A sprout sprouts from the dirt. Above, dead leaves keep the tender leaf cool & moist. Below, worms churn the soil -- churn and aerate. Fungi decompose the lowest leaf layer, turning it into nutrients for the sprout. I'm tapped into all that magic from afar: -creation & destruction, feeding into each other -energy becoming life, life becoming matter, matter that - in turn - becomes energy. If there's a forest, I am the forest. I'm life and energy & death and decomposition... all in due time.
Loomed over by Howrah Bridge -- that big steel beast -- the flower market is a world of color, marigold garlands in orange, yellow, and alternating orange & yellow. The odd stack of roses: white, pink, and -- of course -- red. White garlands with red accents. Greenery. Loose flower heads in piles, pecked at by tiny birds that bounce and flit. Rose petals at risk of being carried by a gust into a swirling cyclone of romance -- only to be left littered on the muddy pavement.
I need some mind-breaking poetry - some Blake, some Dickinson, some Yeats, some Whitman, some Langston Hughes. I need a poem that's a kōan, that makes the mind a mackerel fish, and doesn't mind doing it. I need a poem that sizzles inside my bones.
I awaken from a dream within a dream, and I'm still dreaming -- dreaming that I'm walking with the others, the others that I'm told are all me, walking in some vaguely familiar exotic destination Of course, I don't know I'm dreaming. I did wake up after all, but it turns out that it's dreams all the way down.
drink the wisdom -- you'll find it more in the heat than in the liquid subtle - like the flavor of tea in drinking it you'll discover: there is no tea, but the tea -- a tea-less tea the life in you the life in me melted into a mound of unity
Stepping out onto a city street in the cool, unclocked hours of the morning. One looks about, but not as one does in daylight -- i.e. in response to sound. Instead, one looks about in response to the lack of sound. A clawing sound from a burrowing rat isn't worth one's attention. It's the silence that calls upon the mind as to a sailor on shore leave.
linked machine to machine we're bio-destined to oblivion we can take our fidget romps, but we're still turds migrating through a litterbox called life among us are sentient volcanoes, self-aware, but not aware
There are cities that grow upon cities, piling them up and spreading them out; amoeba-like false feet reaching down the cold run corridors of transit Markets grow up through the cracks - some vast and hardy tumors of commerce while others are little card table kiosks kicked into corners The view becomes uniform & undifferentiated - like an ocean, sprawling to infinity in all directions; more complex than the sea but equal in its dispiriting sameness In some room or another, in that vast repository of rooms, everything that can happen is happening -- loving, killing, praying, torturing, healing, and so on Rooms are the city's cells; the buildings - its organs; the neighborhoods - its systems; and we are but molecules in the city's scheme.
patchwork in shades of green, beige, and rust-red clay geometries formed of odd angles spreading ahead to the edge of sight & imagination so many fields in so many states - yet, all in one time & place there, I felt a tad bit infinite, being stretched from a stable center in all directions as time sprawled first to last in no particular order
In the world of mechanical birds, birds that whir and chink and prance with mechanistic precision, I miss warbles and trills and chaotic flight paths.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 