sleeping in the soft machine

And it’s a little lost, a little blind, wrapped up in new sights, half remembered dreams, something of the seven, orange tree reunions and when our eyes caught and turned away, uprooted plants, and for a brief moment felt inspired, days made sense as if they hadn’t in a long time, the sensitivity of love feelings, the power of a changing world, and it's been easy from the outset, cataloging coincidence and electricity, but has it ever seemed so simple?

Walking through the forest, suspected glimpses of this illumination.  Ran into fences, put shoes in creekbeds and called it some kind of baptism.  Nights became a haze of still motors that rust under vines, and blend with the sound of the bridges over tension of the places we inhabit, approach in confusion, pull back to feign certainty, oversaturate in color and noise, until we can turn breath into fall leaves and sweat into wet dirt.

Absurdity like radiance, like powerlines, as we're trying to move and find new ways to harmonize with old ways, reconcile the clung abstractions with the linear approaches.

and turn until we can't tell the difference between epiphanies and breaking points, can't tell the difference between calcium deposits and rust.

as if we’re in search of a world that could ever give enough, only feelings to trust, engaging loosely in some kind of interaction with conscious thought, here landed on the docks with the promise of a fire burning on the other side of the lake.  Hard to believe the bursting, budding, the kaleidiscoping, the given hums through the drowning vision, the colorful starvation, what can we do but turn in a thousand directions, and ask the crooked purpose of elephant tusks.  

Mankind is subjugation and murder and why's that.  

sky clouds tell of explosions and ease, and in the familiarity the frequencies of a mind seem extradimensional on a fall day in the spring with summer smells that still linger.

As if the winds unsettle in an attempts to help connect with what we can believe in, find worlds we never could have dreamt and we can only articulate the journey, we can only articulate the particles frozen in her eyes, and wish it could be more tomorrow, wish it could parse as clearly as old harmonicas sometimes were and are, and in the storms we can only guess what's under puddles, can only guess, make attributions in gossiping worlds, grow in and out of proclaimations, and prepare ourselves by calibrating gray skies and abandoned stations, finding some kind of peace in the freshly cut grass.

Women between dreams and the waking world, thank you for the kindest haunting, thank you for the constant reminders, thank you for holding on in scarce consideration like plants in desert sands, as we’re waiting on the tide, the predictability, how much we know without saying, how united we really are, and held scents to still the winds and sing to what we see in each other, as great and willing trees cling to carbon and find the anesthetization necessary for survival, the kind release of belief beyond knowing, and thus stars torn from black holes, colonies of ants coordinating on massive scale, a resurgence of bees, a resurgence of breath and a gasp to the open world and fountains of harmonizing wavelengths masquerading as clarity and soothed minds and bodies in chemical distillation forever.

through massive unearthings of hindsights and neverminds of yellow flowers blowing in the green wind, pink petals on the desert sands, and the sharp featured mountains a dim kind of grey, compelled to dialogue and experience, drawn to the forgotten daydreams that live in the crevices and promise darkness, danger, creation, truth in harvest, truth in electric sensations and the polarity of being, the specularity and the calamity, the torn and swollen ligaments, the mudded rivers flowing through abandoned chemical jungles.

Old earths frozen at the fringes, take us to your bridges, tell of what you've built and destroyed, tell in deep riddle of struggle and triumph, until we find relaxing through the a focused agitation, a procession of fear and rebirth, to cycle tempos trying to stay sacred, trying to be pure, and real, and we might be failing, we might be off the mark, we might be more right than ever imagined.  As we are in the shallow dunes baking in the sun tracing the story of the light as it ages, tracing the birth and reconciliation of life as constant tension, the genesis of harmony, and we will have known some kind of integration, some kind of transcendence, some kind of experience that exists so that it may continue to breath and feel and laugh at the memories of winter.

The are enemies of spring and we’re housing soldiers coughing on the battlefield.  Trading roles, method death and fear control, but also some navigation of well meaning, some kind of unturnable essence, and if we have what we’ve known, if we can hold a polaroid snapshot of where we've been, the synthesis will render a picture in time that we can hope at as we can only trust the waters and adapt.  We can only listen to the timing, listen to the words of the elders, and hope, hope its okay and hope that we’re close to right and mostly wrong.  Hope it’s far gone and new to the parsings.  Hope for frailty hope for error, hope to be blessed with despair, the dark colors of melancholy guide water like a valley to the roots of what we call truth.

Pixelated worlds, building the new spirituality, living dreams, bought and sold, new hallucinations and where the sun meets clouds, new blood cells, and the most genuine kind of longing and uncertainty, what could be higher, more essential than that?  What isn't told, once glimpsed, soothes in the queerest way of all existence.

Frantic minds making all manner of connections, build great pressures to erupt through disrepair and build miniature landscapes, miniature birds and painted figurines, as if this is where we turn, this is a comforting melody that builds a home, a comforting melody that builds a home, safe in release, safe in cooperation, safe in understanding, defeating the ease of being, meant for tension, meant for struggle and everywhere the invisible teardrops of coincidence wash images and things by the sight of old friends until we’re left with sighs of contentment, the wisest among us building rocking chairs and ladders crystalizing what can and should be salvaged.  We can forget many things, but never beauty.

Works