Phriday Phaiga 5/24/13
When night falls for the bones, Nothing comes from the dark, Nothing goes into the light and the marrow burns on its own. The tunnel bends to its own demise and turns in its cold sack as the sun dies and the skies close down their colors. They drown us in the hues of someone else's nightmares while our own forgotten dreams lie down in the grass and all we can do is lie down with them and smell it coming like we smell our own sweat and wait for the rain to wash it all away. From the darkness, from the depths, a crystalline air vibrates our structured souls until they shatter into light while the bones beat and rattle within us, playing us like a single drum.
we sit in circles like dust settling out of the room like light fading into the corners like dark creeping along the floor we sit and are ourselves only to ourselves to all others we are other we stand like trees like blades of tall grass like birds on long legs in the water we fly at ourselves and whirl about our own heads we the moth we the flame we the candlemaker we hold ourselves like little children and laugh into our hair into the sun and become light
[a series I have been working on] [part one can be found here] I wonder--did those strange scents jar your memories and dreams toward unseen collisions with silence, that wrong kind of quiet made dense with soft specific sounds that spell a place far deeper than our well- used alphabet of ancient objects? Our limbic world just disconnects over time. Our temporal selves get disheveled. Cerebral shelves do not suffice any more. We strive to hold things in place, but see only place-holders and when age eats worlds, the words fall off the page.