Action Required

Apparitions of pure intention, barely perceptible in the crossbeam that is the dark mind of lost opportunity

Love is like a haunted house. Always empty, always inhabited.

In the same way that dark matter reveals itself only by the effect it has on its surroundings, likewise, the only evidence of any connection between us is the effect you leave in your wake.     

Whose choice was it to label the visible as distinguishable, in the invisible as unapproachable? Why say that one is knowable and the other is not? Wouldn’t that give us permission to be together?

Skipping a parable stepping stone between the visible universe and the unmade dialect where we will ultimately lay the foundations of a new colony.

What would happen if I snuck in and reversed the labels? Or does that explain what you’ve already done to me?

Collective intellect siphons the unimaginable from the snowflake's prism of coherence. Perfectly timed to unlock our shared dignity, synchronized to gravity by a copper pendulum.

With you, it is like my only chance for release is a single frame inserted among thousands, frozen at the precise second only to expose another subliminal message, hidden, seamless, woven into the expanding forest.

The forest that grows slowly, unimpressively. The long process that becomes undone by a red serpent weaving the tapestry of its winding path across the damp earth. Pure intentions only walk free when they are watered by miracles.

Free to grow, free to walk, fly, swim, slide, crawl, slow as hardening amber. Crystallizing under the weight of its own indecision.

In the twilight of this endless delay, suddenly a window of opportunity appears that says: Action Required 

Ujukta

Optical Effervescence. Blissful blizzards of core-metallic tonights. Harmonized to the moment by the violinist who plays the puppet strings.

Something we release with relish. Memories we recall as if to sow so carefully into the soil like seeds.

If this evening I discover with you, our harvest of determined synthesis, will you be brave in the face of the irony?

The mythology of us washes up on the shores at dusk, wave after wave, dim in the glow of lanterns. Late arrivals to casual parties dictate the sounds of distance, some way off behind where I have no interest to look.

As if to turn my gaze away from the waters, our waters, will erase every piece of mystery that I collected to assemble you out of.

Some way.

Where will this path recall unto itself the benign incorrectness? Overgrown with green, off to the side. Saved for a later time when they will delegate to the distraught hovering laws that insist on reinstating authority based on the dialogues of sour opals.

Buried in dark sand, a glamorous pyre, praying for reduction. Insist, on this,

So as to calculate the cost of diamonds sealed in their shrine of mist, here on this day of uncategorized ceremony.

 Umbral in my wickedness, I beckon you, gift unto me a harpsichord for the outcast.

To them all this wildness is just a song for another heart’s murmur to fall against.

Like a black wall reaching out from the chalice of its soul to stabilize the blind.

Without looking, those that are happily lost in this blizzard will remember everything that they have planted.

dreaming sirens

Impartial interdependence, gathering its flock with the delicate turbulence of swirling storm clouds

That prepare for a reunion of Atlases, refining formulas on the chalkboard of their anticipation, looking forward to the weight of new worlds.

 So that we can continue to feel the new weight of our one, unchanging terra incognita.

Meanwhile our conversation dips its compass into a well of wandering neon

Holding back memories stained in glass, dark transparence behind the sun

Not my memories, but yours. Years ago on that carelessly misplaced afternoon. Adding armatures to the torso of catharsis. Eggs in the nest of boredom.

To me they are like earthworms silent in the pathos of simplicity. A poem without rhythmicity.