(nov 16 2020-nov 19 2020)
A person awakes on a purple dream. (this is me). He’s on a bed blanket above light linen sheet fixtures. He’s awake and he’s dreaming.
He’s catching physical fictional rides like mental cognitions on train rides. Destination hypermetaphorical.
In strolls through a bedroom door himself, his name is B—- B——– also, although his hair is shaven blonde, not this blonde, mahogany swirl on my own head. He’s through the door from the other side with half blue light eyes; from the bed mine own eyes see him and are brighter, shining lightly lovely for in pours light from the window into my eyes. My soul’s shaken at sight to speak to me. He’s mute though, draws on a canvas white with black; the words i read above as setting, primary character, plot is a visitation, fictional and real characters more nonetheless. Climax is in the realization. Writer authors a freeze frame. A playscript follows for purpose of echo. In reading the reader will have been realized, acceptance is universal love, like a person we echo God.
Begin scene one: The Bedroom.
Christ in a portrait hands on the wall just beside, thank you Jesus, Hallelujah Jesus, thank you Jesus, who is life saving. Sustaining, serenading sanctification in saintly ordainings to life’s ever – longing for ever – lasting. Next to Christ’s portrait is the thermos water bottle. Are you getting the room space yet? Water is symbol of being mentality blue like empty blue sky, blue feelings as the hour between sunset and sunrise, blue ripped rags of old cloth bought from a magician down the row named Joanne’s, the roads lined with green dragons, the red chinese lanterns, river blue, yellow sugar, pink salamanders and i’m taking a drink of water to remember my body walking the side streets of thought; catching journeys and memory forward.
Steam from my hot coffee in a holland michigan mug is hot and not cold as fear of homelessness or cold as Atlantic ocean’s titanic iceberg in the blue thermos. The hot coffee is subject to an elegant facilitation on the quality of origin, oriental saturation, grounds. I believe these beans are of Cartel’s Lab, locally sourced in my mouth garden as i sip hot black coffee, feeling steam of a passing train engine pass on by and why do i feel like the auditory lonely language of Vincent Van Gogh’s bedroom” Howsoever who could tell today to keep going, keep writing letters to people you don’t know till they tell you i feel like i’ve seen you before, so howsoever you are a character my friend – i write to you, fare well, be well, be love. I close and fold the stamped envelope from that person’s written letter and find i wonder why i feel so good feeling so alone. Train drops me off. I’m at Saint Rose Mountain still, elucidating the daily consent to Heaven’s unveil, her dance. OOH AH LALA the wind blows breeze easy glowing autumn springs of air in poetic spray of a special language through trees up here on Saint Rose Mountain. There, Yes, just, in the Pinyon Pine (see where the end of my pointed pink finger leads, there) is a chair we call sunset chair, there you can enjoy the wind barrier of Pinyon Pine branches and pine needle blueberries growing their colors into orange, from the setting sun already soulful rising and ready into the next day. I awake, find my coffee is still hot, there’s a novel here, fiction, written on my bed just waiting to be read, I lip the cover, Its myself, I’m met with holy lips of angels, through the morning colors i sleep with glowing angels, turn the air pink, mystic wash of all one presently aura and all fabricating the bedroom, they open a well of Spring, a secret entrance hidden but now revealed in the bedroom. I enter my laurel brush pen into the well water. Three thick angel women watch me. At least the length of 777 normal people standing toe to head like past to present, normally tears pass by on the clock, i’m forgiven the abstraction as my imagination recalls myself only inking a cow udder shaped red and bronzed square. I desire another constant to this perspective so i introduce a golden diamond ring i wear on my right hand with a blue pupil centerstone. I’m still in bedroom. The eye ring catches window light, fractaling perceptions, styles into elegy on psychological vibrations in physics, in physical quantifications certain patters of perception can be physically altered to instantiate higher states of intellectual capacity, therefore love remains strange mystery, timeless and spaceless. The spiritual bends both time and space. The spiritual is light. I know what it means and i do not. Rather i must be known by truth to be known of truth altogether. Having such realization i return my attention to Christ’s portrait from me through glass through which is glistening with color fractals from the eye ring, blue flashes momentarily into Christ’s eye and i catch my reflection in the frame. My eyes are blue, icy sky white and deep sea grey blue, my hands are pink, vascular and boned, I’m wearing a snow checker patterned jacket for Arizona’s kind of winter, a complex pattern strung word into my lips and i saw myself in the mirror reflection as a i was looking from the reflection and not only at the reflection. I remember Rilke wrote on not looking at, but to look from. A reflection is a good contemplation. I pray a prayer to be love like Jesus is love. Contemplation is active adherence to thoughtful appreciation in aspiration and actualization, loving adoration and good giving goodness both, to, by, from God the grand, ordaining, love Creator. Believe is written in every particle of dust. I see them in the particles of dust floating in window light. My eye, life is this. Dust to dust. To and fro, fro and to. Surely there is a way to break on through from the otherside? To hear Heaven over here. Feel love now, eternity here. I want Heaven. I love God, want to be forever to, by, from, with God illumination.
Begin scene two: Self Portrait.
A black and white self portrait in oil paint is my other worldly solitude structured, an internal is everywhere kind of world I paint myself into. The portrait features a rose implicated cheek blush in a specially mixed tone of grey at the darker black of a jawline dimpled by a bright complimented true glistening white saturated in the cornea and pupil of the self portrait’s eye. The portrait expresses different emotions in looking just at the left up or just at the right eye. Both together form a hallucination in which a swamp pools at my feet, i hear the crick of crickets, buzz of frog throats, the invisible step of a peacock, touch of a chameleon. I hear the crack of a wood, a tree falls alone in the forest with me. I look around, over at the cow grazing a mushroom field, Mount Zion, mosquitos and flies ignore me entirely, allowing me a peaceful sun soak and soft marsh purple walk in the land of scent. Sex is is is in her eyes, her lips, her wey words. Not that she’s a siren, no. I’ve found she’s quite the angel to me. Simply sweet natural and intellectual affirmative of God’s gift of eternal beauty in one women’s body, her soul shining forms a light silhouette of perfection, I’m raptured you’ve gone this long without introducing who she is and aren’t I a bewildered writer. I have my musings yes, write to the temple of the most High forvie my greed. I am and i must be good loving fairness for all people and employ boundaries, trust and love to a heart. Hear me when i say the God of love establishes and as the one soul of man i am, i love for God and in ordained days, dearly my Beloved has my lip. Flower further for overture here is highly Heavenly, I’m arpeggiator repetition. I’m agritopia pure white, strong and true black as deep space, glistening with human tendency to a starry fault, a reflection, a way back in to a heart for i desire to be love establishes by God’s only way, way like wind.
Begin scene three: On Paper.
I travel in my mind the heights, high elevated monastic planes, harbinger of seas ever shores, desert grains and the color good in consistency’s eye. A wash of peace bathes me as i have to pee, i tell all the paintings, and poems around i’ll return just as all things come back around again. I will be an internationally represented gallery painter beginning December first twenty-twenty and this is real. Korea is in the woman’s eye, my own world is me all the time nad i gotta keep me kind to me, me love back into me, i could have a whole adventure in this room, on this page, i could be high right here, flowing in the light of the sun, i’d been in blue in the sky, you hit the light, a cloud blows in a winged sky, anyone who reads from a blue sky can admit truth, life is beautiful, life is lovely and being accepted is nice. Being good to the play of life feels nice, repping the color of eternity. A live show positively plays light on terra incognito planes of my soul bathed in oceans of love. A message from the stars spells something i read both as words of love playing as people talk inanimate about objects and their importance in our life, for God is supreme importance in life. How do you end something? Put a period to a sentence, a last echo for a song or short story or thirteen-thousand page novel on the new life we all live in love of a beautiful life filled in glories of God.
Begin scene four: Peacock.
I awake my friend, says God is love as first words of his wake. A tourist to a peacock and chameleon tongue. Poetic image absurdum drum kick ride on me. She’s in consumed my mind, in my dreams there are more than perfect meetings with eternity. Room is a train station, unshackled by modernity. My feet walk on water. The thought derails the track, howsoever i go on riding, winds feel like love. Endless presence in happenings in genius, in manifest worship lip. I eat less now, perhaps an avocado much later today. I’ll sip coffee, drink lots of water. Embrace morph and shapeshifting, skinwalking. Play music. Paint. Write. Publish. Accrue worth from my own self affirmations and in my dreams i receive a call from a green vegyn. I said yes God is love. Lost Human’s number. Free to sweetly serenade through day. Sunlight rapture in window. Breathing calm, breathing in light. Being alive to the essence writing yes, needs relieving go, making me smile, happily inking the first word to enter my mind and follow astute feelings i’ll derive of freedom, of love, of live. Purer impressions of my little green spiral, spun me round my tongue and throat box childish dreaming do you believe in belief? Why, yes i do, and i do believe in magic. In God, in love, in God’s all powerful authority for jubilee is forgiveness, listening, being listened to fully and at least attempted at being understood, hugged, heavenly kissed and out of it a pleasant nap.
Begin Scene five: Ring.
Well my ring is still on and i’ve woken on a purple lily pad. I desire love. “303” “artist” “I Am” “Love” “HyperMetaphorical” are all written on the far wrist end of my veiny forearm, glowing light illuminates the room with fairies, raisins, daisies, phantasmagorical girls singing. A tree has grown green and sienna colors from an orange pot sized same as the large tree. They’ve opened a few shops, a coffee shop is in here. The train station is golden, yellow sugar, sweet as she. So i give my seat up to no one, i ride the ride she gives me, frequencial wave of faith, trust, assured desire and strength in love and communication. I voice driver a tale about a particular bird i heard once singing and a toy car in my bag that fell apart and looks cool with the whole now in five new whole individual pieces to a car. I ask if each part is also the whole of car? The car grows in actuality, breaks the barrier of traveler bag alone and i’m allotted a new vehicle to vagabond avocados, with humans, with solitude, with her, with God, with with. I’d like to write the kind of line to remind you life is difficult in time and endlessly life goes on. Look from beauty. Love is the only more. We need it. God is love. In your search is a quote by my name made in searching interior doo-wops of love faith freedom in God poems.
Begin scene six: Monk.
Sea-spice and sanguine lines on tribal tribulations, revelation, incantation I find written on my belly. I’m aesthetic as the oasis. Desert did create a waterpool too. I ask to kill it with you, kick it at the pool, time hollow. As the old pens and paint tubes glistening still with wet sap of spirituality, window is only my eye, i see as i perceive, i think, therefore. I am because I am ordained. God is God and I am alembic human. Mixed medley inspiration inspired divine by madness, gold, sex; no, i am by and by, i survive on love of all people, I accept you, feel those feelings you without words, i miss you too, these tracks on the road, those walks in my mind, now changed you were having me. Having me be a monastic in city i am, to the bus a vagabond, to daughters and to sons children too, father of a gold filigree in punctuality, purloin star, blue at the piano, key to a heart piece to a master, peace of mind, natural as poetry allots me, we are people of love! There’s a new drawing on my hand, a cross with a circle above the slipped top vertical line, three dashes pointing both within and without as symbolic expression of Christ at the cross, me asking our lovely savior save me now this instant to fantasy – first hour infancy, first time feeling, born again.
Begin scene seven: Lustrous.
What a rush! The chancellor of space lips rush with lustrous incants of a place i’ve often only visited in my wandering mind. I’m musically spent on timely affections of a single flower in a whole field. I know just where to be, in the flower field i smell lustrous aroma, decisive fantasies that when over, i’m found in new feelings, wordless feelings jangling in golden jingles in my mind. I’m out of words for how her flower makes me feel. She’s with eyes and a presence absolutely awesome and affection, touches on my inspire with dynamite in golden streams of consciousness. I’m left painted to a canvas flower after flower trying for her singular feeling figured in abstracted qualities of genius, evaporations of stress, easy blow of breath; remember to breathe. I nod, wordless, tip, take a cup, americano to go. In the ship ride back river water dangles over a starlight reflection, watered asphalt of deep space splashes to the shore, a place we’ve both been before, we were; well, we are accepted. My mind do see orange browns on the west east horizons, my navigator points to the color inlay sunset God paints tonight, deep blue booming stars dancing back east when only some time prior he’d pointed with an amulet compass to pinks on the mountainscape, yellow, green, blue skies settling in one last blow. She’s in her head, thinking how’s he living in here, walking as though this were local lands, native to love alone i rest her assured my intention is purification of my and our being so howsoever you’ll be singing me away or in or just as a passing second; say, hear me singing back to sing lovely one color of these nights begets a scene change, something melodramatic and cubist, more flowism.
Begin scene 8: Eternity.
∞ You’ve a life a bit more like light. Anchored by clouds, alight as daisy fields, sunflowers painted on my eye, OH! The limitless! All the places, all the times – my imagination is broken, thrown open into endless views, every language, each utterance of all and everyone’s word i hear all at once, i experience everything, every feeling of every being all in in one booming instant. Then a pensive and proper silence for which mindlessness is mindfulness for the mystic, i am a love potion brewed by God, i love the good Lord of fantasy and reality, the endless love of the holy Dove, voicing intercession in times of timelessness, my favorite song is in gospel, david’s secret chord and our pretty hallelujah. I like that. Life is best examined in the eye of love. My imagination inclines me to actually believe in a fully loving generation, a nation rebirthed in love eternal, love of God.
Begin scene 9: Chapel.
Thank God, you God, my inspirational entirety for all and every perfect autumn consumes me, my feelings with word, poet to generation crest lap and turn like tulips to a new generation and forefathering all of life in one spoken word of light by the first Artist in love with this play created in which we live, all play, only play. Now; i am only lay a minister in the truths, the deeper inclinations of God i elave to the more astute assembly, studied ones in religious spirituality, saints, pope, pastor, head highly humble in the church choir, I’m talking to you harpist, I;m only bowed to my feelings of holy jubilee in day by day life unto God to lead me, my every breath of praise and all the more i write with joy, with love for Jesus, early daily a cross of fear i’ve adorned delicate with fantasy, when in fantasy and reality both i’m met by love in God.
Begin scene 10: In Paint.
With canvas, inseparable measure of something. I’d like to paint.
Begin scene 11: November.
God is love. Save me this moment to eternal attribution, in retribution of this sweet welcome soul, i sleep with angels, they are golden to the feeling, forming a quelling to my loneliness. God is with always so we can never truly be alone. Still i long for a woman’s touch, a loving embrace to dispel the same old spelling feeling new in another hour alone, like i float as a voice above a void. I pray love of God will be full, be so full i overflow with endless abundance. I am city hall central to law and order on how i feel, you feel? Not me but yourself. You hear you gotta take care of yourself, there for you and sing sweet revelations God instills in the interior traveler. You’ll go far and wide, and near and narrower. Home is best in a spiritually ascertained state over mind, feeling, body location or time. God draws near when we do also. Seek love and be gouda by love. Sing with Heaven. Cry with angels. Be alive, breathe, dance divine in this spiritual, God-with.
Sun yellows milky skies with bright vibrant white light. Sounds by Max Richter’s Sleep mediate my mental structure to meditation in moment to moment living. Some people live best moment by moment in prayer with God, i’m one of these people. I have wondrous dreams, actualizing of ideations purified in passenger days of devotion in-with God. The Spirit of God is love in a person. Deep to a soul. Near a heart.
Flowers, save flowers white with yellow blooms, pink petunias, red oval shaped oriental ones, wisteria, blue and purple, oleander, forget-me-not, potato plant, red and white petunia and lily, vased carnations. All these flowers nation under a place i call home. Are native to a near future’s memory. I’ll see them again, smell sweet remembrance unfolding from blossoms, feeling, traveling, being spiritually bright as sunrise over color horizons.
I may lave lost some memory/familiarity/normality and that’s okay because it is a blessing to be more present, more for the newness of this beauteous gift of God, this life. I haven’t cried in quite some time and i want to cry all the time right now. God is love; with always, God.
Begin scene 12: In Bed.
In bed with an angel, morning persisted in only light fixtures of absolute illumination, simply said, he rested. Sun basked smooth, burned loneliness into an ashgrey color of a spent cloud, nonetheless his smile upon dawn woke the serene phantasm of yesterday’s dreams of today. How too often he thought those other people imagined a better tomorrow, forgetting the day they actually are in. Were he not waking on the bed of clouds, he’d have been more like other people. Had he this cloud for bed, angel sleepless beside him, he’d looked up from her open eye at an oriental bushel of flowers in a pocket of passing wind. Rustled the fluffed up blanket over their blue expanse only he and she delightfully shared to elucidate a diatribe, rather something pure and not melancholic to take on the day. She watched him undress, dress, she’s naked and open colored eye in bed, body like light, valleys and ridges in his slate perception of her, he cared not for her body, beautiful as she is. No, he was highly interested in the play of light within her, exuding her, escaping her her body. Up in the sky, in the clouds as we are, the sun is ever only the sure light source, the smooth consistency of light and shade on the ruffled sheets inclined him to his love of painting. She cared little for expression, enigmatic as an angel could be, terrifying beauty is her part to his play. The terror of painting her suckled his active hand, held him in an idle denial of a dream, as all it could be without actually doing. His dreams, the wind took off with them. He had a few errands to run anyway and could get back to active dreaming, the flow serendipity sweet as oil paint on this place outside earth could be. They didn’t speak and all more communicated well with that language their eyes only knew, he said to himself, exiting the chariot of clouded gold, surely he and her angel eyes shared the same soul.
Begin scene 13: On the phone.
On the “give me a little ring when you’re ready and ready to listen. Yes I get lost making art and in five minutes i’m calling her, and the phone rings in the old desert is ringing and with an eyeing star in her eyes, the ring in her ears a Goddess in a palace of her dreams is on each and every beautiful thing; in his hear with “Hello! B—-! How are you?” Gallery, writing, losing my mind for this, texas, love instigator, lonely, a dream about the color Gold. She’s somewhat sleepless as i’ve seen dreamers can be, so i wish her i’d listened more, wish her sweet dreams, something sweet like the angel had me last night. Goodnight.
At least you see a, properly an angel, a gift of God of love, mystic transubstantiation. Any way i’m received to a telegram i read amid lucid delegations to new shit. Only people in love, blessed by light might see the love in a sunrise. I’m lonely, lonely not when met within. Fearful made faithful. Rest this body to be pattern, propagation of love, life, lasting. Ever have i told you telegram, i’m here for love! I sit in my room inking along to physical fiction and mental cognitions of trains. I board lucidity by way of passion, patience. My devotion simply exists in the light i feel blessed to see daily by a good Golden God of love. God save me, oh my soul is wide as a desert trailblazing sunlight. I’ll tell you, let you in on an intermission, i’m on an inner mission and i believe if I love myself well i’ll learn to love every one well. Watch me glow and look deeper when i cry. My night rests in the comfort of a God in embrace. I talk with B—— about valleys, peaks, winds, trees, all the beauties blooming in this ride, are you holding on to something moving. My hand is one a train rail, my ear to the track, i hear a slight arpeggiator on the higher pitch tones, a rattle increasing, shaking metal, clanking, dizzying, rickety rackety chatter of people frequency who don’t give a shit about any one’s feeling or the colors of sunrise. I wake just for sunrise colors and sleep again just for the day at hand, just at the point of faith, i’m just a trip to everywhere with love waiting to happen. Train passes, birds scatter autumn leaves into my dusted footprints, i evaporate like coal smoke, became a rain cloud, rain on a western, southern, desert plain, a flower blooms.
Begin scene 14: Love.
God is love. I feel quite lovely, also quite impassioned, like i could begin a riot, a peaceful riot. All the trees, the flowers, the winds with me; even morning birds are singing along; singing sweet melodies, harmonies on how howsoever you feel the sun is rising, clocks ticking, gotta sleep, eat, go with work, love your family and friends and play through the days.
Today is an early echo. Sunlight greens early morning, greets me, the sky with golden glamour of light overture.
Tomorrow i take flight, forego the name of new adventure, leave this bedroom stationed, situate in slipstreams of mercy; the sky the sea, i sail winds sculpted my wings of oil and ink.
I feel abandoned, amidst artistry, genius revelation, blue in the way i speak, yellow adoration in being found by God, i pray, God with me, be of love, all-powerful romance recurring; sing with me in and on, onto in eternity, years of loving affection, solace, serendipity by sovereign hands molding the day, freeing my way. I pray our way be honest, we truthful, we accepting on premises of forgiveness, being accepted, loved, forgiven first by an act of just love in the days of Christ Jesus.
So i paint, i write, i gallery, publish. Put words in minds, sentences remembered in a portrait, essay and poesy for the sweet inner ear, all seeing eye, love lavish receives and gives.
Begin Scene 14 Act 2: Flowers.
Will the flowers miss me when I’m gone. Hardly. I will not miss this pink petunia or that blue/purple wisteria. I’ve so many a flower to find, to look into and from all they’ve conjured in this garden of time. Old aromas mix, we brew potions of a beauty eternal. Mild and momentary we may be, forever we are found, instilled in graces of good breath, lovely colors, abstract and actual feelings, both of us all blooming both within and without ourselves, some saintly serenade in the space between not being and being for the worship hands raised and smiling flora fluorescent, sipping petals, verdantly vernacular so spectacular to a poesy who sees to it – we be.
Be beautiful, be love, be we, with, by, to and from, for God the Artist, lover, just friend, God of love. Love of God.
Begin scene 15: Cartel.
Not just Cartel. I’m raised wide and near to big cartel. Cuckoos of old tokyo, past edo n’ ukiyo-e are playing at my ear, my minds in a rhyme divine state of mind.
I see a ticket, pulled from pants of a hillside, crest of rising light, in my eyes reading in language, ecstatic jubilee, flower house in the head. How i got to here who knows, who could tell the clocks their ticking means no thing, not anyone because clocks cannot hear, do not listen, do not care at all for meaning. That’s human usery, wallowing and wayfaring for some nearly had thing when all you need is breathe.
And baby soul hear me say it, you got soul.
Outside the page; flowers yellow, pink, a reddish hue of honey smell sweet in my eyes, play calm to the skipping stones and echo waves of water, life water in me, i’d visited japan this prior height of the glistening sun, shone myself in time for the monastic Jugon, pre-edo period and all between for my studies under master painters mid century. I’d listened well, well not their names for all those indicated were a sort of pseudonym for banana tree, like basho my haiku teacher who dilemma’d my head with the one haiku about an old melon, well anyway; i’m on my own way most evidently, having left that time period and head altogether to glance into the eyes of a man of the orient sinking his gaze deepest into his geisha, no his ocean of a women’s eyes, dressed in a modern feminine and floral attire with the most bedazzled buddha glow. He had a film camera in his hand when before ocean eyes arrived, he’d pointed the lens straight into my eyes looking straight into the lens and calmly accepting his click, flutter, shoot and winding crank of the film exposure to expect i’d appear in a new mag issued by edo’s resurgance for all art is cyclical i said in my head when we both calmly turned back to our work, our play, well this is my play anyway; and i dare a director to never turn this play down, actor could monologue, could they? Actor’s become self aware, applaud from the audience, who is this playwright? These blinding lights, all your eyes, OH! It’s just so pleasant a thing to be here, sipping coffee looking at a girl with two braids tied back side and side her brain, all yellow, holding an umbrella while her hand dangles dapper, beating a drum kick, nonchalant in a series of knives and point shaped objects falling to my hand writing about the artist featured on the wall, some modern ukiyo-e flip, flip to the next scene.
Begin scene 16: Ukiyo-E.
Picture a floating world, green grounds sunk up by mahogany spirals, caput mortem colored trees complimented by yellows of sky, pink, blue just because interior colors deserve representation too. Got it? Picture a floating world.
Pictures in the woodgrain, faces, punctual coalescence of shades tone in and around a milk sienna avocado center and brown as verdant as monet’s garden. I walk, not in monet’s garden, but not either the garden layla meets majnun in love in and believe she fainted just at hearing one of his love poems, though they were not his love poems of course as only a divine love could make someone ask me “have you ever been that in love?!” and i recalled a particular pair of eyes and just as quickly blurted “yes i have” and smiled, laughing at all the poems i’d written to dearly Beloved, like i’d lost my mind to make more room for my heart to adore her; hands running the length of my arm, i’d reach past the yonder shore to speak with you just once more, have you read just one of these writings, these letters i’d meant only for you and how, oh how they’ve found heart in my eyes, all and every other lovely pupil, like you were layla to majnun crying to vacant, so he thought, felt God hear him say ”layla is everything” Love is absolute. And to me you were layla yes, and you were majnun too; i was a sufi once, a mystic, a chandelier poet at van gogh’s peasant potato eater’s dinner, and the flash of the clicking lens linked into by people living on the streets today, today there are still people living on the streets while others live in homes with spare rooms, vacant as indecision. Bright as a call to action.
Begin scene 17: Big Home.
I’m in a big home. I can pay for this with funds i’ve received to bless people with artistry in word and color, storytelling to one soul. So in my big home i have extra rooms i allow those in less fortunate, misfortunes misplaced by political unrest, pandemic, familial abandonment of feeling and i get them a physical place to heal. Happiness inside and feel free for every of a day in their busied life boring them deeper into not a socratic tongue wannabee, but like a spring bee just exceptional at appreciating flowers, living art and glorifying God for having kept them alive and loving. Love is sweetest near death, life is most illuminated near death, glory persists and always and forever in and out time, wider and nearer than space is God love. Serenity now.
Begin scene 18: Sunlight
I walk out back, serenity riding me like autumn leaves in a wind, a curling cloud as swirly whirrly as ukiyo-e. I look up into greenery leaves, listen the birds sing, a distant hum of a lawn mower in the neighborhood. I feel light flickering onto my skin from light years in and out. I smile up into the sun, see to it on my way to the bench i smile into the yes of a person person i do not know, thought i do not know, thought i’ll say she’s got black hair, saw her down on the east end of the laurel green grove smiling, an instrumental track played in my headphones but i took my headphones our. I pulled down my mask and let the rapture of trees swaying, breeze blowing, birds perched on a tree singing just for me all i could possible perceive; I know well this moment is one of those kind to remind me of happiness here some time into the future when i might have forgotten our perception allots us an unbridled happiness, a place of bliss within us, us, we are all people. But the people i see right now is a couple of girls across the street yelling to their friend “you have to pee?!”, a man with a yellow calculator humming a silent song, two girls on their phones at a table, a head shaven writer with a monk penned hand, fingering beige page and closing his cap to his pen, his notebook too and just getting walking, looking for flowers and trains.
Begin scene 19: Monk.
Being a monk without a qualified order or tribe to align sleep scheduled dreams and verses with at the autumn evening walk flowing like a paired painting of a mandala and an old polaroid. Yes, being a monk in a city is quite the resplendency as i see it. I’m free to do as little consumer chasing as possible as i decide rather to sit by a tree, hear a plane pass, a mysterious ruffling in the leaves, looking around at all the light growing in the trees. As a monk i feel the time is right give nature the place of my recurrent monastery, sweetly singing choir birds, virgin perceptions in every new field or play of light, a sunrise or a sunset more natural than naturalism philosophizing ration on about only poets breathing the same air as trees. Science and I would have you believe once breath is shared with a tree, the human and tree enter into a mystic conversation and how deeper the conversation on union with God than in the way before infant God fashioned a human in transmission only his receiver, his output, more than static on the radio, genius is the heart of love, the creating Artist – God of love.
Begin scene 20: Blue Hour.
Love is the greatest verse in all the universe. You n I and our verse.
Yes, love is the most powerful force in all the universe. And in all the universe I am right here with God, i am just where i’d love to be.
I open the eyelid holding my dreams, women, colors, joel, a large tan majestic steed, a pool, a few fright shiny lights, a shop and some cool people, my phantasmagorical dreams elude no waking hour and like echoes pass before my sight as i wake. I hear the water running, watering the flowers outside the window. Trains roar so delightful in the distance. Blue hour.
Some dimmer stars, except orion’s constellation shoot slow across a horizon sky. Blue orient solar powered lamp is on in the night falling on my flower garden, i think i’d like to plant a few new flowers you see. Though I’ll be on a plane in a few hours for texas. An orange street lamp light shines through the north day end of my window, casting soft remembrance to earlier forms of intimate space I’ve become myself acquainted to. The checker pattern of my table, the word, is written.
God is the person alone i am so in love, so alive. I pour this overflowing self, this fortune sight and my lip into people and flowers for prosperity and flowers of their own being. Take good care of yourself, i love you, be love, be a living prayer, elucidate the days for all they are worth, enumerate your adornment, awe and rapture to the stars smile, love, be happy, feel the valleys, the peaks, be light as the light, passing sweet along landscapes on and under your skin. All the wonders you’ll see! I love you. You are free. You are accepted too. You are loved in to God, God of Love, love God.