Sustain yourself with the clean-smelling petals as they wrap themselves into the night, scratching the starry horizon into constellations of want. I don't want to see forever, that's absurd, so: allow for a thick mist to settle, as if on schedule, a melted snowcap in mind now turned into a wall of fog to hide behind when the extroverts come to steal my energy. Reliant now on the tingling sense of the moon, I need it to predict my tides. The interconnected muscles in my chest float flashing moonlit bursts of my breath into the heavy spring air. I don't think I have hallucinated this street, this sidewalk, this hill, those trees, this comforting fog, but I have the strange sense I could have created them in the moment just before waking to allow for a walk into the introverted night.
Haman: “In the time it took for me to write this first sentence, everyone we know on Earth forgot about us.”
Remardu: “already God is calling to us”
Elund: “Yeah, yeah. Maybe your god is out here, maybe not. But what a ride!”
Only three of us chose to mark the millions of days, taking brief watches awake in slow motion, trading off tiny messages to each other through the limited bandwidth. The tiny ship could not carry more than one mind awake, loaded down with all it could handle, on the long traversal.
Sure doc, yeah,
Nope, I could
feels so weird,
try hard to
Whoa so that’s
what my guts
look like on
a giant orange fireball sun’s
streaming from the authoritarians;
our hopeful hopeless songs of
to keep us off balance, they are always
and hurling threats from
prepare the plebeian
to engage full
strap the tanks and fill ’em with
our tribe rides tonight, us versus them,
the ultimate attribution error.
Spores, light in the wind float down as thoughts from preaching streets Soft beds of literary devices lay my head on scratched-out lines while Delete key always calls to me, siren song of perfect backtracking The words edge out, sneaking into the world despite my itchy Pinky finger. Take root, and then: Vascular tendrils, flowing ferns launch new words in percussive volleys Unmanned drone assault on senses; senseless resting place for untongued splendors Create cloth green with woven spirals, unfurling outlands, Connected mind to forest floor, the roots a map, the result only Part of what is written.
Across from the blackened stacks
A green gray openness sounds
Echoes of ancient water
Echoes of ancient rust
Fungal layers over the rocks
Do not deceive perception
Only color it
With the peaceful blue to black
Of rising night
Molecules, roll out into your formations led by that trumpet in a strange beautiful war of intricate shapes and dances. I do not mean to implay that war has the beauty of dance, just that this dance has the character of an unending battle, intriguing but wearying, fanciful yet harshly sobering, with every now and again a glimmer of sheer mad magic. It grips us, for yes, clearly, we are but a random cannon shot launched in this chaos. Molecules, send out your hints and judges led by that trumpet of timeless law that defines this battle, our struggle to know that which cannot be known, our struggle to free ourselves from this dance which is the source of our existence, our struggle to ignore the trumpet, our struggle to be something other than we are: molecules, colliding