when sound catches up with light, we ripple out. our motions, our sounds, are the nuances of things done and said. not the doing and saying. someone dropped a rock in the great lake of life, and some are made to rise, others to dip.

premonitions seem to guide men over the plank. they know what lies beneath, and they keep on walking.

may the waters be welcoming.

life is made up of days, like a jigsaw puzzle- all the pieces are lying about, and they will fit nicely together with each their own extravagent colors. i am a blind man, stumbling across each day, feeling its sides, textures; something is putting them together, some days being the borders and corners. i just cannot see it.

descending at noon in his hot air balloon a man dropped by for you ( Read more... )

sometimes less is more.
i must simplify, lest i prefer that joy sails out to sea...i shan't be lost with everything.
...
currently reading walden

a great night of attractions and simple stretchings overcast an expanse of sky; and here i am seated on a rocky jutting, firmly furbished for the dead, where tolled hours at all hours been hourly waiting, standing, coming to know my people are of a tribe of accountable beguilers, i keep praying for something dead to come alive ( Read more... )

...
somewhere close to far the moon climbs up in a tree so that he might read with me. he balances on a limb and cat's eyes are our reading lights. the trees huddle together in the gloomy wet weather under ubiquitous rain vines. but all focus fades as if jaded by our desire to see while awake these surreal imaginings.
...

why do we measure time in such oblique methods? i would prefer this mast time, which rises up in the centre of our lives, taking on our sails, capturing the salty air and gales, to be fitted by units of storms, by meals, by how many conversations ago something happened or will happen. we hold up such lofty conceptions that overweigh our heightened ( Read more... )

some sense of longing, intangible, harping calling; a sight or event dawning around the corner of the village. but inside the first cottage, are the dreamer's eyes closed, does some character veil the sun..because growing with intensity is a shadow perfidious?

even when recalling women balancing silver cups on their heads and men dancing in dragons' mouths, and all the foreigners growing like weeds up the steps, i am surprised to see it has melted with the wane of all the other memories, a splash of sound, a resonating wash of liquid waxes; it funnels down and drips into children of the tomorrows and the ( Read more... )