pOetRy

In my dream, a waking dream As I danced on bare notes, sparse like yucca across a winter desert, I travelled suddenly/silently/sweetly to a spacious grove to witness my self a great high oak vibrant/majestic/un-stooped sovereign neither singular nor separate not owner, not owned exercising no authority neither ruler nor subject sovereign in service but no slave connected but not chained sovereign I wondered at this vision/fantasy/prophecy and wondered that there was no entran

do i call them companions or guides or friends they do not walk beside me for i am not only walking i am swimming I am rolling I am falling down or up and through or out and i am writhing or is it slithering or is it the universe cascading around me like some eternal fall of water washing existence away and away and regardless, with me is something like sadness or melancholy or ennui, something that resounds like Quasimodo’s bells or perches on my soul like the feel of deserv

Today I am a smooth stone in a high mountain stream I make music as I surrender to the water, to the rush of the melt the clack clack clack as I dance and roll and scrape with others like me. we, who were once the mountain the rhythm of our re-membering builds as our resistance yields, the melody arises from our breaking. Our repeated chorus is of falling apart. No mountain is a single thing it grows by collapsing its vibrancy is its destruction no human being is alive AND un