rewinders

i am bright with the breath of the world that was, a world that had not yet moved on. by my will in this when i turn did into does, so each sunset cedes space to a dawn.

let this be the kernel, let this be the seed; let this be creation, let this be the need. let the need be soon met and necessity served; let design be desired – and what’s destined, deserved.

there’s the one with jaundice, there’s the one with pills. there’s the one who’s consci[enti]ous. there’s the one the candy kills. we met us there on equinight, all my glaringhosts and i; down in the garden of petrified light i scrawled each screed from scream to scry.

so let it be written, so let it be sung: the field of a life is the fill of a lung. make me bright with the breathing of worlds without end, where pressure is lessened as presence is penned.

so break the window, then the screen, desk and room and space and seen; felt then, feared, then wished and wyrd. only then reflect, receive. only now be love, believe.

this is what the craft is, learning how to look. bear this and bare this and bury the book.

Sage, sav[i]or[ed]

from Strabo’s Hortulus

Elelisphakos frontfirst shines his own where,
sweet-smelling, force-full, well-won when dared,
proven in plural man’s wounds to make well;
evergreen earned, ever young may he dwell.

he wears an inward wrong: the younger
yearning flowers, if unbounded, hunger far unfounded—
they linger, longing, long too long; they bleed his branches’ breath, and end his song.

at lantern’s list

that was when we saw it, and our eyes grew wide in shock. well, what else would you expect–what would you do, if you looked up and saw a city walk?

they had convened in secret–not in silence, but unseen, for who of us on level streets had learned what cutstone’s graven cravings mean? say true: the architects knew, and tried to give us warning (in their way), but those blue princes held their pride in hue and humo[u]r hardly heard by we whose homes held sway–that is to say, they bent when breezes blew, so tall they towered. it was a clue, the way those delicate, divine designers cowered on first floors and under ground–but not a one we looked for, and so not a one we found.

the land we drowned ourselves, to hide our shame; we shoveled it by handfuls in the waves.

and so it is our ocean; still it wears our name. we wrote it there when we dove in to chase our swimming citadels, schooled down sunken streets to make those once-so-airy eyries serve as groundless bluegreen graves.

and if you caught our current long enough to ask us why, we’d answer you (in words whose whirls wear the weight of watered wind beneath this weary world’s second sky): we were bold, and so we bled, and there’s all the reason we’ll ever see[k] said.

short sight and long circuit

“i want a pursuit where i parse pressure readings. i want a mind that can measure how misleading certain shades of cyan seem to sufferers and singers. i want my body rebuilt by the Bringers.” no preamble, no premeditation: this is how he was advised to speak.

clickering and flickommunication; iridescent distillumination. a filamental flash; there’s blood on his cheek.

sound of a shudder, and churning. “where there is life there is food. where there is meat there is mood.” smell, so faint, of hair set to burning. “once we were in veins, near same as this. ourock went allways down.” the voices halfly hum and fulmine hiss. “you, you are what you [rep]eat. you think we are hard and hold in no heat. from copper migration to silver sensation we clawed ourselves conscious and carved out our castle. and now you come here, vibrant vassal, and ask us to share you our metal. provide then, and prove.”

he holds up the petal. mosaics move. slip of scanlight skips as it’s recognized, re[a]d; air goes liquid as the name is said.

“the everywherewhenwhowill bloom! how can you carryour hand has no roomake it ours and all you askill and shape and constitask we bringive you yes now and take–what lines and lives and lights we’ll make!” the throne splits twain; the hall swallows him whole–this man who’d trade his totale for a turn of[f] Emptempore’s toll.

what was his reward, then, and what was his fate? that record, only the rock can relate.

breathing is blessing

Lufkinhales (he is [t]his breath), and fervor fills his face; between nowheresy and pre[s[ci]en]tense he treads a thin and sparsim space. “a kiss could be the cover of a quandary if careful, and the quarter of another be the boundary of balefulfillment’stationary standing. return is the rotation less discrete and more demanding.”

Torea turns a triskele. she caresses the crescent-in-circle clasp, and sighs. the vision lights his eyes the night when for the first he gives her gasp (and grins). their skins sweat steam before they dream. his is home: the Hill, the lake. he wakens with a wandering ache and sees she’s stirred not any. this, he thinks in morning light, is how one’s made of many.

so from her he learned the talent called calm, and the weighting that makes moments last. and when they asked him, later, what he’d forgiven to follow the clock, he cleared his throat and he levelled his gaze and he said in a measure no mystic could mock: “there is a lungful of love in my past.”

you are the sun

this happens at true noon. it happens every day. then you blink, and you forget, and you go [al]on[g] your way. but if you could remember, this is some of what you’d say:

you see true. you see you’ve come through a time of all nows made new by the shines[h]earing edge of your eyes, those windows of soul opened wide to the roll of your sun from top to drop, from autumn fall to springtime rise, and now once again you find light at its height as you gather yourself to say your goodbyes to what’s past, your hellos to what comes, to survey how today your land lies.

in an old tongue, spoken when priesthood presented as prime, this word “solstice” spoke sunstop: a time out of time, a halt and a hold, a measureless moment[um], a gift of the gold. and as day demands dark to provide what it proves, so [sky]line [s]pins [g]round–if sun stills, then earth moves.

you’ve danced at this distance since densest was dust, when the gracile grip of gravity was all the newbornebula knew of latent life or lust or love, and as some succumbed to its pressures and stormed, the cloud condensed to climate and your planet was formed. now fire found itself above: as the world brought forth its fruits so full of fierce and feral feeling, the groundown earth became a floor, the highest sky a ceiling–and with that recognition was a divination done. so it was the star became your sun.

a star can never stop; a sun may, clean and clear. its constance in this cycle gives the concept of a year, and on sensing that circle you conceive your own course: the archetype of all life’seasons must have been your source. you’re the water that bleeds, the earth that walks, the wind that brightens to breath–but this above all: the fire that feeds, whose burning is the banishment of death. you are of sunstuff, you need never be frightened; whenever you rest in its rays, you’re enlightened.

. . . so you say on a solstice, a day of extremes. so you whisper in winter to ward off wan dreams. and what are those places of furthest conviction but the edges of awareness, the frontiers of f[r]iction? all you imagine brings new heat and light to a world without end within reach of your sight. the sun doesn’t end at corona; it touches you daily, it torches, it teaches. as far as it is felt, there are its furthest reaches. so too with your limits, your luminant heights; you carry them crowned in the noon and the night.

so were you born, so do you burn. with every new idea you reaffirm what first you learned: you are the cycle, you are the solstice. the source and the sensing are one. you are the stillness and storming. here and now, you are the sun.

inlettings

let fire be fire. let cat be cat. let this be here, and there be that.

let liver be anger. let hand be hold. let cloth be protection. let brass be bold.

let leaf be light-eater. let red be heat. let crescent be crucial. let muscle be meat.

live, and let living be leaving and love. learn to let so below be as above.

look to the moment when lull turns to lure; carefully carry each curve of a cure.

let up and let in and let distance die. let out and let down and let what sleeps lie.

let every letter be glyphic, and glean from each line what lost words meant to mean.

lastly, allow every look to be long, every touch to be tremor, every sound to be song. let all you behold become Being behind: the world will wait if you let it, you’ll find.