Writing

Writing came by in the morning. Settled itself down in the shed...

"It's much more purposeful, out there in the East." So I was told, in a whisper...

Flowers sprang up, busy as the news. Bitch had a litter...

"Where are chefs nowadays?" Sharpening their knives...

It would be strange, would it not, if summer followed winter. Strange as a disease...

You stand on a plinth. Your shy smile flutters...

I am on my knees. There are words in my mouth.

"Oh you kings of the middle level, you stars of the interregnum - such power you hold in this dream that is older, more tenacious"

Zenith and Nadir were friends.

Nadir was a Moroccan boy of lowly origins. Zenith was a giraffe, with soulful eyes.

Their friendship blossomed. They walked tall among the trees.

But Zenith grew slowly taller. And there was Nadir, sucked back to his origins...

A friendship of the earth and sky. Could one touch the other?

Zenith could not find Nadir. She searched high and low, she hobbled. The tears rained down.

Nadir had Zenith, held fast in his dream. In this dream, everything was equal. Everything had collapsed.

Scramble

e s pel

Sticks

--

--

House of Sleep

What does a tiger dream of?

His homely, whiskered face, maybe.
Or of being long in the tooth...

Mood

Rhubarb.

Fragment: Telling

It is a tale not easily told.

What is "it"? A tale not easily told...

Fragment: The Particle

The particle was there, on its own. There, but merely. What of its origins? Nothing was known.

It did not move, nor was it moved. Nothing touched it!

Time circled, vainly. The spot on the ground. Above the ground

Fragment: The Guide

You are looking for a way through. I will fashion you one.

Follow me, follow me closely, all the way around. To the door, beyond the wall, into the ground. When we rise, you will have your answer

and I my song.

Fragment: Visible

I have had my fill of mystery.
There are those who must do without.

They rise in expectation
and in gladness. Poor, blessed ones

Other

"My voice is the voice of the oracle."

(Is it the voice of the oracle which proclaims this, or is it mine?)

Voice

Air
your words.

As It Is Written

My spirit dove
beneath the dark,
and clear again.
It sunned itself,
in fond belief.
Yet, still, it felt
a startling need.

Vacillation: oscillation
of dread alternatives.
Rise into elation,
fade into superstition.
Charmed in the recess...
Stripped, and turned.
Where? Grabbed at.
A bungled dream.

The waves recede.
They bear more
than you ever could...

Come, stranger,
softly, cough your cough.
Smile your smile.
For whom? The distant note.
Yourself: the garbled thing.

Is this the Author?

Am I the title?

Feet Have Eyes

I walk on my shadow. Is that a solecism? If so, I renounce the text...

Gladly. The lights, the twinkling lights, they speak to me.

Far from this darkness, this white sky.