A Thread A Skin

Speak in emotions an emotional language
And a language of emotions, infused with language,
Language devoid of emotion a blind faith,
Hidden even from the true believer,

A thread of time a skin of a memory,
Just remembered,
Forgotten,
Leaving a thin trace as it recedes
From the moment,
To a dark crevice,
Where untapped dynamic energies lie dormant.

Nights Devoid of Ease

long long forgotten places
between walls and spaces
dim dusty and damp

forgotten boxes fragrant antiques
dovetailed tables and chairs
well appointed fixtures
in suburbia relegated to
a perimeter out of sight
an interior exurbia

infused with a latent light

img harvest

The Long Long Fall

I’m beginning to feel the long long fall,
I fall backwards, and only see things once they’ve past
The world is not rushing past me, I am rushing past the world,
It is not a wind that blows as I plummet, the air does not move at all,

The world does not move for me, and I cannot move the world,
I can only move myself, and there are others who move with me,
We do acrobatics in the air while in our free fall together,

We cannot see the ground, and try to act as if our fall will last forever,
The house we build in the air is falling with us, it has no foundation at all,
Our young children rush to the ground too, falling beside us.

YVR - SLC

Sorry to have not saved you your seat
I thought it was you who sat beside me,
It feels like I'm dreaming

I deplaned in a daze,
I can hear the air conditioning drying me out,
A customs guard searched my shirt collar for weapons and explosives
three times before letting me go.

Harbinger

Don’t change your step harbinger of sleep
nothing but mold grows in the dark,
Festering thoughts are fertile ground,
where anything will seed

Keep step in time, the Night is short
Lengths of dark, puddles of light
and Forest asleep
Every tree hums, and the wind
a breeze quietly breathing
bends a single sapling low.

...another place erupts in the Forest
and the place is now a room
in a building, painted red

the walls, those hateful walls
pin me to my place,
in a desk like a slot, similar to every other...

These Walls

When I lay down, I prepared my self to dream good and long. Determined to have a measure of control over my world, I teach myself to bend time and space (the very fabric of my unreality). I return although, most every night to my elementary school. Here I feel the tyranny of those walls crush my will to remake my interior world. It seems as if my imagination is contained at those times in those walls, held prisoner from me. Like a child I am powerless to this institution that holds such immense power over my mind and body. The dreamer that I am, will awaken though, and it may be soon.

ECUAD Creative Process: Devices in Which to Weigh a Dragon

ECUAD Creative Process: Some myths and some symbols for a future paradigm

An Inspired Fire

In the future I will be dreaming, of a slow and steady flame
In a kind of sleep, in a scarlet mood.

Porticelli

Floating down the street, the street with arcades running both sides all lit for the absent patrons, the shop's windows display goods to a silent promenade of no one. The always cold always dusty stone underfoot shines its singular lustre. Smudged, scrubbed and freshly painted and plastered columns support the arches above. Turn a corner, there will be no one, the fiends and shoppers go home when the shops close.

A Waking Dream

During the time of the night when I first start to dream, I was woken by a phone call. So, now I could not sleep, although a little of that dream still clung to my waking life.

I saw a vast hall, deep underground from far away — filled with many people. The roof was sheared off so that I could watch them from above. Or, maybe it was only from a mountain I saw this room. There was soft light from lanterns strung between the walls, and I seemed to be floating. Slowly as I left the scene my interest grew and my thoughts wandered to a less peaceful place.

All scientists are artists, although not good ones.
Also, all artists are scientists, although not good ones.

Composite Storia

Following my course down the hall into the stairwell, I pass down to the lower street level exit of the House. The door is broken, huge and made of ancient wood. I skip over the street with two long strides into an arched entrance of a stone, temple like palazzo to mail a package. Standing, waiting on the green marble floor for a clerk's attention the afternoon moves at a special pace.

The people's deepest desire is sleep

They walk in a waking dream,
through the dark, casting no shadows

Wandering the Streets, never finding
Night's sweet child Sleep.

Further On Place

This building is a tyrant, it structures every part of my life

This building has friends and is friendly with its neighbors,
here is a community

This building is my home, this house is where my family raised me.

A Finite Stage

This landscape pulls up close around me
A vast plain laid before me
Where I make gestures
And pace in circles


Spreading, radiating
On this expanse of asphalt,
As still as still waters,
Taking Darkness from the
objects on this surface.

Place #1

Spreading, radiating
On this expanse of asphalt,
As still as still waters,
Taking Darkness from the
objects on this surface.