gonenessyou are just nothere any more noyou just are not
lin(e)ar commsthe line stretched taunt between the cansheld in our respective handshello can you hear me well canyou I asked you between landswith eyes for ears you know eye canat least well enough for weaving strandsand so we continue to fanthe flames of cosmos fire bandsmind's third eye epiphany brandswith thoughts ego can't withstand
startstart your artand see what comes uphe saidso I will I thoughtstart a poem and seeand what came upwas wondering wherethe seed comes fromand I foundat the bottomof that question something akin toawe
00 itintuit:close your eyes and stepinto it.conduit:coming this way andalready here.
forms and forming forms mandalas turn out from what is already turning
burstseeds fallinglife's recallingitself to reself
of a captured albatrossif you never let him flystill, in his eyesis the knowledgein his wing, the memory
notes in the sand before the tide comesupon a galaxya meditation formsgoodbye this momentgood morning, now*at the endrain drops becomeflowers of lifethe pattern remembers*after lightning thunderdoes not thunder?the whiteness holds this.why waits here.
tinselgiving awaythe Christmas treewe chose together
three days off - to read Steinbeckthree days off - to read SteinbeckDay 1.and the rain thrashed at the black crows in the morning.I could see themfluttering and mocking - amongst the grey mistout my back windowand after that - after the rain stoppedI saw the crows had driedand all at once the world stopped turning.And then things changed and slowedfurther stilland then started again like a lurching green cog,deep inside the natural worldagainstno-ones will -and after all that,after all the slownesssome brand new silence entered the worldDay 2.dust had gathered on sills and tablesand the flecks and paths ofsome unseen, unknown living thinghad left tracks and pathsand maps on the grains of wood.I felt at once a presence unknown to me - in the house -like a ghost of one missed generation - watchingacross gaps in flaky door framesthrough internal windowsand down dark stairwellsI spent cups of time ponderingthe new soul and things that reminded meof the scents and textures
Fairytale of the ChoirThere is a special place,Outside of the broadest wasteland,Sought through the cylinderof an old revolver.Have you heard the choirs of the dunes,And how their praise echoes off of shifting slopes,molded by merciless winds?Have you felt the thunder of those hauntings?How chilling the thought that Ihave only heard these things,in where I am disoriented by my thirstsand my revolver is closed-minded.This place is strange.I've known it only in the back of my mind,Through a peculiar hell of idea,Whispered like a bedtime story.
Dangerously BeautifulThey take off,like butterflies,in the sky.Little creatures,with innocent notions,like the shades of the ocean,or the smell of love potions.Breathtakingly beautiful.
LoveThe world need to learn how to loveThe world needs to learn to loveBecause love is so scarceYou see homeless in the streetsYou see children being beatYou see people aloneAnd even more bullyingThe world needs to learn to loveBecause it's scaring love awayLove is such a powerful entityYet it falls so quicklyYou build up it's strengthAnd like jenga bring it downThe world needs to learn how to loveBecause no one deserves to be lovelessNot even the meanest of the meanestBecause deep down they don't feel loved by somethingSo,To love, you need to open your arms wideSmile a smile like no otherSing with such joy the birds stop to listenWelcome everyone with warmth to challenge the sunAnd say 'hi.'Because 'hi.' Is a starting wordStarting love wordsHi, leads onto 'hello'Hello leads onto 'how are you?'And so on and so onUntil, they crack.And like an icy river they burst their banksAnd you warm up the waterWith love.
Saturday Morning Cartoonsi just want to believe inthe magic that always playson your turntablesand meanders out of your speakersby toesfrom teethall your magic that plays in the streetwho are covered by snowand beg for blankets upon entering the housei just wander for fur wondersto lead symphoniesand dancing tinsel townsthe choir of sawsgently being encouragedon laps of tall, tall beingswith peppermint arms, and soft bowsi believe in your magicfrom saturday morning cartoonsand those jangly theme songsinserted into my immortal youth earsand of all of those en massewe all feel your magic
of substance and essenceyou want to figure it out?your mind is a ghost,sincerely. it is whispers