Flight 1
Floating through a see-through Byzantine conduit we bump into a flock
of unflocked birds not knowing by nature how to coexist and mate
correctly.
An idea like a slow congregation in a chapel set in fractions by the
split light of stained glass and the firm and simple built of puritan
pews the birds outside know their way - we would make to follow if we
knew how, but stutter step, fall forward head over belly over high
heel and low toe. Breaking our fast but for a moment and slowly
pecking at the air that lay a heavy electricity in between.
They have their wordily meals at regular hours, but sometimes they
forget. One of them is claustrophobic and lays green eggs with purple
speckles. Step - and you find an open door leading to a dungeon
replete with book shelves. They say: “100 objects representing our
reality”, “Hearty Soups”, “Indian tribes”, “Orthodox gardening” etc.
You pick one of the thickest books hoping to find the answer to the
hardest question you have ever come up with. As you keep reading, you
start connecting words, prefixes, endings and their etymological
roots. Finally, when you understand that you don’t understand, you
stop asking yourself anything. You are not willing to ask others
either.
Guilty, criminal the intent of the mind that hides in too many
questions. You understand when you fall from the nest.
Furtive in first flight, but startle up a great might and it just
might and maybe if there was…and quitting here quitting the one and
one and so many paper things, words and ink. Glue trabecula stiffening
spine and breaking only when opened all the way. And here the stomach
sings when the question sinks, like bird and swarm of butterflies,
And words as wasps,
And skin that stings.
Skin infested with sores and multiple personalities. Skin that loves
bravado, emotional toing & froing and factoring artistic invasions.
First flight - your understanding turns yellow and starts eating
itself; second flight - it prefers living inside paper, choking on all
the intense squiggles right behind it. Flight 3 - the walls inside its
realm become patchily rhythmical, they are clenching their teeth.
Flight 4 - they become smoke on the walls and disappear in the idea
held as Morse code within the beat. Each flight becomes more natural
but more dissociative with the ground. The smoke becomes the air
flight five is for the good measure of goodnight. In awkwardly laid
patch of land floating between treetop and cloud bottom. Will our feet
touch and then be carried away? We create a fire that burns away the
earth, turns floor to cinder to vague silhouette and we stroke the air
with ruffled feather and are finally lost in that moment of flight. I
will fall through the air here until down becomes up and “plummet” is
a moonward thrust-essence of gravity sonorous, the trust.
Cellular flights are capable of affecting our CNS in a way that
changes our entire vision of ourselves. Cellular motions are so exact
and constant you can’t even know if the flight you are preparing
yourself for is going to be your first or last. Absorbing beams of
light or someone’s extravagant shining. We photosensitize the global
energy hanging very close to our heads. The energy perhaps sitting on
your shoulders a tad tighter than mine, still made of the same
substance we share. When we feel our words are understood we let the
invisible vibration penetrate into our hearts smoother and curvier
believing it’s the right moment and location.
There’s a genesis in the words that we share. Breaking the thin film
of silence that has wrapped us in our night’s nest.
The prophet is a deaf ear, an opened elephant floating in fear.
Your shoulder are the shivering platforms on top of ideal sits movement to get her is a slow
move away.
We are chameleon - the light has no effect on our skins but our skin shapes light.
Written with David Kinniburgh
of unflocked birds not knowing by nature how to coexist and mate
correctly.
An idea like a slow congregation in a chapel set in fractions by the
split light of stained glass and the firm and simple built of puritan
pews the birds outside know their way - we would make to follow if we
knew how, but stutter step, fall forward head over belly over high
heel and low toe. Breaking our fast but for a moment and slowly
pecking at the air that lay a heavy electricity in between.
They have their wordily meals at regular hours, but sometimes they
forget. One of them is claustrophobic and lays green eggs with purple
speckles. Step - and you find an open door leading to a dungeon
replete with book shelves. They say: “100 objects representing our
reality”, “Hearty Soups”, “Indian tribes”, “Orthodox gardening” etc.
You pick one of the thickest books hoping to find the answer to the
hardest question you have ever come up with. As you keep reading, you
start connecting words, prefixes, endings and their etymological
roots. Finally, when you understand that you don’t understand, you
stop asking yourself anything. You are not willing to ask others
either.
Guilty, criminal the intent of the mind that hides in too many
questions. You understand when you fall from the nest.
Furtive in first flight, but startle up a great might and it just
might and maybe if there was…and quitting here quitting the one and
one and so many paper things, words and ink. Glue trabecula stiffening
spine and breaking only when opened all the way. And here the stomach
sings when the question sinks, like bird and swarm of butterflies,
And words as wasps,
And skin that stings.
Skin infested with sores and multiple personalities. Skin that loves
bravado, emotional toing & froing and factoring artistic invasions.
First flight - your understanding turns yellow and starts eating
itself; second flight - it prefers living inside paper, choking on all
the intense squiggles right behind it. Flight 3 - the walls inside its
realm become patchily rhythmical, they are clenching their teeth.
Flight 4 - they become smoke on the walls and disappear in the idea
held as Morse code within the beat. Each flight becomes more natural
but more dissociative with the ground. The smoke becomes the air
flight five is for the good measure of goodnight. In awkwardly laid
patch of land floating between treetop and cloud bottom. Will our feet
touch and then be carried away? We create a fire that burns away the
earth, turns floor to cinder to vague silhouette and we stroke the air
with ruffled feather and are finally lost in that moment of flight. I
will fall through the air here until down becomes up and “plummet” is
a moonward thrust-essence of gravity sonorous, the trust.
Cellular flights are capable of affecting our CNS in a way that
changes our entire vision of ourselves. Cellular motions are so exact
and constant you can’t even know if the flight you are preparing
yourself for is going to be your first or last. Absorbing beams of
light or someone’s extravagant shining. We photosensitize the global
energy hanging very close to our heads. The energy perhaps sitting on
your shoulders a tad tighter than mine, still made of the same
substance we share. When we feel our words are understood we let the
invisible vibration penetrate into our hearts smoother and curvier
believing it’s the right moment and location.
There’s a genesis in the words that we share. Breaking the thin film
of silence that has wrapped us in our night’s nest.
The prophet is a deaf ear, an opened elephant floating in fear.
Your shoulder are the shivering platforms on top of ideal sits movement to get her is a slow
move away.
We are chameleon - the light has no effect on our skins but our skin shapes light.
Written with David Kinniburgh