Where am I?

Should I start again where I left off? Lift all the loose threads up to braid a poem? Am I suffocating myself with this systematic whirlpool of thought that I tend so carefully? I think I’m being too careful. I judge what I post here by my own standards, and I fear that my thought has grown a bit wild in the dark. I’ve become too sensitive taken up in books, and dreams. Where am I? I invite anyone who visits this place to make a comment and tell me what they think.

A huge weight of heat wakes me as I choke for air. A blanket of flames wraps my feet, my clothes, everything around me is on fire. I run naked out the door into the rain...

I Don't Write a Text

I don't write a text
I write a body with a skin
and bones underneath,
A life.

I don't write a text
I write an object,
With a surface
That covers something unknown.

I don't know what I write
Perhaps it's not for me,
or not to be known at all.

I don't write to remember
I do not write to know.
I do I suppose, write to wander.

As It Were

The truer reason

Feeling spoken with true feeling

Were a word

Always as combined reason

With truer reason a word feeling

Back behind the surface is the substance of imagination, a pure shapeless stuff, sort of like a nothing but like an everything too.

Land of Night

He was swung into the Land of Night by his toes, and was gently flipped right-side-up with his blanket covering him. He could see that outside the blanket it was as dark as his room. The air was cool and pressed close to the ground. The little boy pulled his blanket off and found that he was standing among the stars. The grass at his feet was cool, and the ground warm, and the dew soaked his socks. He looked to the sky above the stars, it was a black as pitch. And so, slowly the ground at his feet came into focus in the misty starlight. It seemed to him that the whole landscape was bundled around him like his blanket, the faint light held everything close. He could see only as far as he could shout and then there was a border of darkness. He felt like he was standing under a streetlamp exposed to the vast night around, that was free to stare at him, this lonely figure. The little boy sat down and drew his blanket so that only his face was showing. Oh, how his eyes shone in that soft starlight as he stared and trembled in wide open awe. So he waited. What do you expect came to him from behind the stars? I can tell you that at the time he expected nothing at all. That anyone should come or anything to happen hadn't occurred to him yet, so that my appearance wasn't a shock but was a gentle surprise. To his eyes I suppose that it seemed I melted into view, like appearing through a thick fog. I stood at a distance from him and observed him quietly, him unafraid and his face and eyes shining shrouded in his thick dark blanket.

The current vision has a placid surface,

but a vicious side cutting undertow,

with tame curls flipping away,

down at the bottom a low watt clairvoyant sits.

So, So, So,

so, so, so,
dress down long shadows
so, cry out mournfully
and unsurely tame

honestly I honestly,
sputter a deep dreary sound,
among
senseless shapeless visions
that cloud the dark
and fill in the night in my sleep.

Beyond Distinction

a wonderful wind opens
up a moment of
vision

a glimpse into an abyss
where from a warbling breath
rises from the listless blackness
a shapeless wonder of a voice,
in a sonorous whisper it speaks:

blackness to the stars
teeth, treasures, gifts,
and power beyond distinction.

Dragging the bottom, drifting along through,
the lowest basement of sleep, memories fall from above,
iridescent alien creatures from a tiny locked box of childish nightmares,
that only visit the deepest dreamer.

The Voice of Experience

In the world of what if's any idea you can have may be confirmed or validated with an active imagination. Figurative speech is a double edged sword, and speaking hypothetically is dangerous. Not unless you can find an everyday example that supports your idea, can you make your point coherent. Telling a true or mostly true first hand account can serve as a guide to your thesis. Figurative rhetoric is wily, you audience members each have a singular background of experience and knowledge that will interfere with your allegory or metaphor. Speaking abstractly and figuratively will lose them. Strictly speaking prosaically may shut their ears. If you want good and true stories to tell, you ought to start enacting your ideas and investing in your thoughts action. The voice of experience is refreshing.

Languagey is meledy,
Sensual is driving,
Good sense is drowning.