Dreams Revisited

I'll definitely remind you that all knowledge is a memory born from a dream. As sun falls sleep wakes. Knowledge repossessed. A memorial to sudden genius. The gateway to thought is the gateway to dream, as all the world's apples are patiently waiting to be eaten.

A zebra, in all of its black and white beauty, disposed of black and white thinking, races through your cloud-dream and arrests your moment of despair.

You are struck with allegiance to the unfolding caprice of love.

How mimes can slowly stay their pace and tears become their flowers is no secret unto mimes. They are extraordinarily humble persons!

Vision operates on the apparatus of modern verisimilitude. But clarity is derived from dream.

(Some old writings of a few years ago)

Manifesto of love

Love in the heat of the day. Love, I speak of love to only those who wish to be free. Love is in the air you breathe if the sun is a glowing ember. Love is the arms around another, wrapped like a present for the present. Love is desperation's best hope. Love conquers the odds, when the odds just want to get even. The syllables in love are simple. Whispered in the ear 'I love you' makes the tension in the veins disappear. I'm not falling in love; I would rather be in love for all of time. The lovely memories that I have are love; unlimited sale on love, for the vast unknown waiting to be kissed. To the deceits and to the constructs unwilling, love. Flames brightened by the hours time's hands never strikes, love's assassins will be split by love. From the fragments I speak prenatal vowels; such is the language of the eternal word, love. There are whirlwinds of love, just as there are cool lakes of sleeping prayers of love. How tired is your heart? Let it be known by love. Take the misfortunate and the drab and set it down by the side of love. And with your golden shovels bury to the sky, if need be, all the poisons of the unloved. Slaves, triumphantly, give it back to love, all for one and one for all. All the greater to seek the eternal vision that is the emerald forest within your love. Misguided visions dissolve by the spirit of love. Practice your dreams - is it useful - or are such utilitarian questions the sign of an outdated cause? Why is it that presumably there are no reasons for love? I trace the patterns of guilt and agony which can not speak but merely hide beneath layers in the haystacks of the night; the cure for insanity is the far away cry of love. Always growing near, arriving at the dawn. Blue sunshine on your electric tears, past loves are no longer mountains. Let wildflowers grow within the heart. New wisdom, departure of shadows. I sing of fond tidings because that is the obligation of love, distinguished from hate, and unrecognized by fear. Therefore the illumination, the kaleidoscope which spins in good fortune, takes account in equal measure. The harp plays the angel's song which can never be contained or recorded, but each ghost knows by word who has ever been loved, so that all is left is all there ever was, by dream or by thought, in spirit or not. Corpses be damned, oh my good hearts, the stones we walk about are sometimes ruts. If in the afternoon you wander and be still in the mind, is it not love that thinks of you in the easiest steps? In its house of branches, roses decorate the man. Indignant though is life, without love it is hell. Happiness blushing through the windows, a cool breeze beneath the crystal sky I think about love. This is not a handsome inculcation. Let he who wonders in the slightest be drowned by the ecstasies of love.

A pond of stars

Sometimes the woman in all white threads would wander to the pond and drink of the water in all its stillness, a swan always present beneath the snow-white clouds, as the forests burned, an on-goining event throughout the seasons. Red and white, the color of beauty and passion, the color of tongue on flesh. The silver rain fell - beacuse it contained both the elements zinc and cobalt it had the essence of silver - and in doing so the pond became a mirror from which emerged a sky, several flocks of birds, and the orange-colored balloon. In the balloon rode the wolf, and a wolf is a horse when it is given in to the imagination. From the balloon emerged, quite like bubbles, several other smaller balloons, which, un-manned, arranged themselves like stars in the sky from far away. Of course, the woman remarked about this disorderly although beautiful process of turning day into night as feeble occupation. But these were not her words, rather someone else's. She was merely a statue holding a flower and wearing a wreath signalling to sky. A little breeze whistled around. A leaf perhaps, but nothing else. And then the evening was still again, blue as if housed inside a giant aquarium.

Slowly with your velvet tears

Slowly, slowly so your eyes can perceive of the forest world in the drop of a tear. Slowly, so all worry melts away like forgotten shadows and the brooks course through your veins. No more misgivings, no more crying, only true sensations, the likes of which are only beginning to reveal themselves for the first time. Slowly, you unravel yourself in ribbons and dance amidst the drunken age. With violets, slowly summer comes. You surrender to the essence of beauty into the perfume of time.

In love and humility

In love and humility there is
the evening star waiting.

Untitled

The grass is striped
where the women leave
the sun is vapid
where the snow is bright
at the end of the earth
that is so frightfully fragile
where the werewolves are sleeping
day and night
their teeth are little demons themselves
the blood earth pulses in the flow of valleys
And now tomorrow your little heart of wonder
so pure will melt another day
like the dying snow and the women who leave
their voices more vapid than the turning sun

A young girl dreams the world

A young girl dreams the world
her eyes a doll-like pearl
a knight dressed in silver
descends the balcony
that is draped with
the hair of the girl
where birds are flying in and out of
and a leopard is feeding its young
this all takes place
within the glass shell of an egg
and the egg is about to burst
into its countless colors
all seen in the reflection of
the eye of the girl
that is now almost certainly sleeping
as are the leopards and the birds
as the day dreams the girl
and the world slowly becomes pearl

Reflection

On reflection

nothing else exists but the paradise of words

afterthought:

the blue song plays on the tender eardrum of hue

The Fog

the fog
it will speak to me
stretched out, its neck
pouring itself over faceless things

the fog
it will dream for me
when I go to sleep at night
always in obscure places

the fog
it will think of me
as a small bug gets caught
in a spider's web

the fog
it will eat me
untired by endless horizons
it is the ghost of previous skies

_____________________

A Sailor Song

fair thee ho yon brillo pads
the ocean is twily smo
fairly vincent the albatross
shall let us go

amid current, froth, and slow
taken to spinaches
and marine life unmentioned
and low

fair thee ho yon brillo pads
the ocean is mighty and we
are tiny but the shiney twee
shall find us land or no