YVR - SLC

Sorry to have not saved you your seat
I thought it was you who sat beside me,
It feels like I'm dreaming

I deplaned in a daze,
I can hear the air conditioning drying me out,
A customs guard searched my shirt collar for weapons and explosives
three times before letting me go.

Harbinger

Don’t change your step harbinger of sleep
nothing but mold grows in the dark,
Festering thoughts are fertile ground,
where anything will seed

Keep step in time, the Night is short
Lengths of dark, puddles of light
and Forest asleep
Every tree hums, and the wind
a breeze quietly breathing
bends a single sapling low.

...another place erupts in the Forest
and the place is now a room
in a building, painted red

the walls, those hateful walls
pin me to my place,
in a desk like a slot, similar to every other...

These Walls

When I lay down, I prepared my self to dream good and long. Determined to have a measure of control over my world, I teach myself to bend time and space (the very fabric of my unreality). I return although, most every night to my elementary school. Here I feel the tyranny of those walls crush my will to remake my interior world. It seems as if my imagination is contained at those times in those walls, held prisoner from me. Like a child I am powerless to this institution that holds such immense power over my mind and body. The dreamer that I am, will awaken though, and it may be soon.

ECUAD Creative Process: Devices in Which to Weigh a Dragon

ECUAD Creative Process: Some myths and some symbols for a future paradigm

An Inspired Fire

In the future I will be dreaming, of a slow and steady flame
In a kind of sleep, in a scarlet mood.

Porticelli

Floating down the street, the street with arcades running both sides all lit for the absent patrons, the shop's windows display goods to a silent promenade of no one. The always cold always dusty stone underfoot shines its singular lustre. Smudged, scrubbed and freshly painted and plastered columns support the arches above. Turn a corner, there will be no one, the fiends and shoppers go home when the shops close.

A Waking Dream

During the time of the night when I first start to dream, I was woken by a phone call. So, now I could not sleep, although a little of that dream still clung to my waking life.

I saw a vast hall, deep underground from far away — filled with many people. The roof was sheared off so that I could watch them from above. Or, maybe it was only from a mountain I saw this room. There was soft light from lanterns strung between the walls, and I seemed to be floating. Slowly as I left the scene my interest grew and my thoughts wandered to a less peaceful place.

All scientists are artists, although not good ones.
Also, all artists are scientists, although not good ones.

Composite Storia

Following my course down the hall into the stairwell, I pass down to the lower street level exit of the House. The door is broken, huge and made of ancient wood. I skip over the street with two long strides into an arched entrance of a stone, temple like palazzo to mail a package. Standing, waiting on the green marble floor for a clerk's attention the afternoon moves at a special pace.

The people's deepest desire is sleep

They walk in a waking dream,
through the dark, casting no shadows

Wandering the Streets, never finding
Night's sweet child Sleep.

Further On Place

This building is a tyrant, it structures every part of my life

This building has friends and is friendly with its neighbors,
here is a community

This building is my home, this house is where my family raised me.

A Finite Stage

This landscape pulls up close around me
A vast plain laid before me
Where I make gestures
And pace in circles


Spreading, radiating
On this expanse of asphalt,
As still as still waters,
Taking Darkness from the
objects on this surface.

Place #1

Spreading, radiating
On this expanse of asphalt,
As still as still waters,
Taking Darkness from the
objects on this surface.

Nightscape #1

The corner of the attic
Is dark in the same way
As a river valley wood at dusk

These secret hours of serene silence
Keenly aware of the deep night below

I treat my boredom exploring
On a stage of lamplight
The forgotten overgrown places,
The wild patches

I look at the street lamps
Burning aside the houses row on row

Glowing dimly under long arches
Of walnut arms along the road

The dark has drawn up close to me
As I keep silent and watch

Mode Moderne

River to Me

Not the clear quick stream
Not the lazy brown river
A glacial river in the spring
A torrent rushing sediment along

After the melt will return
As blue and steady
Calm and confident

For the Performative Poet

Whispered in an undertone,
A subtext to the words spoken in italics
in brackets he muttered — to himself

(The small details will sadly be missed
In the rush of oratory
But, the pithy punch-line
Shouted with gatling gun alliteration
In an indulgent lilt
Will be remembered)

"A peasantry grown fey and mystic, and unimpeachably artistic."

Cornered in the darkest crevice, teeth bared shining in the starlight.

The Night is Alive

The night is alive in the wild patches, in forgotten overgrown places
Keep silent, and the wild parts of the grid will remind you they're there,
Lithely under warm pools of lamplight they run,
Balanced on wires darting across the lane to warm nests in house walls,
Dexterous paws sorting through bins
House cats treating their boredom exploring the night
This city would turn to rubble in a short time if we were all to leave from it at once.

untitled, 2009

lost in a moment from dennis wheatley on Vimeo.

Empty Vessels

It feels as if my life has shifted into a plotless prolonged waking dream. Friends and family have morphed into exaggerated parodies of themselves. Their words have become cryptic; ciphers to a world I no longer understand. I feel ignorant of something I'm not sure I can comprehend.

Everything I don't know has become mystery to me, I can no longer trust my perception, I now look at the world unquestioning, accepting what I see as true.

In time I've become habituated and found ways to cope with my place in this world. I've begun to mimic those around me, I cling to every phrase I can memorize, every action I can imitate, I dance around chanting the slogans I know, gesturing passionately to passersby desperately hoping for any connection.

We speak the same language, but the words seem to signify nothing. The meanings I know seem to have been forgotten, outdated, or washed away.

So, I'll go down into a dark basement away from family and friends, to muttering about the ways that used to be. Nostalgic for meaning and mystery I'll seek to fill the empty vessels, to plant seed that grows plurality.