Dreaming into being


                   you know                                            
                                 that you’re dreaming             

you thought this
                                               was going to end

you’re falling

like a gust picked up
out of nowhere
     blowing through 
until it’s               hollow
         lit up like a        leaf                                                                 
              steady                 then it pours
             the recension                    is boundless
                    it’s breath                    we start to see it
      through the fog
the universe became                          geometric
                    it’s lower energy           non-existence

We sat on the outskirts
of the surface—we sat there
                            with the        flashlight
                                      in our one good eye

the onset of a storm on the river
  on a sunny day                                 the dark cloud
arcing                     you return to shore
              starts to whirl a calm
    reminder not to stray too far
off the path
                                                             your ions
                                                from the dayless
                              oxygen raft
upstream—can’t say
what you          will find
                                                  it’s there
       muffled between        a      once in a lifetime
                             window                           if you

something wasn’t right—

                                                   wires were crossed
       at the edge of the universe
we couldn’t control it—it was showing us
a way out—

We’d get all harmonic—             we’d start ringing
                          —we’d shut ourselves off in silence
          just to twist the knob in rhythm
with it—                         you could hear it
             slapping piercing quartz bowls
                           that would morph
                                        volume and shift pitch—
we were always looking for that frequency
until it became us—how could we forget
                                 what was lost & found
                                                by the oak tree—
                                                     by the waters
behind your silent
          voice breathes through me—
   it’s the pulse that’s strung
through the steady gentle
we mapped it out—we
lost it—                                                   we found it
                                            trickling quicksilver
                                                      onto the tongue
                                         hand tingles red
                                                raw skin on tight skin
                                            the sound of a djembe
                                     coming out of your
                                            ghostnoted face
                to set the depth-charge
   in our perception—
our entire life gone
out the window—
                               a circle that looks like a line—
                      it echoes back and forth
                                         into something else
you need to go deeper
into it—you need to
never come back—

in cells we sit in ceremony—
your whole entire plan
was an arpeggio—
we mapped it out
                        remember—we saw it coming
                        from a mile away—we smiled
as it built upon itself
like a spiral staircase
         into nothing
     we kept getting                                                
    lost in                       valves
      vortices               made of reeds
      (sunlight)              never touched this place
once                 not until we dug          ourselves
into the cold            wet               earth
 warm                            with gravity      it spun—

the moths were coming back—

we watched these doors open
and close for so long stepping
into one became as natural
slowly rising

                 words in 12 gauge birdshot
           ricochet off the shiny flat     surface
    of the  universe     I can’t believe
      we’re here—I can’t believe
            we’re dying—

                            flowers made of movement—
                                handheld little milkdrops…

you’re the texture—the pattern
      overlayed over everything we
thought we were—you wondered
      why it was there—I was looking into you
                                and at you
                 clay plastic angel
              organskin complexion  by starlite
we mapped it out—remember
do you see                       what I mean—
             a fragment of               lightning
           on a small metal merrygoround
        at the park without the horses

                                or standing on the edge
                                           of dawn like a prism

cloudy morning drone
with a voice like a waterfall
                            something stirs in a tomb
someone let the light in
                hit a mirror
                                                  another mirror

two of them
would come
at the same time
           it was only
in their oneness
      would the two tones
start warbling—line up
            fill the stone walled rooms
of the heart with this phase
                      recognized only by the difference
between them as seeing them
                                                                     as one
tibetan throat singing monks
sat in the circle
smoking rustica opium datura oleander
and hashish out of a single piece—
     their neighbors
                 down the road
                             making mandalas in the sand

34 thoughts on “Dreaming into being

  1. danielpaulmarshall

    you have the patience of a stoned Tibetan monk to do all that formatting on WordPress— i can never be arsed, slow hand clap for you friend.
    this is a head fuck of an experience to read, a brilliant head fuck by the way, but almost like a giddiness, something like the vibe of sea sickness but with a pleasant nausea—i got it: the first time i tried to read Will Self’s Umbrella, it made me dizzy, sick because it is so dense. i eventually got over that & thoroughly enjoyed the novel & was amply prepared for Shark when it came out.
    i am waffling, despite the above i am trying to compliment you.

    1. pseudonymous Post author

      And I love your comment dearly—I cant wait to read this book! Thanks Daniel! Yes, I had to chip away at it here and there for a couple days until I could read over it and find nothing…out of place. I know exactly what you mean though by that feeling. Somehow I’m able to take that motion of the music that moves through me and put it into poetry. It’s similar with writing from vision with no music. You take the feeling, describe it, and it seems to come to life. I was all worried this wasn’t good enough before I posted it and had to just laugh at how silly being a human is sometimes.

      1. danielpaulmarshall

        it looks like you chipped at it.
        i sometimes marvel at being human, i get this strange sense wash over me & sort of think can anyone else sense this, similar to how i have this sense that everything else is going on while i am going on, y’know you are where you are & things happen to you & Joe Bloggs over there too & then i am here & 7 billion others all simultaneously have shit just happening to them—that really bowls me over. oddly, it isn’t now, i am articulating what is actually a sensation, a sort of spinning inside me, an analogy of what 7 billion people all doing & happening simultaneously must feel like. maybe i am too sensitive & don’t have the vocabulary to make myself understood, even to myself.

      2. pseudonymous Post author

        I feel it clock-wise when I take a sip of water. I might have to go to new zealand sometime just to meditate. You may be sensitive but you are understood to some degree. As am I. Like someone turned the gain knob up on the senses. Signed up to be dropkicked into a maze.

  2. Samyra

    I agree with all the above comments. This is not poetry for the faint of heart, in the absolute best possible way. This is a journey.
    The format, and your use of the written word is like nothing I’ve ever seen; and in its originality, evokes images and feelings I’ve never experienced. This one settles in the soul. Absolutely artful.

  3. nara15blog

    Extraordinary! Leaves me speechless. As if the music is different harmonies becoming homogeneous. Love the imagery of the real and artificial angel and the horseless merrygoaround…eerie. Beautifully rendered.

    1. pseudonymous Post author

      It was realer than real—I don’t make this shit up—thanks for your feedback I’m very happy you thought so! We look completely different over there is right here.

  4. MuseWriter

    You have a beautiful way of formulating your thoughts into sentences/phrases, I found myself reading this twice. More gain works well for you 😉 Thanks for sharing

  5. spritzyclover

    Pseudo, you have such a talent for beautiful words and descriptions. I feel like I’m falling and twirling and it makes me happy and upset and confused and nauseous. 😀 It’s the best thing ever! You make me giddy ^///^

    1. pseudonymous Post author

      Thank you—very happy to hear that! I’ve just become the forest. The fox that trotted downhill yesterday too quick for my camera. I can hear anything coming from a mile away—literally. Nothing does but the moths. They love my house because I’ve never cared to put curtains up and they chill out on the windows. It’s been ever since the new moon I think which may be coincidence, their reproductive cycles aren’t supposed to be lunar, but perhaps to some degree like it is with us it is with them too. Pretty soon it’s going to be Moth house all over again.

      I saw more last year than any year ever and heard the same from a bunch of others. I was all worried about caterpillars but it’s not my fault they’re laying eggs on my leaves 12′ above ground in what is practically an oak grove. No damage this year despite which was a first. There’s a couple strains of bacteria approved for organic use that turns them into little writhing white pillars of death after they eat it. It’s as disturbing as it is amazing. There’s only so much botrytis you can inhale in a lifetime.

      I know I’m going off on a stoned tangent here, but the fact some wineries use it to create what is known as ‘sweet rot’ wine sickens me…like a shady marketing tool for dumping botched grapes…but they intentionally spray the fucking spores onto their vines and harvest it after it’s molded. I’m happy I don’t drink that shit anymore!

      1. boozilla

        OMG. Really? I’ll stick to worrying about the moths for now, they are definitely on the upswing here….we use sticky traps for almost everything we don’t pick up and “deport” so to speak…..the scorpions and flies are the only ones, besides mosquitoes and ticks, that we kill ASAP. No wonder time goes by so fast- the bug escort service runs 24/7.

      2. pseudonymous Post author

        I couldn’t believe it when I saw a black scorpion hiding under a yoga mat outside last July—another creature I’d never seen before until I moved up here. I couldn’t bring myself to kill it though. I’d probably feel differently if I lived in a yurt.

      3. boozilla

        The real thing is? when you step on one. Life is not the same after that. Nor is your foot. I didn’t even know there were scorpions here either. Adding to the never ending wonder…..

      4. pseudonymous Post author

        I can hear Tom Waits in my head right now: “If you drop liquor…on a scorpion…..it will instantly go mad……and sting itself………..TO DEATH!

      5. boozilla

        I am laughing, really. LOVE Tom Waits. and no. Scorpions LAUGH when they get cocktails. Not entirely unsensible creatures……but not amenable to negotiation. Kinda like rattlers…..

  6. Pablo Cuzco

    “tibetan throat singing monks
sat in the circle
smoking rustica opium datura oleander
and hashish out of a single piece—
     their neighbors
                 down the road
                             making mandalas in the sand”

    Deep imagery. The corrupt Buddhist monks contrast perfectly with the pious Hindus practicing their spiritual art.


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