"Let Myself be Aware"

let myself be aware in this moment that i do not need to be aware
in order for everything to operate functionally, i am
part of all that is, in form or not. may my thoughts not impede
the progress of the circuit being completed through me,
an ark being constructed, in preparation for some preconceived
Global Flood of consciousness. infuse me, o nameless, o many names,
o collective and singular being(s) (am i praying to the billions of cycling
cells, phasing through receptors, transmitting photons, wiggling strands of pseudo-quantified DNA?)
infuse me with the energy that I Am, that Eye Am, We are, expressing solidarity through symbiosis,
a unity of purpose as all organisms contained herein, in whatever we are-at, to construct a new earth, what seems to be
the real "new world order,"

Are there such things, "anymore," as "too arrogant," and "too humble"?

Each cell screams, "hallelujah!," and how can I deny it?

A feeling, expressed or unexpressed: Suspend an awareness that has been recently popping into myself that....

ode to creation

new nameless created thing, thus naming you i dedicate this to you to be and to have fun with your other names in a not-so-distant game where you can go back and forth, in any directions, in your dream, creating new ones, and know that you were somehow connected to me. although you may forget who or what i am, you will nevertheless always have me in you, and you will jump, or do whatever you do, when you experience the light for your first time, and you will slowly remember me and love yourself as a result, or perhaps i will be entirely surprised.

illumination

something happening with neptune that i don't know about, yet some new-agey philanthropist shouts this at me because people in touch are supposed to know these things, and my mind, though unable to send a verbal message to my mouth, is pouring into the canyon in my chest, and i wonder what negative black space, what satanic metaphor, is holding me down, still, after all these years, and, nails thick, pressing into my skin like bamboo torture, and out of breath for doing nothing, i flip open to a page of blake's illuminations and wonder at what point jerusalem's restoration was inevitable, if it was in yahweh's stars, or if that city could have ended when it wasn't on the map, snuffed out by all the world.

roasted mozzerella

while walking at night on alberta, we imagine what we might do tonight. do you drink, she says, and says, i don't, and i say i like wine, and then we find ourselves paused under a sign of a closed wine merchant. later, i remember the other day in whole foods. a clank stops the crowd, an event i, while sampling what i think was called roasted mozzerella, but is actually just some herbed pasta, witness right in front of me: a young woman, serene and bright, replaces a bottle of wine from the tile floor. that's a ton of good luck right there, when you drop a wine bottle and it doesn't break, the clerk says. and i leave the store without buying anything.

want is need

someone is squeezing the hose, you become aware of it in your heart, and constricted, you cannot take it. that's physics, it says, the physics of water, and it has to flow, and that green wall, plastic and opaque, will not hold me back for long.

an ark key

more than a clever pun, it comes into me, and i never do anything with it but say it a few times, liking its associations. it makes a good store name, you say, or maybe a book. it seems like it should be a book of verse, if should exists, in an indie shop. then, one day down the road, you decide (you think randomly) to walk into a zine shop on the haight when you are thinking of the arc concept, and there on the shelf is an anthropology of anarchy-inspired poetry called, An Ark Key.

seams

2. crafting the cut of the artery river, streaming in high definition white noise,
like a butter knife slipping through the grand canyon.

1. the undercurrent spiral-dances, dividing the waters from the waters, and you, the artist, ask me to ask you about any of your works, giving you a way in, because each, you say, has a genesis.

4. this one, you say, is your favorite. it looks like scribble, like any elephant with a brush could do it, with layers of multicolored verticals and horizontals, thick and thin, like a broken television still-frame, on mute, chaotic and scratchy, thick and thin, and i ask if it has a name, and it begins to look better when you say, time.