The Garden Alive

the paper wet on my tounge
this strange ritual. Wheels turning
and 4.
then how to move? and laugh?
this birth of thought and senses
and rules?
questions?
the openness. the vast simplicity and then
detail.
the Huge and the Small.
the dark and light.
and why. everything as if it was real life
but then what difference?
these childs eyes, this new skin and this animal
who can smell the essence of the earth
who can hear each and every burst
of new life, in the audience of existence
perspective. like a great blooming galaxy
shifted.
and oxygen flowed
difference infiltrated
languid and carefree
these roots of nature and history
entwined
alive in mind
fear distracted
and I am human infinitely... and every second.

R.I.P.
    
ashambles

flight await

Laying in the thick warm night air, watching the hours tick from night to day, one land to another, & the thought of returning to an old world.
So much to think of.
Eric Satie wrote The Gymnopedies in Paris, in 1888, & here I am, in the depth of night, listening to them, with tears edging forward, their salty touch inside eyelashes, & the sensation of water droplets rolling over these warm sad cheeks, till I taste them & they drip onto the glass below.
I think it could be the most heavenly song I have heard, & even so, it is a music of sadness.
There is so much pain & beauty in this world. I do not understand it.