A Reflection Of One’s Own Making

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WrongTimeWrongSpaceIn the dark before dawning I awoke after making the trip down from the high point beyond the Northernmost lights in the sky above the sky behind the sky.

Sweeping my trajectory Westward I soared incandescently across broken glass cities and fields billowing with lipsticked petals and glittering redrock roads, biding my time reading pages written by artists the likes of whom I desire to become.

Spinning thin streams of idolatry into sturdy blankets heavy with purpose,
I suckled beneath the weight in warm bathing pools of clarified light.

There the sun rose along with my heart, lifted up pale yellow and cerise behind cuniform clouds dazzling mica flecked white, flayed ragged and open with ineffable and ecstatic pressure.

Time the spoiled dictator over misaligned emotion collapses stepwise, diminishing. Relinquishing control with every murmuring beat.

Drawing near the mirrored image stretches looming large, stepping through silvered glassine to greet me. Face carved from a mountain. Eyes like exclamation points, opening wide to let out some of their magic. Slight perceptions magnified to infinite emergence; moonlight good.

The connection of a trillion lifetimes compressed transparent into the here and now; I feel it breathing warm on the nape of my neck, see its shadow despite its apparent invisibility.

Spinal cords entwine. The pinhole shudders. The heart swells, curved shoulders trying to contain it. Ribcage flaring, opening to the feeling, feeding it honey and breast milk and planetary scoops of gratitude.

Wrap it in amber and tuck it away on a high shelf. Nothing to be done about it anyway.

There is a shape, is it a house? Set against a field of scraped opal, framed in dark wood. A small box askew in the canyon, a broken rectangle dashed with jagged lines of gray and purple. Pale green ground, or is it sky? Strange trees climb the hills with muscular legs and bent backs. There you will find me, in the curve of a table leg, sitting smoking on a rock, floating in a cloudy jar of turpentine, melting into the sunset, between the cushions of the sofa, in the uneven red shape in the lower right hand corner flowing downhill and washing up on the side of the road after long awaited rain. There and there and there you will find me, breathing, blossoming for your confirmation in the fullness of time outside of time. Pressed flowers made whole, budding and budding and budding moist fluorescence into paper dry air.

Later I will come to you as a panther, stepping silent on small padded feet through a wall of green green leaves. I will come up to where you are sleeping to lick your hand and feel your fingers running through my fur.

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