I want to imagine
the quiet pause
among dreaming
bodies unworried
by fear, just before
the dizzy speed of
radioactive play
began uncoiling
itself.
Eye
Antique dreamscape
Month: October 2024
Amphibious
soul on watch
Heart turns on the timing of frog’s cry, to catch the light falling through leaves.
saudade
with filling fantasies
Some of us can remember when all the play of the boys in certain areas involved the phrase, Bang, you’re dead! on loop around fantasies of patrol over living targets, amid the wild promises of ending famine with flying cars. I remember the dizzy vertigo of sensing what I could not express, which might translate loosely into something like, there is too much future here. Sensibilities, such as they were, were overfilled water balloons, ready to be tossed, bang bang, you’re dead, except they were bombs. Wait your turn, said the adults to these boys, and take the bull by the horns, and you don’t know war, for you are soft. The boys couldn’t talk back, and you could hear their resolve, filling each balloon body one at a time. To prove them all wrong, one day.
considering context
this solution an unknown substance, dissolving
No, meaning is not the cat’s pajamas. I think but cannot tell you how. Neither is it the bees’ knees. Do these dream in flower? I can only imagine. It isn’t exactly remembrance or having the same nightmare as the night before. This morning’s visitor wonders whether deer think in words without knowing it, so now I wonder whether I might read in flower, unaware as one who by the swallowing presence of an atmospheric mind, can write herd even when alone, and smell the wild prairie poem, recited in honeybee.
***
Inspired by Bernadette Meyer.
to love
in flight
To
in
for
being you––
I would
––anything.
To bird
making an ocean of me
and these winds, I breathe
up always into your wings.
May you
fly always
until rest.
Lead Time
Before leaving
Part of preparing to go anywhere else always involves collecting to yourself those things that you think you may need. It doesn’t matter whether the mind doing the collecting is the conscious one––the type to make a list––or signing from an underground, unseen but essential.
The Invisibles
Here and now, unseen.
There are plenty of us floating around, unborn beginnings. We are translucent sacs, blooming bodies like the bells of see anemones. We pull substance into us and release, moving in a way reminiscent of flight but not birds, of flight but not planes, neither Icarus falling nor hero triumphant. We are the unrecorded.
Here, before
Response, waiting
Speak to me from inside words
of the verse born to bloom before
it dies. I want to hear the fullness
of that nothing.
A Delicate Imbalance
Appealing to vertigo
Begin again–– before the fall. Turning and returning––the mind spins like a child to feel the euphoria of dizziness. Too close to the edge, I try to warn, back away from there! But vertigo is its own draw. The weight of seeming sanity is enough to inspire a preference for the vantage afforded by dizziness. There is sight beyond seeing, but no words for what it is.
Incubation
Hatching nuts
Universe in a nutshell, the obsessive turn, tapping. Wrecks, birds, centipedes. The mind set on looping won’t distinguish. The exterior is a prop. What matters, in the case of each, is the extreme metaphor trying to crack itself through the shell of its containment. This is why one must keep looping. Tap, tap, tap.