Floating by,
Absence of remedy,
Truth so often forgot,
There, for simple eyes to see,
careful distinction
leaves clouded minds.

And hopeful I am
waiting.
Another breeze
Let another game float by.

How long to fall?
One day, ten seconds?

The dusk of busy day,
When other games were played,
We turned our blind eyes,
another lost.
Sun sets, and night rises.

Night,
Paint blue across the back or my living room,
A little piece of nothing drifts on through.

I know my eyes are heavy now
But I’ve lit this light anew.

Excited by the quiet,
A car parks her ride,
Her murmur a little reminder that time will wander by.

I’ve chosen my surrender
In a moments creative peace,
So, I’ll sit and just ponder what words will be released.

She’ll read with a bed light
And I’ll open the door,
We’ll revel in our rebellion like we did before
And tomorrow we’ll talk to strangers

And rest a little more.

We don’t know we’re here
Sunken
A simile to Blake’s imagery,
To fall from life
Let destiny be irony,
Tragedy,
Be this the joke,
Or even poetry,
These are the lessons of life.

And now the chains are broken,
And leaves fall overhead
My lover lies next to me,
Like once in bed.
No more skin to touch
Nor eyes to stare,
All that is left are moments,
Taken in a breath of air.
These are the lessons of death.

And anyway we take it,
always leaving behind
A few friendly faces,
Smiles that come and go.
So don’t leave me flowers,
Some have dropped a few,
Leave me to lie here
Like once I left you.

Overhead the earth is a miracle of magnitude.
Removed from the immediate youth of all that is
Embedded in the flesh, narrowed to the compass;
If not for imagination our minds would trap us
Trapped to the hungers
and to the lusts
The anathema.

And at every stage each age is closer to the character of being.
Before we adulterate
life with complex relations
children play,
no thought to the concrete,
The world is the world and the world is will
and imagination.

Possibility, unscathed.
Children free to imagine,
The world they dream.
It could couldn’t it?

One Sunday we children, playing in the fields,
running after gazelle
Our house travelled with light through the horizon,
The world awoke to jaded somethingness,
and we lived innocent
nothingness before that time.

Never twice the same.
On the kitchen a giggle signed the privacy.
Shared, not to be shared
again. Like a nod between men.
Full of meaning and companionship as any nod can be.
We giggled like children.

How many freedoms for the mystic and the rational man,
If only in the innermost part of the
Mind; at some level the sense of another
Disconnected from the occupation of body,
Connected only with imagination.
And we would be forgiven for thinking that beyond lies nothing but space.

It is the essence of all humans.
In a world that none can acquiesce, can
we forget and live on. The moment of belonging
is the moment of genuine imagination.
But for those moments those worlds were the worlds there;
between us, our minds, our worlds and us.

It is that world. It was the fact of experience that meant it.
From mystical to concrete we live, with pleasure disguised as opiate
The fallacy
To little thought in nothing;
we continue to live,
life remains between us,
between concrete and abstract,
it is this world. Embedded we are,
And embodied we become.

It’s funny the thoughts that go through your mind as you wake up, scrambling to put something on your body as you shiver from the cold. Despite the fog of waking there is a deep clarity we learn to ignore. We’re too busy trying to find the muster to know what the day is about, whether or not we’re going to have a shower and “is there the time to make coffee?”

But, just before mechanics start to take effect; before we’ve managed to figure out which pair of socks to wear and if there’ll be time to write those last-minute e-mails there; right in front of us is a picture of ourselves, a picture that only the bridge between waking and sleeping can paint. It is the oneiric reality of us. It is something that lies between sleep and waking; between this world as it would have us and the selves as we would us be.

Surrounded by the fog of waking and the mist of sleeping I saw a picture. It was at once wonderful, full of history, hope and meaning and at the same time sad and melancholy. It is strange how a picture; an image on its own can connote more thought that a string of thoughts. It is as if that picture were each and every thought we could have bundled together; one object greater than the sum of objects that make it. A ball of string; at once its own object and yet, at the same time so many other possible objects.

What I saw was a person scrambling for meaning; pure of heart, confused about the day. For one moment I put my mask to the side and I focused on that person. The poignancy of the image made me feel. I felt a want to do something honest, to be of meaning; to do something I knew I couldn’t.

This morning when I woke I saw your heart. It was the first thought of my day. And so, because of that I write my first words to you. I write with a love and a depth that comes, not from deliberation but, from the deepest part of my psyche.

You’ve been my bookmark for years,
Sitting between pages,
Dog eared are your friends.

You’re a bookmark,
A placeholder,
A reminder of where I am,
You, no closer to beginning
Than to end.

You are ambivalence,
Ambivalence in my hand
Keep my place for me; frustration sometimes.

What a life,
Keeping to my pace,
And sometimes I find you in a book I’ve left,
Waiting.
I resist,

I’d be lost without you,
But you make me depressed,
Reminding me there are so many pages,
Finnish,
Amend,

Life after all, is a task
It needs completing,
So crumpled pages,
meet your friend; soon to crumpled too,
just like me
like you.

It smells like home,
Each sense finding its place
The whisp of a moment,
groping,
to be found.

The sun beats
its smell of trash, vegetables
beer bottles,
Rustling leaves,
Children playing,
Adults laying,
Summer is hot above the sheets,
It is hope,
It’s a dream, a fantasy;
a changing time.