Flecks of reflective electric confetti

Open lungs, like a dragons wings,
send me falling endlessly into the wind
and fire. I dream backwards, I wake up naked.
Eventual mirror swivels vacillate,
exposing massive expanses of elaborate
blackness, speckled with
flecks of reflective electric confetti.
In contrast, the sweltering seascape splashes
it's fantastical weaving of temperature
and tension. Golden hairs sprout sanguine
and celebratory. Underneath the dense damp
dirt clusters, frothing with anticipation,
a tunnel delves, inside a shadowed corner.
Dipping fingertips in liquid glass,
reinventing lust and longing, antlers pour up
and out the furniture. A delicate twist
pulls an entire body up out of the clutching
grasp of death. We are ongoing, immortal.
Cold nights fill and overflow with the warmth
of this gesture. Our agony is a portal,
a language. I invite excruciation. I derive
a flaming bird, uplifting from the turbulent
surface. I swoon into endless spirals.
I resume fluid tuneless movements
through the fragmented
fields of this accidental existence.

Wratherly

Unravelling the tattered edge of my faded green sweater sleeve for you, I slept under seventeen thousand layers of filament, grasses grew from underneath my brow, flowers bloomed, the earth shook into itself, trembling with trepidation. Inside a white pulse, ecstatic, I let all the world remember me, I threw up a bucket of squirming color, all over and across the sky, dreaming it wide. Trust and balance in a static sea, held back the instant, made a melted and diminished sequence become crystalline, magnetic, self replicating, and through all the courses, against every instinct, I found the shadows milk. Nothing remembers this, not even the dank wet unfamiliar creature kept in chambers within chambers of your body. I was lucky, as you may have assumed, to derive a mystic formula from underneath the warm enveloping ocean. I was lucky, but also arrogant, and lost pieces of myself in there. Now my child roars, calling me back and back against the wall behind the furniture. I tunnel in, looking for solvents, trying to equalize the pressure at such a depth as to entirely obliterate ideas. I dreamed myself towards you, through that underwater passage, getting caught on jagged edges, but relaxing throughout, and soon a wilderness emerged, quiet at first, and then uproarious, devastating, unrestrained, and cavalier. Riding her smooth back, lifting me from those tireless depths, I was carried towards the surface lovingly, deposited languidly upon her stable shores.

deep unfurling filament

Feeling backwards into the deep well, while a
child grasps at the air around his windblown form,
a world of elaborate contrasting patterns; behold
the weather. I drink
sweet water of the earth's
hollow, naked, returning,
held by the embrace of old wildness.
I am a little bird, a child,
a woman. I am so soft inside
the warm parameters of this skinbound
skeleton; deep breath lightens the chambers,
and a generous elaborate outpouring of elegant
authenticity emerges. Fine filaments unfurling.
A quiet murmur in the garden; insect colonies.
I wake up laughing, swimming in the warm earth,
breathing underwater.

the weird signal

a fluid popping sound in
the cluster of round globes
spun like silk, zealous but
unimpressed
while a delicate signal flashes
like a dying insect into itself. We should know better, thrusting
our endless ideas into the illusory corner, banging our heads together. We should find
relief in the weird
signal. We feel better
this way, overwhelmingly alone, distorted and contorted against
the sprawling seashore. I felt wet hands groping from below,
in the shallows like a
dream serpent and squealed.
We follow the thread into its knotted center and curl
against the cluster, crushing
our inner vacancy, kneading it
into a firm and solid
concentration, a pill, a
pulsation, a
reminiscent beacon.

confounded

sounds of shallow puddles
and funky swallows
a bird hears loops,
and swims a spinning spiral
this one
alive in all pulsing fullness
and striving, like
feathered leaves
to move , against the force
upards forever, crooning, ballooning
and leaving the silent garden
to spawn

the world you love

The world you love is a spinning point in a great revolving field. The field of stars, extended with incredible deliberation outward everywhere, bound together with threads of light like music. The heart you hold, central in your body, a quiet tenderness that makes you human, these places all fit with exact precision to the world you love. Fathers watch living enactments of the actualization of love, all the time, a bird and flower and light arrangement of parts. The souled body; a room in the middle of all these concentric circles. I make a gesture, my mind relaxes to you, and around me you settle in like a chamber of breathable liquid, the air; an infinity of possible points. In the most elaborate and sudden construction, billions of tiny arrangements form. The wheels of time and physical motion collide with the border of actual conception, the conception of life, and we recreate the world. I am always making these adjustments, and finding ways to communicate, to interact with you. Please listen, turn your ear and your heart to my voice. I am offering you something, a living reminder, calling out from a place so unseen and untraveled, where you astoundingly are. Live in the way that brings your heart up from a well of held peace.

the death of beauty

I just woke up the same way I have done for
one hundred sundays, in my bed alone, still
sleepy, quickly losing my dream awareness.
I start thinking of my lonliness. It burns,
but not enough; I am still comfortable here,
in this repeating cycle, that always brings
me to my thoughts on sunday. It is not good.
My head is blocked and heavy; by the end of
each day, I am falling down defeated. I can
remember being alive with a quick vibrancy,
connected like water to the vast expanses of
a world spread out beneath me. Now I am sad.
I want to see you, right now; there is no
better time. I turn to you, turning inward
to myself, a soft place, and a blinking
ember, just enough to ignite the old flame.

Today, we are all womanly. A little twisted
shield, that you hold, that you need, that
will not protect you. We must learn to open
in the tender way of flowers to one another.
But I am just bored, and cynical. And I am
obviously stuck in a place where love is so
scarce, I am oblivious to the love I found.
Like a giant snake, return. Give me a soft
home in the hills, where the earth is clean,
and the water is cool and fresh; give me all
this and I will abandon the tired old wheel
of constant unhappiness. I am longing for a
life. I am longing and pulling hard at it's
threads, my failure. The death of beauty, in
all my dreams, strained out of the faces and
houses, making little buzzing model machines
to fly; crying out how long I've loved you.

circling in

a few times, the correct phrasing
ultimately divides, a cold raisin,
splayed open in the fingers
of a little rambling song
someone listen! undo
the creases of your mind on that
soft green pillow
a light, pale, unnatural green
like the green of the florescent
eco-demons, traveling
in droves though an only semi-parallel
world, a cheap digital imitation
of reality, stripped clean of emotion
and repercussions. A bat flew in,
and the boys all smiled,
music, making a play on
the back of her neck, light
and some vibrating sand on a plate;
golden, reminding you
of her, the way she spread out
and open underneath the sun, like
a field on a hill. Startled, the
animals all scurry off and fly up
depending on their form,
and you are alone, except
that we are never alone.

the feeling that he/she likes you

in every moment, I forget you,
and all that you have done
to protect me, to give my life
a quiet glowing warmth, that I
carry everywhere, and goes into
other people's eyes. but i
digress; leaking out of my
hands, with my feet sort of
twisting against the floor,
i think heavily about the
people i am not like, and i
want to jump and dance in
a swirling circuit of fire.
This is the way it goes, a
sort of swollen flop forward
into the curtain of tangled
meanings. Holding onto a
cold black rail, i watch
water dancing in a ceaseless
and relentless way, it makes
my face twitch, i am smiling
hard against this feeling of
incredible defeat, and you

walk quietly up beside me,
and look over; we are
afraid together--i know i
am--and also in motion,
turning together
like the ongoing ocean.
whatever this feeling is,
give me your hand, and
together we'll submerge,
breaking the thin
vast film between worlds,
and surface, where everything
is superficial.

watersong

there it goes in great gushes
sloshing
all over the forested surface
channels and creases
and blankets, sheets,
sparkles of fire, wet glint, the spray
all strange forms
all born from the same ocean
folding and foaming
arousing a small glittering vision
a static pulsing,
bent light leans in
on the creature, the first clambering form
the moment of panic
gutteral noise, bloom, blossom, blown
the curtain dropping
and lifting
revealing the
complex meandering of
some animal, silhouetted and momentary
like blinking
or swallowing water

concertainty

I ME
I make a bird
'IF you cans e e with
out looking
AS long as a filament
as long as a ray,
tENSe; past and present
teNSe ; pointed : poised
!
a perfect little raft
to hold fifteen thousand
species of ant
. They are so small
> The world is so small
= everything
listen
there along the sundrenched shore
in a sundress, soaking, WHat kind
of a woman am I. WHere is all of
this going,. there we go again...infinity

who ever said, whatever, or never
combine mathematics and poetry. i

really really like looking out &
across the sea, when there are
sillhouettes of diving flocks of
seabirds, and sand to press your
feet into, and the sense of being small

We should feel that way looking out into
the internet, too, that it goes on and on
and on forever, below and above the surface,
like a sea of swirling brine, capable of sustaining or
destroying life, and of dissolving everything; and indifferent
.

wet with light

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

curling ARound the current

the bent flame of the animal locks its grip on man with
unwavering eyes, no one understands the current that is
passing between, no one; eat them, make a tree bend hard
and snap, feed them, wash your face, make a little gesture
so she will come, the room i am in is not me, it's not at all
like me to be in here! I should be in trees, swimming around
naked, Laughing and making the animal noises. I was
spinning as a child, and always snapping twigs and
springing up. I remember getting quiet and listening
to the continuous purr. the animal is waiting somewhere
outside, I sleep, human dreams and memories, a
thousand fish crossing great open tracts of sea; the old
hull of a ship, corroded, and worn through by the brine;
a woman, all tangled in seaweed; the notebook and
the open inkwell, a library in the forest; she sat calmly
in the surf, taking her time with each piece, like music
she had to write, and i spoke but without a common
language, so i remembered my breath, and the small
things, the snail and the crab, his serrated edges.
today, all I need is something fluid, some movement,
depth, horizon, and the birds, that is all.