinning the stars. spinner, alotter, unturner

cut dextral creep. all three gather sinastril, 

outside time and space. the door in the wall 

divides spiritual mindscape. light of soul quanta 

full of beliefs…and unbeliefs waits for shift.

the nest of self-examination, the fault in the rift.

there is just no punctuation

there is just no punctuation

OI

OI