It’s never been like this before, something’s changing, everything is the same, people have changed, it has always been like this, people are the same.

My heart beats patterns in the sand.  The sun comes out from hiding.  I stand on a mountain, the valley in my arms. 

‘When was I ever less by dying?’ Rumi asks, as my arm dissolves into the sun.  A lake as big as a galaxy to reflect all that you are.

Every place we were together is an alter.  This hill where we sat and drank champagne.  This table where we sat and drank beer after work, our dogs on leads.  We were untouchable.  We were temples.  We were flowers. We were close. Your spirit never left my heart. 

Dear rainbow mountain, dear cloud catchers. You have direct contact with the other world, the secrets that you hold in your granite bones, holding the hand that hurts or heals. It’s the same hand.  It’s the same breath. On top of you I see the world.  

On top of you I miss her.

Acceptance is a glitch. A dormant glitch. The fear of Babylon, the goddess that controls the programming. Smashing up the apple store. Stealing blueprints of plans that died long ago.   

 The programmed masses.  The programmed heart.  A scripted goodbye.  An always dissolved in a broken tea cup.

Goodbye could bring a breakdown, a breakdance, and a fall. A soft incantation where the wrong words sparkle and the right ones forget themselves.  A child spins in his mother’s dresses.  Timothy Leary drives a spaceship straight into a mushroom.  A frying pan leaps from the fire.

Why bring back the past when you can breathe magick into the present.  I live in a house full of ghosts and I can’t bring myself to bury the bones yet.  Les mots d’ amour.  My spine is made of borrowed sentences spoken in a dead language remembered by ghosts. I grow around them like a tree.  I breathe them in.  I am nothing but shadow.  I am nothing but this.

 Yet shadow is infinite. The penumbra crowns the earthy realm.   The programming is the void, the house, the peanut butter sandwich, the search for fulfilment, the search for a new black shirt, the search for more Amazon boxes.  We are inside the box and outside the box.  We are the box.  Now which box did I leave my wings in?  And where are my keys?  The golden keys.  The golden seal. And why are we bombing the stratosphere?  What new earth will we reach at last?  The bottom of the ocean?  The inside of the fish?  I am the click.  I am the bait. I am the fish on the hook.

Some one on TV is saying that Pluto will come around in 11 years or so.  Till then don’t hit me in the heart and call yourself passion.  How can I focus in a room full of knives?  Your knives, their knives, carving out sentences, life sentences, words that cut through heart and bone, words that shatter like glass.  On top of the rainbow mountain I have to stand out in the storm. The storm I created. The storm that carries the seeds and waters the soil.  The wind that spreads accidental accolades. The storm in the teacup. The teacup that remembers itself whole.  Remember when we were? I’ve begged the waves to make me, time and time again. It’s a small revolution to insist we sparkle and remember how.

Catch the lightning with a stick.

 Put feathers on the fire.

Swing the billy can full of gum leaves for the last cup.