(a place not here nor in dreams)
 
the devil rips up clouds
like god rips up souls
like people here on earth
 rip through telephone poles.
 
and somewhere in-between
we sew black holes together—
we can only think clearly
 on the peripheries of forever;
 
the wishes in the air
just before the deep—
the chatoyancy of there,
 twixt closed eyes and sleep.
 
but i am awake and walking….
 
in real life, but not here.
somewhere elsewhere.
 
you could say i’m the automatic pilot of my very own paralleloverse.
 
this place is definitely analog.
 
 but not so much that it doesn’t accept digital glimmers.
 
the kind that replicate wistful winds,
 and nebulous grins.
   the inscrutable kind
     that never really begins
       and never really ends—
 
it just spins
 
and spins….
 
and i must have said aether one too many times—
the same with aloof;
the same with the rain;
the same with the ways that i tread this terrain.
 
nonetheless—i suppose—
 
 it is all of those.
 
but i can never think of anything at first
or i am trying to hard
until i slowly begin to dawdle over the ambiance within.
 
the sound of my breath echoes and reflects
 like the caw of the crow that recognizes my face—
 
this is my place.
 
 and this crow is not part of any murder
   and it is not black—
 
     it is ice blue
       with eyes that say nothing.
 
          a nothing that reveals all.
 
            an all that envelops this place i recall
 
               this place that occurs when my wizardries fall.
 
as i mosey across this land of the lost….
 
what seems like an infinite lot of giant rectangular concrete slabs
 
archaically worn
 with mellow grass and placid weeds
   peering from the cracks
     and the in-betweens.
 
shuffling along; rustling up a fine layer of utopian dust—
 it stays nice and low.
 
completely vacant and so off in the distance
 are vaguely seen trees—
   i know there is a wood somewhere out there….
     but this meadow of concrete and dust goes on
       for quiet miles in all directions in all dimensions.
 
it’s always a few hours before sunset in forever.
 
if you listen carefully, you can here the loop.
 
the loop of subtle ssssssssssstatic—
 
so subtle—the whitest noise your soul could ever hear….
 
soon overpowered
 by the colossal reverb
   of pleasant repetition
     drenched in the rhythms
 
       of nostalgia.
 
this great mixture of i don’t even know.
 
i could almost dance if i had the need
 but this entire clime dances for me.
 
i would get chills if they weren’t already instilled.
 
and these walls of bands of various tans to browns to dark dull oranges;
 in the order of shades
   so radiant and slow—
     they creep up inside, through, and all around—
       they are not necessarily confining anything;
         they are just here—inside everywhere.
 
i can scale them without even having to.
 
and as i invisibly ascend….
 
i can hear—
 
the radioactive stuttering sound
 of some mystical broadcast
   saturating another word for everything.
 
a song so akin to my alien roots
 that it automatically enlightens
   this ecstatic journey to nowhere.
 
this is how i exercise the child within.
 
a workout program designed by my own divine mystery.
 
and all of a sudden! a remembrance—
so clear—so radiant—strikes me like lighting;
 
i was definitely a tree at some point.
 and i will, at some point, be a tree once again—
   vibrating in harmony—
     unruffled, untroubled,
       with totality
 
         so tranquil.
 
but that lightning!
 
yes, i was one with that too!
 
and my supersonic decay defied all i had ever learned to feel
 with its pure love and original sin.
 
shooting its neon belts of total devotion
 out from the center of everything i have ever been
   and all that i always am.
 
i can never see the animals—but i know they are there
 returning all of the whatever i share.
 
i’m wearing my favorite shirt and i can’t even feel it—
 just like this ever evolving weather is always beautiful;
   it looks the same way as it changes,
 
i never notice.
 
it’s made of the same intangible material as everything else.
 
i can see it all sort of perfectly from the corner of my eyes—
 but it’s always directly beyond comprehension.
 
and then i stop to think of numbers.
 
they don’t usually appear here….
 
but was it 1979?
was it not all in my mind?
was i just too young to keep the happenings in line?
to organize and braid the hazy frayed colors of time?
 
these inanimate apparitions mix like moonglow’s mighty tricks—
 and what exactly was i doing on june ninth, 1996?
 
when this was released in whatever world i was back then….
 
but i don’t worry or care if i was ever really there;
 the numbers always turn into clouds when i am unaware.
 
i’m so lucky to not be a mathematician.
 
life is what you make of it and this is what i’ve become.
 
i am always by the way.
 an afterthought of the future.
   the forecast of the past.
     absolutely now.
      the very first at last.
 
i am always the next word i’m looking for,
 
the next feeling that i have.
 
i have never felt more comfortable than i am when i’m riding this bicycle through the sky.
 
if the sun could ever break my spirit, i would gladly let it.
 
but only when i’m here in my very own beam.
 
and when i finally get to that park;
the one that is always there. crystalized in reminessence.
having never to have had seen better days—for they always are.
 
eating lunch out of a brown paper bag inside and among a thousand writhing eye floaters. i cannot taste a thing and i don’t need to.
 
it could be 86 or 59
 but again; these numbers evaporate like time.
 
when i slide away out of this scene into where
 there is a building complex surrounded by pines.
 
such a lonely and true light teal grey blue….
 
i usually have a slanted aerial view
 
as it starts to drizzle.
 
this is where i move in and never leave.
 
where i count the rain drops that land on my windowpane—
….every single one.
 
this complex is the apex of a religion that will never be founded.
 
for if it ever was— i wouldn’t exist. but it isn’t. and i am.
 
and the rain falls on…. and it’s not even wet.
 and its beguiling spirit would never let me forget.
 
that i am—in fact—that very last drop!
that very last note that won’t ever stop.
 
i am the one! the one that got away!
the one that can always come back here to play!
the one that will always come back here to stay!
the one that will be here forever either way.
 
and once in this while….
 
sometimes
 
sometimes there are lots of people
and i don’t recall
 them speaking at all—
 
but we are all part of the setting—
and the setting has now changed—
to another shade of this blue condition.
 
still blue but more azure.
 
and it’s water and it’s warm
 
and there are tiles.
 
a pool made of tiles.
 
outside
 
there are assorted levels
 
with people lounging all around.
 
everybody is comfortable and crowded.
 
an aesthetic dim so perfectly muffled and cozy—
i absorb the words that are never there.
 
with easy-going splashes
 and a zillion gleams.
 
and it’s gone.
 
i am this place.
 
i am not a person.
 
i am this place.
 
this place is my air—
 
this place is my essence.
 
i walk here wherever i go.
 
and wherever i go is all that i am.
 
i love this place.
 
everything i have ever done is in here;
 
inside this balloon i disappear.
 
all is immune—
all is clear.
 
i am lighter than any atmosphere.
 
i am brighter and greater than any creator—
 
let me go
 
let me go
 
let me go—
 
seeya later

(2014)

etherial, daydream, nostalgia, highscores,

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