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there are shadows in every image forms that there are no words for they stare at me like i were family in the crowd, i, too am an otherling made of dreamstuff, you and me they croon in their secret messages and if i blink just right, they’re gone

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The incalculable machine keeps on, incessant and inevitable, and thoughts stray from me like the sands, and everything goes away because this is their nature: they are one with the machine, and follow the courses of the seconds passing, while I am somehow outside, or inside, where I can’t get out, somehow meandering outside the cycle of life and death. The feeling that I am a stranger is not new, and in fact, it surprises me whenever there is some semblance of me belonging; just that now, I have this sense that I want just to settle into the framework of this world, where I am to be these many years to come; this noble savage, or not so noble: let us dress him in finery and teach him couth, and see if he can ascertain the accoutrements of society. It is a good experiment. For my part, I think I must forget that the machine even exists if I am to be a part of the niceties. But I know in the back of my mind the barbarian in me will let out a healthy snort at everything, and secretly, I will wonder at the silver gears that underpin creation, whose architecture inspires in me the wildness to dance around the fire.

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the hint of her coming is as the moment fills with magic the curve of her cheek a line between the real and dreaming she is what a flower imagines itself to be in its fantasy she lifts me with her eyes until i am drifting with the moon her kiss is where time stops, eternity wrapped in her lips her eyes are where the rose of fate blooms before me where am i? so lost in that whisper like i am nowhere. . .

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Vanishing

Where the snow has fallen, there grows not even the imagination of a flower. Somewhere in my mind it is always winter, so cold and fragile, where our breaths are somehow thicker with life, and everywhere is virgin white in the silent blankets of an eternal snowfall. The air itself is always so sharp, the skies seem to reach higher, and my wonder drifts slowly over the hills, as my eyes wander the vanishing horizon in search of a dream I could not name if you asked, remembering a childhood that never was. Where the snow has fallen, there lie the graves of all my former selves, buried in the imaginary season, somehow better than they were, forever out of any sight — like anyone who is gone. Somewhere in my mind this winter has never known the thaw of a sun who was ever loud enough to argue away the chill of this frost. The time is always morning, and I have just awakened, ageless in my fascination at every little thing: who have I been, where have I gone, what have I done, that somewhere in me there is still such a vast open country, spotless of any footprint, the purest white as far as I behold, in frozen bloom?

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Slums of Eternity Madness once pumped through these veins, this blood a fire, casting strange shadows flickering along the walls of my imagination. Aware of how beginningless are dreams, as if we in sleep join a powerful flow somewhere in the slums of eternity, this dream crept further, a poor substitute for a prophecy, but enough a stream to carry my spirit away in its currents. No, perhaps I have not always been here, after all. Perhaps I have traveled through the rivers of my blood into that beginningless dreaming, and I, come back into my mind, read the marks on the walls of my imagination, the ghosts who had signed it while I was away, and I understand how little I understand. What have I learned? On this ground where I set my feet, I may look out to where I was adrift: this life, too, is a dreaming that we join, and I think one day to awake.

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Within the dreaming, songs float by on wingèd heels, time is an air too light to be inhaled, vision a fantasy of falling trees whose leaves breathe out a river of candles. Mind is a toy, whose reason conjectures theorems of desire, whose fancy is a rose that opens forever. In the slow, I awake in a rush, wondering how one may travel so far and never leave oneself.

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Another Dream

I imagine snow descending like a thousand memories. There are places to go when I just shut my eyes and pretend that the world is just another dream. There are rivers I have walked along coursing with the freedom of having no destination at all. I have seen the moon pass through all its phases in a single hour, as if winking at me one slow wink, as if it knew something about me that I would never guess. I imagine stars shooting like it was the end of the world every evening, and a dawn like the first day of creation. I have found myself there, a dozen times again, and each time, I have been someone new, like an old friend I hadn't seen in a long, long time. But my eyes must open, I think, for it is not a dream, this life: and there is beauty here that I could have never imagined, not if I had had an eternity and a half.

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I walked outside today into a rainfall made of ink. The clouds had been drawn in hurriedly, like the horizon had shrugged. No one erases — this is just yesterday painted over.