so much resentment between time and
space, so many mechanics, the crane has frightened the scarecrow—some anchor we
desire, without the reign of its authority, just the security of the dove. the
curse has a name, a voice, it doesn’t mean one is lost, without redemption, it
means—one has something indelible chasing, arriving, residing in his spirit.
the florist is in the garden, she counts flowers and petals and has a time with
her space; many nemesias are ecclesial. the dewdrops are ephemeral. the dream
in its intimidation is concerned with the quality of remembering—the balances,
the hurtles, the cure for the flagrant noise, not vocal, unspoken, some space
inside—weathered or seasonal. (i was unclear for a time. such powerful
persistence. used to believe in automated writing—finding self this way. to
listen to vampire eyes, cultic understanding, or a quack, with his reasoning
skills; rigorous/religious uncertainty, baffling cries, much remedy in
retraining.) the dahlias are delightful. a smile means comfort in a moment—a genuine
smile. sure adrenaline rush, wistful examination, prone to slant and dwell in
days of old. i haven’t said what was meant to be said, dwindling into essence,
a subconscious scavenger; some inner paradise, filled with pictures, with
apples appearing; no one knows with spectrum to earth, or skies to clouds, to
have lived, only to have doubted existence.
