Reliquary for dreams/dreams

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The board's desire to hide, we all move upon it, culminates in an equal desire to expose itself, to increase the complexity, and scope of its game. The slow dispersal of fact, both contrived and verifiable, pollutes falsity with truth, to the point the entire paradigm becomes malleable, and open to reinterpretation. The slipstream of days dissolve into thinking, leaving little appreciable braille to touch, and recant into clarity. The upended mirror of jokes and coincidence earmark us, and violently sometimes, as warriors weighing the deadly prowess of self.


My bard friend describes the metaphors as meta-force, and warns us to attend to our pointers before perpetrating a pointer itself, falsely attempting to ‘solve’ or punish the messenger the direction represents. A symbol has little to do with ‘problems’, and a lot to do with focus, whimsically, as usual, which flourishes and court jesterisms rendering a message sublime for normal ears.


The men and women once boys and girls burbling with irrepressible energy looked tired and weary, dragging growing love handles as heavy suitcases bristling with deadly-dreary manuals nobody can quite muster reading. Their terrific weight of years depressed me; their false girth of confidence and success hid their quirky angularity, once tantamount to who they were, and would eventually become, minus the poisonous unction of fitting in, and acting responsibly. I marveled the over-coiffed doos of rigid dye jobs, and washed out wallet shots tattered, and dog-eared ... are these the same people I went to grade school with? Conservatism leeched from once lightened faces, casting a pall across the already ill-lit bar of a room. A few stars in an inky sky of the homogenous spun recklessly, bathing the wary in searchlights of X-ray, and predictably, dense bodies attracted gravity and chagrin.

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The maddening part about anything,

is its all-encompassing hunger for your time. Some people call that money, bit by bit, seconds of perception and energy elapse into that from whence we came. I recall the edgy collapse of my old p ... was I destined to suffer to find the art I loved? In seeing did I ... aradigm, where water poured from the earths’ mantle into finality. The roar shredded the air as the vista broke its laminar flow, and sailed headlong into perpendicularity; the feats of apostled saints dimmed significant otherness, and could-haves did-not, in ominous vertigo. A verification of dunes’ shifting in ancient pyramids covered or leveled, refused a teeter or totter; memories sunk into sonnets never rock-chipped, sprang to life, and demanded ears final moments. The bent mirror separated into droplets spherical, freeform and spattering into ellipsoids as they rushed at the ether rushing up to meet them.


Space if anything is a precious non-item we attempt to preserve.


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Pre-empting the Perspectives we fall upon.


IT’s hard to know when to spill more guts, and when to sew the wound putrid with blood, up. Creating beauty is a culpable farce we attach to, as it creates us, and we resist its urges. We inhabit a manic frenzy chains define; there is a supernatural duffle bag of tricks I empty out, and climb within, wondering with innocent eyes why it’s never been so dark. The self-imposed front I present the world is if anything riddled with work I never seem to accomplish, or at least embrace, minus its joy of never arriving. The journey metaphor resounds the emptiness of space water roars over, crushing those beneath it. Some play errantly there; laughing and scrambling the rocks of peril. The mists drift in eventual stillness; plants bead the droplets to stems rivulets beckon.