Into the looking glass went your eyes. And there you were again. Like the worm in your pocket after you stomped the Jerusalem beetle. You rise and you rise and you rise. And we know not what for. Look for it on the trail. In the stars at dawn. Where is your reason for rising? …
Oh Philos, you dug so industriously, like an ingenious prisoner with a spoon sneaked from the mess hall. Tunneling and pushing out past trails and birds, pines and crows, worms and lizards. Beyond sunsets and moon rises, to cups of coffee on a grand crown of land above the ocean. You smashed through the gates …
And oh the silly battlefield of days before. An hour floating in a puddle of magnesium water. Breathwork and mind stilling in a chair called here and now but in a place called shut up and pretend untruth. Playing with the symbols of the morning on a yellow brick road. Now that’s fun. What else …
I am nothing more, nothing less. Just a ray of light looking into a dirty, pulsing goofball play. At a shit-stained stage with second-rate actors. And the me character assumes it will always be around. The ego is delusional in that sense. There is no time but “lights on” time. And dream within a dream …
Take your time. Take your fortune. A green that’s almost yellow. Sprawling nightshade leaves on a hillside. Purple horns blaring bird chirps past humming bees. Something wild comes this way.
