Long Hair

Long hair rides the fire fly.  Soft glowing up into the sky.  I see them floating under the trees.  Ghostly pulsing orbs that pass me by.  Long hair rides the winds at night and is a saxicoline sprite.  Small and spit fire.  She is.  Long Hair dreams of the woods at night and moves through tall grasses under moonlight.  Braids fall down to flowing locks.  Long Hair suddenly has will to rise when the wind lifts her up by her braids and ties.  Fly little one and listen to tinkling glasses.  Wine toasts and summer roasts.  Strawberries dipped in summertime.  Long Hair smells of sweet grass and sage.  She smells sweet like lavender.  Out in a sprinkling of stars on a warm summer night, smelling grassy and fresh with a hint of wild forest.  Smells of the dirt earth pathways under her toes and smells of green leaves covering mossy rocks.  My Long Hair is my friend.  She is an idea that flies away into the warm months.  She could never live with clocks and cloth.  She is as wild as the air and the fire and all things that creep along waterways.  Long live my little one.  Long live my Long Hair. 

fire spirit

Days this week are marked with fire.  Fire in the camp.  Can we make fire?  Carrying fire.  The tinder bundle of straw and sage can hold an ember.  You can walk away and take fire with you.  Carry a fire horn.  No matter where I am in the wilderness, fire travels.  Aster planetes  follow, too, with their far away fire.  I am the wanderer who must curl up in the wickiup.  A warm summer night with fire, I keep strolling through the forest.  This land may become an earthen galley between a sea of trees and stars.  I will keep moving with my fire horn.  We are on some ancient ocean floor littered with arrowheads and fossils. (Yucatan)  I carry the fire.  Sweet grass scent.  The porcupine quills.  A night out with the land can be meaningful, spiritual.  I write a pantheists dream again and again.  Settle.  Did we settle this land?  Hierochloe odorata.  Hieroglyphs are tattooed on the rock walls.  Mother Earth's hair grows here.  Smudging the memory of streets and towns.  Smudging the memories of money.  Grow wild here.  Go wild here.  Leaves and trees mind here.  Walk down the native stairways of rock and earth.  Climb the vines.  Water flows there.  Sap flows, too.  But we need fire to make it.  Shelter, sustenance, stories.  We weave nets with milkweed.  Yucca.  We have skull broth and eyeball stew.  We have to cook our food.  Fire brings stories.  Many men traveled here.  We don't need asphalt.  We don't need machines.  Carry fire, find water.  Summer path spirit highways, we follow.  Earth roads to manna.  What fire brings to our spirit.  Fotia fos.

Moon Spy

I've taken a dive, Moon Spy.  A little ride over the galactic rim.  I got to fly over a moon bow and into a day glo  psychedelic trip.  All the little points emerge as rainbow dusted hues, cruising by the sidereal planes.  I'm adding fire.  I'm lighting the celestial torch on my porch.  Dark places.  We go with rockets by the brain farts of the suicide squad.  They squat in their nativity by the Devil's Gate.  Take it away, demonic rocks.  I'm out of your league.  I'm flying through space time and avoiding your superstitions.  We'll play rockets.  No church top reaches up that high.  Singing it up to "heaven" but your heaven is high.  Turn the days, this sunlight daylight day into a cornucopia of nourishment.  Cut off that devil's horn and feed the hungry.  At night we build rockets.  We fly them, too.  Cosmic ruins blow dust as we hellions cross the sky.

Gnostic Gnosh

Metanoia tonight.  Tomorrow begins a New Moon cycle of darkness and depth.  The Delphi priestess wears her robe and brings the foison to the masses.  A large wain delivers the sustenance for another year.  Fields of grain yielding.  A sun, a moon.  A passing thing.  What will they do when the Sun no longer delivers the wind and rain?  When the Sun no longer lights the moon?  Soleil.  She rides above the Piccadilly Circus.  She rides along King's Cross.  We no longer remember the dark green when it is lighted at the Cross Keys.  It's a Wheel, not a thing.  It is Medicine.  Wodwose.  I am ghosting the gunk food.  Not junk food.  All the gunk it leaves earns it's name.  And it's not just fast food.  Who would think the grains could no longer be mine?  I'm not allergic to wine.  And Dionysus has his ways.  At least the wine will sustain me during these days of wheat and barley, of rye and oat.  All the things I must deny.  Millet.  I need hydration.  I look to the water.  A Sagittarian dream of running cold.  I may try to hide in my PA Grand Canyon or the rocking boats off of Cornwall's ragged coastline.  Give me the night skies of Lapland.  I'll alight my Swedish torch.  Demiurge dine.  Gnosis brine.  The river Styx and a goddess Nyx.  Tonight, give night.  My Aeon Syzygies.  Ennoea, Charis, Sige.  Aletheia, Nous.  Travel mind.  Something to eat.  Another day.  The insides suddenly die down.  Like they are no longer dying.  They are living, breathing, digesting another day.  Whey.  Corn Mother.  I'll eat the words instead of the wheat.  Die down, the heat, the humidity.  Eat the food with water, the water in the food.  A drunken balter to the drums.  A little wine with the burning sage. I find myself suffering with uhtceare for the Sun and all that burns unattended.   In vino veritas. 

eat your vegetables

My mind is elsewhere.  Caprioling into childhood.  My mind is dancing the Gypsy Tango.  My mind is flowing through the Kara Strait into the Kara Sea.  I can see Russia from my mind.  This is no flumadiddle.  I'm perfectly flowing, unattached.  I'm no longer the barnacle at the bottom of the boat.  I'm no longer going along for the ride.  The women still echo.  Tomorrow they cachinnate in the earliest of early mornings just to make my ears bleed.  Thank you, you cacklers like crows.  You seem to smirk at my painful wince.  It is something you get used to.  The screaming and the grinding.  The humming and the hawing.  They seem to go hand-in-hand in the world of the work-a-day drones.  But I'm not there, I'm floating.  I've decided.  I've decided something.  I see the glowing cabochons in the earth and under the foaming oceans.  I am now of noble mien.  I no longer care to own or take or create a space for.  Let's share the wealth of beauty in the greenest garden we have.  Let's be the nobility of nothingness.  Get on my makeshift raft and let's set out for the blazing horizon.  There is some wild and distant shore we haven't yet set foot upon.  Gleaming beaches for miles beckon us to come.  The sun might just push away the glowering black cloud of storms above.  Penhooligan, my sobriquet, so often I've thought I could be a different entity on this planet.  I am the Greek, I am the English.  But we are different than what we think.  Stop and look at behavior.  We the calm equals we the chaos.  We the meditative equals we the raving.  We are mad mirrors chattering to ourselves.  We are related even though we are reticent to say it.  My sister is a perfect mirror of myself.  Hello, lady.  Tell me what we need today.  Your black to my brown.  My sinister sister completes me.  She crosses my 't's and dots my 'i's.  What do we use to cleanse this vast space?  Go and exist.  Feel the life and feel the death.  Reverse the curse of the everyday thoughts.  Remember the opposite is true.  This is why they can't feed you.  We are the same in our physiology.  Take care.  Remember to make the food real.

the Stream Dream

The Stream Dream is a place I go in my mind.  Tonight it led me to the edge of a land, a forest.  There was a road and we were on it.  Such a simple thing we were doing.  We were taking a ride that day and decided to camp.  We spoke to those on the path.  They had bought an entire town to remake into a tiny house community.  It was one of those 'off the grid' places.  We even had our animals in tow.  Soon we realized we wanted to stay.  The view off of her terrace was stunning.  The trees were strange and green.  Something inside of me said I had to have this and as she and I walked and talked, I felt worse.  My insides hurt.  My head ached.  I was reminded of my physical limitations with every step.  I can understand the temptations of dreams.  They are our insides.  They are our loves and our life.  We want to make them true and "real".  As real as we can.  We want to bring our loves to fruition.  All of it blossoming forth when, a few minutes ago, it all seemed impossible.  I'm not writing that this is a dream.  This is what I want in my reality.  I straddle two worlds constantly.  Something's got to give.  Being beaten daily has me wanting to hand it all over and walk away.  Let us live a different life, my love.  He is, after all, beaten, too.  This existence really isn't for me.  Even those moments of spending time with others seem wrote.  They are the repetition in a different setting, each one the same from weddings to funerals.  Sorry, I have weeding to do.  And it is far more adventurous to possibly run into a snake in the grass than a snake at a wake.  Jus' sayin'.  I'm partly reminded of the remote hills.  I used to play on trees and in creek beds.  I used to listen to sounds of rushing water and wind.  Now I hear churning, spitting and grinding.  The hum of electricity pulsing through a machine.  A flash of light and it could all be done.  My life couldn't be more in contrast from what I desire to what it is.  There is enjoyment in quiet moments.  But I live two starkly different and distinctive inner and outer worlds.  A person could get torn apart.   

Reichenbach Falls

The normal state of things shifts every now and again.  What I could see as an illusion now was very real to me then.  This is the state of things.  Moving in a car.  I wouldn't want to give up a car but I would want to move to those magical trees.  You see, a rather wound up person told me in a dream that this was HER view.  Why is it not mine?  I didn't intend to live in a toil town.  Even though bits of the green peep through here and there.  They struggle.  As do I.  The bits of this beggar is a personal tour into pain, longing and soul sojourning.  Piece by piece I put me together.  Life lies here.  Underground.  I so wish to go.  If I were to grow up and out, I think I'd feel free.  Greenery does something to my insides. 
Comedian of Tragedy
Even though you may believe my life is a joke, I say to you it isn't. Your actions speak and you continuously poke at the pains in me. Knife, fork and forked tongue. Go blue-sing your way through... some sugar shake blown. I can blossom without you. I have. I can see through your whiskey and sleaze. Just another night at the tavern of the good folks. Just another night for fools. Keep dancing to your jester tune. The quick brick holds the ham. I can't stomach the flood of fakery through the valley. Some river rushing wisdom by your door. Lay down. Put down your coat, you imbecile. I'll climb in my boat. Another night far from you. Sunday, August 26, 2012 10:38 a.m.             
I can pretend, Switzerland.  I feel the miles of memory in my pain.  Ancestry from  miles away.  Two hundred years under your falling water.  I can pretend, Switzerland.  And I'll wear my London, too.  Thousands of people pulse in these veins.  And who the hell are you?  Another summer night on a dying vine in a dying sky under a darkened moon and twisted pain.  There is rain in these woods.  Night will tell.  We pulled into a strange and sweet land.  Both of us having the same dream.  Sometimes, it is good to get away.  But we'll live here, my love, with our Swedish oven.  We only needed the limbs and branches and the sky above.  I have no desire to pull dead weight.
From the Devil's loam to logia.  We try to till a dark sky.  We try to pull forth a brilliant horizon from a dying sun.  We try to make things grow down for everyone.  I'm pulling dreams out of the air.  I'm pulling them from the storm clouds.  Changing winds remind me, as they shake these dreams from my hair, that you can only have this.  This air, this sun.  This face.  Your temple shakes.  So, the first cool breath of morning reminds me.  It is time to move on.