Less Than a Carry-Away

These new doorways are always open. No more moss can cover oldest cracks, shined to brilliant blue by the darkening sun above the head of shoulders far away, further still. Paradise is a shifting vortex, sizing up and down to match illusions painted on it by the many minds of many more than ever danced within this room, or on the roofs outside, praying to the butter-god that all the wasted days of playland’s turkey-gravy ways be met by nonchalance, the I’m OK and It’s All Right that every sort-of-happy mouth renews with wringing underglances and beseeching hands upon awakening to different sleep, like baby birds who cannot see and wait for mother to supply the food to which they cannot fly. Turn on the TV: there’s your world. Do not bite the hands that feed you, even when they slowly feed you poison. You will be fed to death: in one direction, and not out, for it stays and stays around your rooms, like a foreign, wantless houseguest who pretends to sit all over everything, yet does not speak your language, cannot communicate even with gestures and body, except it does, but you are blind. Your money doesn’t even work here, but as wallpaper, perhaps; only wallpaper, on walls which stood before all doors and every way to out. These new doorways are always open.

You can pass between, you see. It works. You can. Bodies made of sand can feel the first breeze on the slopes of all the oceans carved to life within these stars, within this life, carried by proximity of light-years. How your face does long for it. So try it out, but remember: you must trust that it will work, or else your last diminished feeling will be banished to the longest desert ever done by time, ever made by hands or wind or carcass-saws across the boned and bladed repetitions leading everywhere and here by all the unimaginable possibility of every speck of traveling light that moves along the beach above the forest out of Paradise.

Just follow the water, which finds its own depth at all times.
Just walk on the light, which levels the water and bursts all the tubers and rot from their foils and into daybreaking, night-lasting night, all-uncovered but truthful as masks never are, except when they cannot be seen. The Light, breaking the soles of their feet. Cracking their toes, your toes, breaking the masks into what they have always been: lighter than air, and unnecessary, less than a carry-away.

If feet are undone by the Joy of the Sun, who will look after the minds?

Who will look after you?

It
Does
Not
Matter,

Says the Light of Which all minds are made. Storms may come and go; beings rise and slow; as above, so below. But let the Heart to leading, and it

Will
Not
Matter

Any more than all the 1-2-3-4 thoughts that curl around your ankles, waiting for the sand to drop away. It has already dropped away, so

On
What
Are
You
Walking?