But oh how the west wind blows today, tomorrow, from the east, the test the tease of the racing black waters of curling cocked tree holes in time. and all of the times lingering, tinkering with touch and taste, tingling from the tide and twisting with the ease of a thousand river sleeves. the sides and sneezes of slithering, slicing bits of laughs and lusts, ancient crusty rings around the surface of your mind and all the cerebral rain that wants to take the reins, grasp the change, make the charge and lead the sirens through the alarms. a tincture of trust and a mason jar of misselaneous muscles to attain, to regain, to wrap sideways around the flesh of your fireskin, the soothing spine of your burning bones and the busting bursts of birthing breaths that sing from the clouds today, tomorrow and the east. the north, the south, and all directions from a to b to being to becoming to boundless energy bounding through the sea, curdling through the cracks in the clouds and crisping across the cuddled roots of redemption that ring into the earth, wrapping and trapping fistfuls of solidarity to say i am here. i am growing. i am ground and i am round and i am laced around the toxic tinctures that trap themselves in truth. i am a today and i am full of tomorrow, grasping, rasping with raspberry reality and strawberry sweetness suddenly soft and serenely cerebral. connect, collect and correct the silent remorse that wrestles with the wind today. that whispers on the wishes of was and has, finds hasbeen and tosses willbe under the wisps of willowing, billowing white today. todaysnow. and all the snowy remains of today’s ghostly grimace, the grin of goodness and the greased greatness that gallops apace across the pacing wind. back, forth and someday- through. snow tracks, snow eyes, snow breath today. today a day of broken spine of the universe sprinkled over the streets. today a day of cloudveil cowering inside the courage of cold. today only a bucket of white, hot tomorrow fuel. today, snow and wind. wind and breath. breath and belief. belong.

 

and then its just there. and then its just here. a beaker full of breath and a burning sensation of bursting lullabies goodbying and good buying. the freshest, the fruitiest, the fumbliest. the fruition of fundamental friction. the function of fun and the furnace of a forestry of ferocity. little word, little worlds, little hang nails and high tailed high heels and hocus pocus of the poking prodding praxis of approximation. the word store and all the prices the little meanings might cost, want to toss, want to frost and froth and force. all the freedom of frolicing and freeing. all the finality of fierceness. all the truth of time and all the bundles of rhyme. little lingering love taps listening to the litentious shores of sureness.

 

she said yes as she pulled the ocean around her like a walking cloak

like a walkie talkie, like a talk-time machine motioning her from the movement

of mysterious motherpulse. she said i have time for three more truths

before the lying lifts me into the lungs of love. before i lie down on my tufted tangle of time

and twist about tongue-tied and tortured with too much trust.

turquoise swaths of swishing swirls of sentience. and all the little 

 

through the glass onion, the muffled union of reunion and relentless fire of causal creation cocked head missionary missiles and all the missions of mind to remind to remark to rehash, relinquinsh. what do you want and how to do you want it and how does the flow float from here to there to everywhere to time to breath to all the resounding, revolving words and what do they mean and what is the freeflow and what is the float of fluxing, flapping, tiny twists of time and truth are the words today. tossing you into a rain fire and releasing out the ripped up tunes of toxic fumes and tunneled tragic trumpetting triumphant triangular trios of trousers and tricks of the trade and torrents of tangled tongues. time comes in the pressure formed between the preoccupation of my ego presuming that it is anything but emptiness and echoes to find that the words only come from the sounds of the syllables and the reflection of the refractions of my reverberating rhythms- not mine, but sister time’s- the revolution of release and the repentance of repetition. reptilian renunciation and you are creating exactly what you need to create in any given roller coaster- now you just have to reveal it. reshelve it, rename it, reproduce the response and how your mind tingles with yes this is it. what is in excess and what do i want to want to create. what i ACTUALLY want to create is what will flow out of my body because it HAS to get out. what i want to create is based on how i want to grow, what i am jealous of, what i subconsciously feel would validate me, because maybe i think it’s not enough just to channel- but that someone has got it into my head that i should edit, edit, and that should be a skill. maybe i should try it. wrap my head around the moon and try to get it to touch the other side. try to sieve my saved surreptitious surrender to my own sanity and thrust it towards the world in a way that they can understand. art not for me anymore, but for the collective. so that they can collect bits of my soul, rearrange them, release them, and find themselves within them. so that we can all understand each other in new ways. who jolts the impulses and why? and begin to trust that its all there. that it isn’t the form i’m headed towards, but the sheer responsive awakeness of my creative soul- that is what i have cultivated. and now we have to look the opposite way- what is wanted, what is asking for what part of me, what do i need to keep awake at what moment, how do i need to keep my whole soul wet so that i can offer all of it and any of it to whatever is asked. clear the excess, focus and connect to what is asking me to respond at any given moment. that is my next step in evolving my creation. my creative instrument. the me of this body, time, and place. and how words suddenly solidify and process. and how the mystical magic of mind moves everything. how to finally, finally order and arrange and connect. to the collective unconscious. bring yourself to the light. light up your northern lights and find the aura of your aurora. edit. unleash the beast, find the flow, begin to cut and paste. edit and erase. and that is letting go. and that is giving back. and that is trust. and that is how i evolve. notate your notations. your notary notion of nothingness. ok, now trust. and give it back. before you start living again, learn how to give. 

your skin is fleshing and fishing and wishing and rattling, tattling and tweaking. twirling now, hurling now. 

 

And ultimately, we must move towards this collective, this collaboration, this connection between and of and around and through. To jolt you out of the jingling jungles of judgment that hold in this creative fire. To juxtapose, to revamp, revitalize- to thread that connective tissue between 

So creation did it, didn’t it? creation lit the fuse. fused the fumbled fragments and fermented the forest of freedom. creation held us tight and swung us wide. creation creaked and crawled slowly and sweetly until it edged and ebbed its way through the evolution mobile. 

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