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and then she woke up
to that deeply undulating spatial dimension
behind closed lids,
behind the relenting of
i-am-an-i,
where information is
ordered not;
into the dragon,
where mirrors and pieces of color
gyrate patterns of all that is,
quartered in that wee tiny plenum of play
when all
was one
and known.

sleep
opened her realize.
and the dreamscape won
for a spell.
catch all the thoughts in spiral,
observe them and
name the **** out of them.
dm micklow
and then,
between two thoughts,
i saw it:

one
snarling
mountain range of
33 angry white knuckles,
gripping the past within;
what was once a column of energy and lifelust
is now fell column of salt.

open up your
hand and
let it go.
I would humbly put forth the idea, quite prostrate, that it would do us some good if we were to put aside, for a time, our epistemological certainties and archetypal savior fixations and, instead, opt for a more robust, ocher-hued ontological preeminence: putting the what before the why.

Only then can one, say, sip hot herbal tea from an old pink bone china teacup and, without thinking about all the things all the time, for once -just- feel the sun's warmth on your aged face as it begins its set over a half-eaten cotton candy sky that is epic af and reminds you of Peter Pan and then Robin Williams and then whywhywhy and then something random and weirrrd, and, in doing so, you can watch the lack of shittogetherness, of which duly occupies the very seat of your character like a bully usurper that hits you bc "he loves you," melt into a very (very) temporary oblivion and revel in what is before you without feeling paralyzing angst that is, usually, soo angst-y that you gotta pronounce that **** in German as if you were Schopenhauerly sitting at some non-descript desk in some non-descript room with your hand stroking your truly descript crazygeniusguy hair that is some kind of proto-Wolverine hairdo (and you wonder if Stan Lee was cryptically tipping his cap to S's philosophical pessimism with this peculiar gesture; consider googling it but don't because you've already googled too much sheeyt today), thinking (or brooding) about how much of a ******* Descartes is with his whole, yuhknow, theory about some ******* secret nanoputian angelic chemist that sits at the pearly gates of the Pineal Gland and performs the sacred transduction of the divine ghost, or whatever. Otherwise you are, like, consumed with analysis, which is a complete ******* bore and - let's face it - a thoroughly transparent attempt to sound smarter than you actually are.

This herbal tea I'm currently drinking has "rose hips" in it. Dear botany, that image is fun.
the hum of zeros
concatenated
in my ears;
it's crazy how much
doing nothing
means.
five pens
scrawl upon
         my arched backside,
    as i too
pen
             inside her writhe.
shatter beneath
rages ribcaged: now opened, loosed.
dais
   for the blue,
                  pumping out
            yours truly.

flip page.

reanimate new beat,
new rhythm,
new
you.
dm micklow
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