In the end we're gonna say we were just floating around like champagne corks, eventually hitting the ground then be lodged back in. We'll say that's us, holding contents in the bottle, and we'll be content on a shelf to be arranged with dust.
This creative thing, i don't have permission for i don't have the authority to engine it, and what happens when i turn my palm upward is that i notice the estuaries at knots with my forearm, a map of the vitality needed to write This. i don't have a trail of footsteps to follow where i imagine i'm heading in fact, i don't even know where ahead is. all i see is This thing slippery between the fingers coiling and grasping from within the gashes of my brain. turning over an abyss i get to expect my eyelids to close like lids over bread bins and open a less-than second or hours after to the same space as if it's just been captured on film. click and it's a trail of crumbs disappearing in the desolation of everything behind. i don't see it. This, no remains.
in twos pieces of a conch shell pressing into what could have been the window , a shore from which a pondersome look stretches, taking in a life of plankton somersaults in unpocketed grasps, grasps, grasps at
in twos the dangling curtain ribbons squeezing into a present, tense but firmly shut darknessings wherever there is room to crash upon hundred million forevers of approach of approaching
in twos surgery lines cuddle asphalts railings shiver while bridging comingclosers, left with two sails afloat, is, there tatters there tatters
she's weird. not proud of her address, projecting into the microphone her spider limbs. the applauding stampede behind her teeth an auditorium for me in the front row. gouged in her lower lip she has me all and over eyelids drawn cranium side-wound, enjoying.
a true teacher starts his student to do something and doesn't know where it's going i want to, and begin, true poets lead no one unawares it is nothing other than awareness that poets that is, creators of all sorts seek. they do not display their art so as to make it appear real; they display the real in a way that reveals it to be an art. something necessary, no. only possible. and wherever he ends up, that is, when he decides to stop and locate himself he will be there, having begun about to begin.
i am listening to the way the stones eat next to each other under me, my sound of stepping. i am confused by the red echo of the many dots on the green carpet, measled there looking at me as my pupils are trying to slip away noiselessly to branches, or grass, somewhere green then dart back unnoticed - quick before the magnet meets me, of their eye sockets, telling come, come out into the tumbling gears and working cogs of being interested in sex - join us here! the white fields demand the red veins to extract, then! a shoot at the low of my back as i am patting the ground, my alien proboscis exposed to the onlooking two satellites. i recognise these space machines, but do not know how to impress buttons into them without covering up the holes. i am listening to the way the stones sit next to each other under me, quiet. i am feeling now the surface of the planet just as starlight thumbs across it like turning a page, but for the countlessth time, the writing has not changed. i am seeing the starlight park its pats of assurance on the shoulders of cliff faces, brushing away eroding tears. i am listening to the way the stones wait next to each other under me - what are you waiting for? tell, tell! i, crossing, try, look me no longer at.
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Thank you for your presence and readership. And upon leaving, may you take a pocket of stillness with you, and a smile within, to share with everything.
