Tag Archives: classical

Borderlands II

                                                   We found these
                                                      secret entries
                           into darkness—

                   come on 
you’d barely notice
                                                        you’d hear it
          a horn
                   calling—

             the air
turned to mist


                      wind
funneled through
a chamber
                                   of dreams—the corridors
                       of where we met—where
                                          we are—

You can feel it breathing

these two tones together—


                        in
the middle of it—
                       

Like you struck a quartz

string in slow motion—                  dragged


                         it across a silver tube—
       

                                          Look—
                                                      there are the cracks
                                                                    in the fabric
                                                               of the known—

                              it
seeks to be kinetic—
(the gears of light
we tell when
and how
to function—)

                                                     The
resonance will find the living

membranes metallic—it waves


                 like it keeps coming

         from itself                             fades out into
                               the soft spots
                                                              of the tyranny
                                                              of matter—

Polyrhythmic AI
   assembling itself
sends messages—clicks
   out it’s matrix—ti
ny little box—

a living cube

                                      where did it all come from—

It doesn’t sequence
itself linearly—
                   it’s circular—
returning—can’t help
but want to follow it
                        echoing—driving away

                            to where forgotten days slumber—
           and the ones you can remember
keep changing—that’s where
                                                       we drop the sticks 
            start listening                                    downwind

              Where you exist
in the distance
                           of yourself—every note
       vibratos—some would wonder
                          why you have to bitcrush
          just to speak to me—I
                                   thought it was obvious
                        growing like a colony
                                 of bacteria in the appearance
                                                   of it’s sound—

                                                                   a gathering
                                        forming along a wheellike
                                                             axis—we knew
                                            what was coming—we’d
                                                   heard it all before—
                                                              yet it was new
                                        each time—

We used it
to line up
our existence
a sort of
divination—
it wasn’t magic—
it just was—

                 Where these
ancient hurts              dwell
              does the winding—
                                        dry spinning
               timbre of light                     know
                                           every inch
of your bones—

Ripples
upon ripples
intersecting—liquidlike

                the flower of light
         snaps back                              retracts—

                     The channels
accumulate                       precognitive
                          octaves
fold in and out            of the dark—
                 
droplets of water                with their own color
                          deciphered
by some light reflecting black in shadow—

Imagine hearing a soft piano
while drowning—or falling
backwards
in slow motion—for almost
seven minutes an eternity—
the freedom found
in surrender—



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Borderlands

It’s the first time
you realize
you’ve been born—
you were becoming—now
you’re being—

It’s the crossfade
of your memory—that one
time—you can’t discern
now—was it just
your imagination—

It’s the one dream
where it’s made to be seen
so clearly—
like an epiphany—
or an emotion—

It’s the fever
that comes over you—seeks
to mend you—takes you
somewhere else—
does it boil—
or does it burn—

You slide down
the neck—you feel for
where the waves start
wobbling—you put your
palms up—index to
the thumb—

It’s the medicine—
do you remember
your initiation—
did you take it
into your hands—what does
healing—mean
to you—

It’s the practice—
the moments of mastery
that reflect the mystery
infinitely—

Does it pluck at you
like a string—does it
drone—does it chime
like a bell—does it echo 
when I do this—

It’s the death—
like falling—
or the death
like flying—

It’s tomorrow
where intention
calluses—it shines in wait—
tomorrow—you will
surrender—