many hands
keep us alive
lifting soil
so we might rise

Replicatons
writing the manual on ourselves
the books are learning to build the shelves

Wheresoever intelligence arises,
therein will be enough intricacy and stability to
keep it well occupied,
as a necessary prerequisite for the intelligence.

Do we look at ourselves?

many hands keep us alive,
living from chemical happenstance,
and now a seeming cultural will.

atoms
organised
when did we open our eyes?

The cows are milked,
and now I search for truth.
I wonder if it's living,
or trampled under hoof.

I stopped running before the end
took a shower and put myself in a soft arm chair
Now they’re saying I have to start again
But my stiff legs remember the pain
and can only move me like a door on creaky hinges
I cannot imagine the speed I once obtained
and to me the distance now looks infinite
almost too big for my soul

The child looks, eyes wide,
placid, curious, information
flowing to memory,
sensations shaping neural landscapes
wind sculpting rocks.

An adult intends
Journeys, builds, hunting exploration
euphoria, desolation
Intentions, under tension.

Hear this,
A journey mapped for years,
is a grand thing,
But the crux of intention lives
in the next half an hour.

Look around
these shifting sands
Look at what you have to hand.

where will you go?
is the path clear?
Through the eyes of a hawk,
on the track of a deer.
What do you imagine
that may be done
what do you fashion
that may become?
If you cannot see how
to get to distant peaks
Let the cosmos move your body
towards the place that you seek
If your head is spinning
and you’re nearly dead
rise on your feet
to tread through the dread
feel around
with unsure hands
test your mind’s projection
to reality’s demands
pass your broken dreams
do not freeze by fear
foot by foot
the future will be here
with the heat of the rub
and the flame of the fire
us of the earth
but aiming higher
untrod paths
unknown law
the haze of the heavens
a personal war
bounding like a rabbit
with the tongue of a snake
crawl through confusion
for the dream you might make

Coffee strong in a cup leaves a burnt taste in my mouth,
Heaven;
some sort of waking.
Pressed, and pressured,
ground down into mud
union with blood.