171216 morning things

out of the blue out of the clear blue out of the stars out of the

dark night sky out of the stars out of the dark night sky another

sun ambles over the edge gropes its way above the line and rises burning feverishly as long as it can climb skyward tasting the blue drinking blue like a drunkard starving of thirst drinking then slowly going lower slowly rounding down groundward slowly as if sinking almost ambivalent but decisively down and around or under sinking forever until new star again rising groping over the edge stars run away far into blue.

never quite expressing the thing having no particular thing to express talking without subject or object or story or goal only for soundwaves only for ink on paper only to give the fountain pens a workout so they don't go mad and dry up and break the way neglected objects and machines often erode and stop working in any capacity at all.

now and then a line here or a line there no rules poets forever talking about poetry always felt to me like a hall of mirrors I couldn't fit inside of and wanted to exit from as soon as I entered but was afraid of becoming mesmerized and hypnotized by all the doorways also covered with mirrors along the long endless hallway of mirrors covering the ceiling and floor also it would be like crawling on my hands and knees upside down in the sky while my hair groped for the earth.

leaving it unsaid or half-said or relying on assumptions and non-confirmed mental telepathy sending unspoken currents and thoughts and fragments and filaments from skull skyward sort of or linearly as if along invisible wire from skullthought to mental image or photo of person all incoherently and unconsciously only with a feeling-tone like a sound maybe only some animals can hear or maybe humans could but forgot or lost the knack or skill entirely to recieve these transmissions even though senders generally intuitively assume and even feel as if message were received by the mental photograph image they have of the person sent to which can never be described in detail because it dissolves like a rapidly evaporating cloud upon any inspection or attempt to describe even the slightest detail. 

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cough up your dimestore novel let out your ornamental screech I'd rather stay right here unless you get me to the beach then I'd rather stay right there forever watching the ocean sing its song––got no use for nothing else until my day is done.

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don't carve on me like a pony don't inject me with laser beams don't send me down and re-cement me or strap me to your fluid tubes keep me away from those long hallways where the surgeons and nurses come and go I'd rather sleep with the fishes than toss and turn all night while they take all my dimes and try to buy me a little more time to sit around alone spinning rhymes no one will hear or read while watching tv until my eyes bleed or I finally go sit in a room alone until some image or memory punctures my heart and I cry like rain falling on the ocean out on a stormy sea with no more notion of what is home or how to ever find it or if it ever was or will be. 

in the evenings flare with candles and fireworks I roam the sultry shadows and whisper to pixels I fall down hypnotized and enchanted watching all the silver dancers doing acrobatics I never ever even dreamed was possible even in four dimensions of spacetime.

shuffle frog

deep fly

ocean surrender

sunrise

alibi of cottontail

after a dismal night in jail

Lancelot laughs a lot

until he hears a Nightengale.

backflip sunrise coffee dream taste shark feed coffee bean so keen so clean coffee coffee oh cigarette how i miss you.

"the robot is a NeoRealistic adventure into fantastical otherness."

Karielee Allbright (the wonderhouse project/series)

"if time is non-linear then every photograph is a window to the present moment"  Hector Alcatraz