Net the Imagined

absent photograph of your mouth

a poem written to myself

not giving up now

takes radical imagination

none of us can bear it

we keep moving, lost stars

what if what i always wanted to be

was a dead woman singing dead woman

songs sweetly into your dead mouth

till echo us all

 

 

Energy is eternal delight.

-Blake


this is a photograph of the threading of dimensions, the way one portal spindles into a next, the stories tell us all beauty is asleep and when we kiss we never kill one another as we do now in the new world order called paradise, called land of the freely lit up caged devices & underwater spamming that knows all your secret names.  you will get a great body of work, they will tell you, by excavating your traumas but what if i’m no longer interested in personal ads or buying more nightmares to store for nuclear winters.

 

in the 90s they assured us we would never recover, never get this far, trained to ghost hope & not fathom dense images we couldn’t slick trade on tomorrows. the fantasy of science was untethered and now every religion has a walking dead arc –you have to pick a team for survival but there’s nothing to survive, we’re so many dreams deep, there no longer exists a kick hard enough to reach—better yet, let’s invent new inventories made of lyrics forgotten. let’s line them up next to pictures taken on our phones & call it life.

I Dare Sing

Universes inside us. Us is an observation of the universe bounded into separation. Something occurs spontaneously in consciousness, or to say consciousness instantaneously creates all and the senses resound. Quiet is now in all of this. Loud as the suffering that holds us, hold this: Quiet is the space that keeps us apart. This is a photograph of the smallest idea emerging, the droplet of sound crux, and as always, I have designed for you an escape hatch. Walk with me for this is a labyrinth, not a maze.



"No phenomenon is a real phenomenon until it is an observed phenomenon."
-J Wheeler


Here is the moment, a design we trace over so thin and yet we think unique, we think first glimpse. Every sunrise, anew and yet here morning light is so tired, we take it for granted. What has to push you beyond survive so that you recall the horror show is not this dreaming, but the way we fell under the spell of dreaming. Consciousness is that which is designed to deceive: And we lay down numbers and alphabets and called it progress. We counted the stars and measured distance and named it time.

We did all of this under the mask of flowing one way forward, but then the closer we looked at the object... we had to contend that what we thought we saw was not what it appeared to be at all.

In the beginning there was light... and light created dualism from dark. And light was the deception that began the unspooling, all of this time and space, a great unspooling into an adventure of the mind. Tell me, have you ever really felt anything or have you thought you must feel because the evidence is overwhelming. The evidence of you and others and life itself, such a perfect casting you must feel it. But when you don't feel it at all. Have you ever considered that a kind of truth as well.

A perfect truth.

A photon is already traveling at light speed c when it is created.