Two adventures and a return

1. Climbing

Climb a wall to bring it down

The brickwork mosaic as set as blood

Coursing through the tunnels of time

Beneath the spaces that are not there of the space that makes them disappear

Where even fragmentation must settle with an occupying sense –

The bricks put-together

The wall taking space apart –

Underall, the holding up of a name

The evident multiplication of its every meaning

And the midnight engraving of its life;

All tombstones are misleading

Grounded on a yearly misspelling.

This is the functional.

 

Climb that wall to turn it upside down

Dream time over from top to bottom

Of something more than familiar

A feeling as extended as the shadow of everything

Shadows as felt as the extendedness of everything

Behind the distances that are not there of the distance that makes them disappear

Sharing the invisible

Meting out the greatest loss of all –

The loss of excuses –

Until it is met

The place where everyone has lived;

All divisions are deceiving

Bounded by lesser story-telling.

This is the funktional.

 

 

2. Falling

Time,

the anti-clock

worker,

does not stop

but now and then

now to then

dries out

and renews

in waves

does a convergence

back

on the sand

again

continentalising

refertilising

steadying

for a paste of the world

still granular

but stiller

in the iller tempers of the wind[1]

refreshingly ingrained with

the bit-by-bit humility

of finite humidity

fuller

that is, di-stilled

from the sands sunned beyond the touch of the water

this part shingled, mountable

humanised

that one singled, insurmountable

solarised

in contrast

all of it

now

neither here nor there

a

sandcastle possibility

of Empire impossible,

the desert of the Real

either-ended by

latitudes

of

death

a bridge across

into the really Real

everything, undivided

history, “zombies” included

double-crosses itself

drawing on its own breath

rehearses no real death

collapses into abridgement

fallen back sundried against the finitude of reach

arms wide enough

would not be arms

more seaside sitting upon the limits of the embeached,

now, even where sight-and-site alignments find continent lines,

a little more sunbathed, fade into

more or less

beach instead,

not terra firma

not 1

but 1.1

dividing within its own insufficient number

the void ahead

non-sequitur of neither here

 nor there

really avoids coming from anywhere

and is

just how nothing could ever transgress.

 

*

Freedom comes

by per-mission

upon the flattened-by-erosion back of a coast-all some-thing

that now, grain-by-grain hourglass time-lining

never quite was

and never quite will.

 

3. Standing

We come in waves and build according to

the sort of isolation

we want to feel

because exempli non-gratis

is the feeling of us

feeling more than ourselves

but nowhere near as often

as we are left with feelings of ourselves alone.

The isolationism of, which

either way must have its way with us

blowing a-way through us

whether

from across the slippery distance of a reveal-all Origin

or the next-door

non-place

of some catch-all End;

but neither of these two anywhere fully met

except half-way met

misinforming each other –

the only viable path of one-or-the-other any-way

and no True loneliness –

mix as

fudgy as

the summed-up difference of their encounter

sea blue with charcoal hints

is us

walking the tight rope

of our washed up

and so far, unwashed

mean-time.

 

[1] Time from another direction?

anti-clock, & non-linear

turner