When Nature Sleeps

If everything could bend like a river well
There'd be a million more like you who register so well
-On target; is a connection real or indefinable?
And some yearning heart would ask you to tell
Whether or not the world is temporary or sustainable

They'd have eyes like rock beads on a riverbed, I think, sparkling with one white dot underneath the sun. I'd watch the sky rush over as the water sled down into the forest, behind the shade of a thousand leaves. Everything would melt and bend, wouldn't it?

Or the sun above with fructose stars?
Cheery red or sun dried like golden wheat?

I thought that, if I opened my eyes, it would all disappear. The smell of coffee brewing would wake me surely, wouldn't it? Or the sounds of popping cherries, smoke filling the air, the wind smashing leaves and Spring flowers against my window; all of it was coming at me as if to wake me from this sleep. Before I woke up I wondered if it would change anything, to see this world instead of the other one, instead of any other world. I turned over.

In great light: the sun beamed past my eyelids and painted my unconscious orange. I told myself that I had no choice but that was a lie: we all do, and that's the truth. Choice to choose which would, choice to rise out of bed. Fatalists would argue different, but they've chosen what to believe. Everyone does, and that choice effects how they live. Maybe they chose to believe they have no choice, that the way the stars aligned made them do what they were going to do, or everything is just being played out and they're stuck in this inescapable world of cause and effect.

Would we ever be able to know? Science has told us several stories, each one against the last as we revise ourselves into higher forms of logic. What I wanted to know, really wanted to know, is whether or not it's all a moot point. To try to overcome our limitation in perspective, that is.

I chose to wake up, and all the silly little things came ringing back into my face; red against white fabric. To get up and continue despite the absurdity of our situation. And all that seems left to hang onto in the world was left in the budding leaves outside of my window; the nature that grew despite itself.

One day, maybe, I'll get to awake to the reflection of the world in some one else's eyes.

60 Seconds in the Morning.

In a way I saw only the beginning. Stars that poured from mouths in the dead of night, or how their faces all slightly twitched. Every thought that was in my mind seemed to speak too truly to me, too honest. In my mind streets and trees rushed passed and the wind whipped me in the face; the sky was our ocean and we rode the waves of the land on and on and on. For once I didn't know where I was, only the it was earth and that I was a pure human. For once I felt no doubt of what was real and surreal, no doubt about my projection to others, nor any fear of failure, misguidance, or simply being wrong. Everything was merry and yellow like the sun, and our faces beamed on the highway. School again until it would never end. I never saw myself or my eyes.

For once I felt as though I was just inside of my own body.

Being the beginning, the sun came over and spilled it's light into our apartment living room. Beautiful people sang through our speakers and people cooked food or tried to write and draw and paint. Study for tests, go to school, quit a job, and cleaned up messes. As human beings, people are entitled to small meaningless gestures that, for whatever reason, still effect them despite their meaninglessness. Maybe it's because everyone is an existentialist even if they don't know it, displacing their own ego and soul into things to give them meaning in their own sense, whether or not they actually created it themselves. It all comes back into them raising their awareness in some imagined way, shifting their universe a few inches to the left or the right. Screams subside and the woods whistle as the wind blows through them and I

I feel it come through me and wash me clean, and like everyone, I am born again.

Untitled Song

Seems to me i desperately
Need a face to set me free
Words like water from her mouth
Telling me i should head south

Though the ocean overflows
I see no one who speaks or knows
Of any fields or brooks or groves
Only boxes, sinks and stoves

Seems to me i'd rather need
Heights of blue and a hit of speed
And yet nothing will ever be
Like something we cannot see

In applying all my thoughts
I saw the trees lose all their leaves
(There's a just a few that became lost)
Fell to the floor and swarmed like bees

Seems to me i want to be
Only everything endlessly
If i held the sun in my palm
Id' be with you
And i'd be calm

If I Die

"I think... Lowen was the one that said it, finding your own bliss. Mine isn't so much bliss as it is serenity, comfort. It's inside of me like a sleeping bag for my soul, and it's there so that I can stay comfortable if I want to, despite heat or cold or physical discomfort. It's alright, a phase that will pass, and in the end it'll be alright. Even if I die, even if I never do fall in love or die alone, it'll be alright. And if that happens, the last thing I want to think about is the sky and falling into it, becoming part of the sky and spreading out until I'm only air. I'll think about all the people that are happy, and all the people that are sad; I'll think about everyone I think is smart and everyone I think is stupid, what their lives will be like. None of them will end unhappily, and they'll all see something different than me in the end. But it'll still be beauty, whether that be Turner, Picaso, Constable, or El Greco. Dirt and gold will be equal, and it won't matter if I'm face down in dirt or in a sea of grass. Everything will effect me, and I'll decide how it does.

"One day it'll all be there, and despite seeming like nothing, I will have been."

If I Left

There's no telling in the stones, only people and their words. No definition without creation, and no creation without destruction. Is it our reality that is so stuck in equality? The eventual balance of everything? If everything were reduced to equations, and all of them connected, all of the destruction, creation, love, hate, care, apathy: if it were all added up, would we be left with nothing but this intoxicating gray stain of the world? A stagnation that would not only subdue us, but sublime our souls until we are nothing more than one penetrating note that simply exists forever in it's own, it's only splendor?

If I left today, would the face of God be nothing more than a still pond?

Several seconds later it's as if it all left, as if it were all never there to begin with. Are we not only the end and the beginning, or do they exist to any concrete extent? To believe in nothing or everything, the same result comes to mind: the fact that only the individual can fulfill the individual. If nothing would matter then that would be it and if it were all up for grabs then everything would be alright because everything would be existence, and as long as it continued existing everything would eventually sort itself out. Maybe the seconds were sunsets, one after another, sun rises, moons changing as the leaves fell and grew back again, as everything kept continuing despite foggy eyes or tired arms.

And so what? We're all here, some sitting on the train tracks and some diving off the waterfalls, everyone with a face staring out at something, expecting something from what comes of themselves.

Anyway, as it happened the sun did rise again. It came through my blinds when I didn't want it, painting my carpet a little whiter than it normally is, and slowly it crept up into my bed, stretching it's shining arms around me until I n my eyes and acknowledged it. But it's not a one way operation, in order to be we both have to see each other, and without each other we're both nothing or might as well be nothing. The morning music soon filled the air, and smoke streamed up into the lamp where it rested in a cloud of amber light. Everything had come back just as it had left. The trees below still rang with a droned out "ohmmm..." and the wind still came in smelling like rain. The sky would go like this: dreamy lavender to cheery peach until it was nothing but light sky blue, and morphing into the sea until it was once again light sky blue, then oranges came until it was the coals of an old fire, deep red to blood and black again. I looked up at the ceiling wishing I were somewhere out west in the rolling hills, in the desert, someplace where the sun would shine and reflect off of something orange or yellow, crisp brown and amber; I had it in my mind that my body had to be surrounded by a calm dryness. Outside the trees and ground were all green and everything was pristine, but there was no serenity within something so ideal.

Another day to smile and cry and all.

Old Scenic Route

Do you remember the balcony to the chapel opera house? We'd run and jump and scream and play on it as the church commenced, as toddlers graduated waving arms above their heads. They'd dim all the lights and our faces would be shrouded by shadows, but underneath our eyes still burned, still do burn with a hunger for life and mystery. And the plays would come and go, our parts switched and everyone clapping- everything was only beginning and yet it felt as though we were all set in place for the rest of the future.

And now all that belongs is what there is: several coaches colored a velvety-red, a rug from the Middle East over the wood floor, and a round table with a candelabra on top of it. To think of it as having permanence wouldn't be right, though the phase itself felt as if it were years. Every new life experience was thought to have belonged inside of that place, and we didn't consider the possibilities otherwise. At evening we would have the light of both the bloody sun and the warm candles, and everything else would fade until the shadows were demons at our feet. Every night the nightmares chase us, but we can't be afraid to sleep.

Tonight is only tonight, and tomorrow itself is beyond our grasps.

Seaweed

If you want to see me, you can try coming down to my resting stone, but you won't find me there.

There's only the sky to stare at now or these days, whichever outlives the other. It's pasty all over and colors sometimes swim by, diluted as they are we still call them rainbows, though they're more like clouds. No one has a body or a voice but we know each other and what dwells within. I'm not sure what happened at first but at the end is another horizon, simply fading back and back until we're back to where we started. Isn't that the cycle Buddhists see, to a degree? Some time or another a field came by; I sat in it for hours staring at the sun. It also sat with me, and we spoke of all things, which in the end makes up nothing and itself at once. We spoke about the inexistence of duality, but only of harmony, whether that be chaotic or organized. He sank underneath some hills, which in time turned to mountains, and the moon rose over me in a sea of stars.

Darkness fell upon everything, and it was finally clear.