Find the Sun

Fractures. Staples. Pistons. Lime. What works with the machinery of taking? Connecting? Who am I to measure the fragility of the total process? It forages beyond me, for sure. Yet I can’t shake it home. The days toil in the work of hours, running down those things which you’d run up, although, at day’s end, the path is level, but not necessarily slanted toward the sun. You must find the sun, and build that bridge, and walk that steep road winding through the planets and not around them. Andromeda cannot live the relationship between Earth and Sun. Only revolutions change the color of the sky.

Infinite Flower Cooling

There was no breathing; there were no lights. Songs just kept coming from under the right vestments out of all the crackers there ever were in this native land of cracking weight and smelly shoes. We are America the beautiful and ugly at the same time. Those who push for independence swallow thought through a straw made of backward words. Those who follow the right make recipes for baking from out of the last colonels of corn found under the pantry of God the limited Creator.

My days start away from these, into the yellow blinding light of that which is before any time is taken, any breathings breathed, any noticings noted. The mind wants its time, but I want things to be vacuumed away from this unimagineable space, slept into a corner by the thugs of everyday’s watching and left to rot on the windowsill of all the Aunts and Grandmothers throughout time who have ever left a pie to cool where there could have been a tornado.

I love all my people, even the ones I have never met, for they are there, too. They are there even before place was found and will be there after place is gone. And even this place will go, and even these. Even yours and all of mine, but what’s now is now, and it is bright with presence. It is bright with feeling, an opening flower to Infinity which smells like all the worlds smell like before time, and space, and pie, and aunts, and all my people.

This Is Word-Processing

This is word-processing.
Flash
Flash
Flash
Through the mind
Out of the eye
Into the I
Don’t
Know
What
Any
Thing
Is
Ha
!
Feel the burn,
Which is the goodness of this
Before your mind can catch it and
Strangle it on the rocks.
Lift
Lift
Flash
Flash
And more than even
Wonder knows,
Said He.
Fragility depends on knowing
Where
You
Are.

Splash!
Jump to the
Thousand
Infinite waters
To love the
Round we dance
In love with dancing.

Never to the Gardener

After all this while,
I miss you,
Even outside.
No paths are delinquent to the sun.
These are the eight hundred
Learnings,
Teaching ways to see the light from
Out of loss and time.
They snap up the neck.
They lose the throat.
The same voice says
Go ahead
That says
Take me away from here,
And never to the gardener again.
He cuts too short, and
I cannot grow.

There Have Been Wars

There have been wars. There have been statements made. The time for these is never now, but always then, always when you last left your mouth to dry outside the sky. I cannot reach the sound, even though its words hurtle toward me through vast spaces within the realm of cowardice. These streaks up my back put an end to no shame. These yellow tire-tracks speak of pain, plain-old, and nothing else but what you can see in every dimestore window in the land of dollars.

These lands are the remains of time. Floods crackle through here beyond the touch of water, singing above the rain that happens whenever any day decides to cry to out of earth. The ground cracks, splinters, bleeds, lingers into a thousand open spaces where my whithering mind cannot go without ways to hold to back, ways to hold things I do not even want back, but only want to go forward, up, out, days lighting up the spires of engulfed terminals at the portals of diminished yesterdays that have not seen the light of day for many thousands of any measurements done by mankind.

How many shades of purple can be accomplished by waiting within any drawn shape? How many deceased cartons of reckless fuel can be made to unflower in this vicious night? We trade our secrets here; we leave things alone here. They smell the way they smell with even no interference whatsoever, and so cannot be imagined by any tackling doors done up in the braids of fancy’s listless days.

I will fly to out-of-bounds, where I shall wait until the last picture has been made on all the walls put up by finished men. These will count as projects done and done, completed under the way the sky looked at any time.

Flowers grow in space, like everything else.