Dances On The Water

H: I dreamt I was walking through water.

The stoplight is red, and for a moment, there is stillness.  A momentary glimpse up, a moment to escape the metal and movement, the identification with gravity and all lines and shapes. Up there is a heart that moves like a winged bird, the white fluff that dances on the water of the lake.  Up it moves, past other birds and demons, mermaids swimming with only pale tails and wild scattered hair that covers the sun. There, way above, each second transforming, a heart becomes a curling, nameless animal with horned tail and teeth which lose shape with each exhalation of the mighty myth. 

V: The monks continued with their prayer, seemingly oblivious to the changing light.

Maybe the clouds will birth the objects spoken in prayer, maybe the idol of stone will laugh, maybe the invisible which cannot be proven by any measure will split open and bleed.  Is the stain on the tortilla enough?  The bush that burns?  The fluttering heart that can only be described as man and beard?  Sit in the temples, rise and fall at the command of the man dressed in white.

H: I thought to myself, this feels so good.

Now it gathers strength, shifting as always, needing just moments to metamorphose. A light flashes, brightening across the sky, end and beginning are the same, moving without thought or implied intent. There are technicalities explained in myth. Shape without rationality.  Words without meaning.  Their beauty easy to read, the colors easy to spot and wish upon, though expect nothing in return.

V & M: Their robes fluttered, ignited in the brilliance filling the landscape of barren hills.

They search in the clouds for the source of the twinkle.  Behold the blackness of space he called, the limitless that cannot be understood.  It is not for you to know.  Shopping carts and diapers, packed stadiums of hungry onlookers, waiting for a preacher to deliver the message of god.  We are a pack of wolves, the body wants the taste of flesh.  Each prayer is an invitation to death, open the book and begin to sing. 

K: I felt the rush of cool on my skin, brightening me from the outside in.

Do it because you are told, do it to raise your children well.  Do it because everyone else does.  They will mark your house with stones, the windows will be broken, the lawn dug for your grave.  There is no choice here, not in this country of laws, not in this places of worship.  Thought is for the heathens, questions are for the devil. 

M: A long, resonant tone escaped.

There is only one path and it has already been chosen.  The way is cleared, swept by slaves and those already condemned to death, they wait in cages until the flames rise with the call of the chosen.  Your dress will be torn when we arrive, your lips will be chapped, you will be thirsty, prepare for the voyage and bring the book.

H: I dreamt it lapped at my ankles, cool and vivid.

Wisps colored by the sun in varying moments of movement, a continuous smooth wind takes it, transforming it into the magic of light and moistened clouds ready to spurt their seed.  There may be rain tonight and if there is, I will stand by the window naked, my skin desperately fighting for warmth while my ear and nose take in the newness of the shower, covering it all with a light washing.   

What Is Seen

Friends and parents were warned to stay inside
by the whispering in the walls.
Those without wooden structures were left to read the clouds
and the dust that began to swirl
and looked like pale dragons preparing for flight.

I knew the day would be thick with smoke,
and the rain would be hidden away
and locked in a room behind our five suns.

In interviews the men in hooded robes
spoke of the ancient fires,
the smoking coals,
the chalices of semen.
Most did not understand. 

We could see them entering our space,
passionately delivering their address
as we munched on tubers and meat
and felt the suns across our shoulders burning spots and rings
and tales we could spread across the darkness of time.

I was surprised by the reports,
the newspapers are rarely so emphatic
and I realized it was as it had been
during the coup of ‘062.

I remember we left the midnight concert early
to watch the fireworks as promised. 
The lawn had been cool
and full of balloons and starlight promises,
but from high on the cliff overlooking the city,
I could feel the ocean and the sister planets
already aglow with a steady stream of taxies
and bordellos.

We stung our feet
and munched the stale popcorn nearly forgotten in Mr. J’s leather bag.
He pointed to the darkened space between Roxinata 5 and Obitatha. 
He had seen the Red sun and spoke of the signals,
the whispers, the refugees entering orbit.
Our orbit. 

He said the wolves howled for months,
Then sung no more.
Is it the same as then?
There was a touch of ceremony,
and a few words to tamper the fear
but no answer.

Blinking Calls Of Destruction

The computers
share what you cannot.
The things she needs,
a thousand thoughts.
The damage of our
entwining chords and bubbles,
you will never accept.
My throat,
my city,
it blinks, bored, into the darkness.
Only the red lights call back,
warning,
sighing,
muted and complacent in my paranoia.
Alone right now, standing naked at the window,
I carve the new path into my arm.
A canvas of pure white,
the roads are thick
and etched in the bloody marks
of an adventurer.
A lone wolf guided by the moon and scent
of the night dwellers.
The thickening mist is silent,
constant, hiding that which prefers not
to be seen.
A new way emerges,
tangible,
thirsty.
I open my mouth and suck it in.
Breathe it, chew on the possibility
just outside the window.
I know that it must look the same,
keep up the same appearances,
not a pen must be out of place.
I must keep things as they expect them to be,
for they will be watching.
The writers and men of twisting paths,
it must look like the realm of story,
a plain story without a plot,
a story set down on the side table,
unread and unchanged.
The images will come to the censor,
the gray, the box, the filter.
The drab and colorless, the institution.
They will scan and search, looking for
Subversion, dialogue.
It will be their judgment,
their moral stamp on the colors that will ensue.
It must all appear pale and without fire,
they will push us on,
discerning what appears acceptable
from what is pure chaos,
what is breaking apart.
They will let us through the narrow tube,
the filter burrowed into each
and every one of us,
airtight, black, oozing. 
All will seem normal, plain,
coated in the institutional sheen and odor.
We will split then, dividing evenly. 
A double path communicating through the lights, the red. 
The black that appears almost invisible-
close your eyes and it is there, blinding as the sun,
hiding in the mist, flowing along the carved channels of my arm.
The small dark crystal awaits,
we bring
Destruction.
The crumbling of empire, of rock and continents
and the heavy bodies that come with them.
It is coming.
My computer beats out the song.
Listen, you mad genius.
You naked warrior,
You goddess of sex,
dripping labia exposed to the mass of small and crumpled men.
Listen.
Open up, the communication is coming.
The beat, the hypnotic chant will break the rocks apart,
brick by brick, the city will fall.
Vulnerable, bright and shining against the window
the visions slide
down my cheeks, leaving
no marks.
My mouth open,
your machine on,
the computer blinking, whirring.
I must be brave,
the red and black give their command.