In the settling star fire canyons that light up the universe, there remains one call from deep within the rocks- hear me, love me, see me and my fire. Give my life back to those who called it out of creation. Create my being out of the breath I am. Let your wind do nothing so clearly as love. Let your force be everything but the truth, so that the great vast mystery may hold your tender groping hand and wash you through the whistling river of light. Let your leaves drip and drop to the ground, rainy and golden and pierced through the heart by some great being that wants to see the core of the tree. That wants to rip off the turbulent clothes of nature and get to the bare bones. Get to the bare bones. Fill those bones up with the mineral heart of revivification, mummification of sorrow and mutation of borrowed bitterness. Renew through the rolling thunder of rebirth. Rehash the running fire of clear, clutching, clean hearted yes. I am part of a yes that tumbled down the mountain named no. I am kindling a sense fire to bring shadows to my serene bottle of reality. I am firing up my freedom to let it fuel a little box of everything and nothing. I am sitting on the edge of edgelessness waiting for the world to collapse, for the grain to shimmer and wind itself back up the walls of air that stop and stare at me as I move through them. The silent, cerebral sentience of the invisible world of air that surrounds and sustains me. The curling white drops of acid love that wriggle themselves into the world, tuck inside every root, root inside every branch, branch out into every tunnel of flowing water. All the water and all the pain and all the forms lost inside formlessness. Call them out. Call them out to be seen, to be expressed, to be driven to the edge of their seamlessness and finally made form. Made color, word, repetition, rhyme, rhythm, to be made a story. Seamless, sentient and full of sense. Meaning mongering. This is what we were made to do. To call the creation forces out of the wild, tame them through our trimmed and trapped mind holes and funnel them through our youthful lenses into something we can read, we can hear, we can see, we can sense. Into something we make sense of through our senses. We are the sense aliens. Silently heaving through the stars.

It’s only a matter of time. A matter of measureless mindfoam. A minute miracle mineral named matter. Mine the mind. Mind the minefield name time. Wrap the rain around the rhythm of your brain. Drain the silence that strains you through the thorough into the threadless, the sweet serene bottle of breathlessness. The fire of fiercelessness.

Anticipate the ancillary, artillery of your arteries awakening up inside a blossoming field of burning white hot ash. Of billowing curls of divine sliding trash.

I see the star shine in the trees. I fill my cup of wonder up with fresh ashy embers of life, swelter them, swim in them, and let my skin fill up with soul, squeeze myself out over the sidewalks of the glimmering streets of stunted home vision and I stand back- stare at the tracks in the concrete and wonder whether I am made of metal or made of mind or made of matter or simply seabrine. Or is it truly that celestial center of the rainbow named time.

I am part of my own great whimsical wonderland. I am practicing wheeling out like a top, tipping out my truth and gathering up more torturous tongues of taste. I taste the dream.

Drag the magic out of your spine, its sitting waiting, sipping a cup of hot sea.


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