February 16, 2019

The tale of a dog dream is spelled in ants and colors of mountains

Dreamt I was a dog, I know I really was one
My body behind me
My head decentered
The ants in my bed
Moved away and apart with your time still inside me

Can I use these familiar symbols with unfamiliar you
Oh wow there is so much of it
Of that mountain
Time is not an integration
But an initiation forming
To communicate to ourselves
For maintenance of our ancestral soul?
It is–
Constant, infinite nostalgia
Flowing in the vernal shrimp
They are the clock of seasonal sun
I had never asked from them the time
Mine is spelled
In ants and colors of mountains
And the shape of the pondy hogwallow

That sound that it makes, a slapping pace
Panting the sun in pats
and these oak
and the sun
Welcoming one after
One froggy frogging the whole
Announcing to each other
Stories of the day
Stories of their dreams that is the wind
They are the land’s scape

Scape & space of the wind, the sibling symbols almost match!
And arrive visibly so similar they foolishly present the same...

I wanted to hear what was whispering. A mark in the air cobbled a path through the bush and excitedly, the wind screamed for us to look and by itself was with the oak. One oak and the wind dancing in it. It was as loud as the language we reached for and I could finally hear you, it is me. Here, too, making for you. And the other bodies inside me– we encounter so much, the other bodies inside me– time’s thick portal clumped, dry time cooked. Body is so sacred, hole dancing in the oak, hole the oak, makes the oak. And people too are holes, are entrances to portals. And how many are bodies as self-body centered, emotions' taken shape? What do I mean when I say me and you? And the worms I know are there but have never seen, so wet. And all the holes in the mud, holes are the bodies and the trick in spiders' spindles too. In sprite of ourselves I is other am the intangible web.