coffee-cup perched between Amazon's of Grass-- the contents of which quiver a little with the shadow of the tree. above the purple-white porch-chair, the solar system point-of-direction pierces the glades of Leaf-Life, luminescently revealing the innards of each branch so-as to witness the plant-bones in-stretch-divine oh the summer breeze! (i have no lessons to teach you)
the yardened-gate tilts from wood-brown to moss-green to scuff-mold, shadows of an evergreen forming a movable continent across the half-mooned top-shave entrance-to-an-ancient-palace. were I an expert in floral pretend, I would be able to name for you the blue flowers which grow at the foot of the tree-I-don't-know-the-name-of (each branch percolated upwards and fanning out, bunchy-bulbs at each tip and jummed together, small leaves blooming outward from a springly inwardness). every time I lift the mug from out the Amazon's of Grass, there is a dent in the forest of calm accepting itself as if I grew here as well. (i have no lessons to teach you)
lawnmowers, the sound of suburban tribal beauty, signal spring or summer as sun-dance must have to ancient Egyptians and Coast Salish together forever in longhouses. There is nothing old about the world, save for childhood memories and parents with wine and with cornflakes, remembering you as a child as if it were not your lifetime ago (but yesterday). you run your mouth on the revelatory spark: both mom and dad were as launched to the planet and new just as much when they asked each other to dance circa 1991. The Berlin Wall had fallen, and Yeltsin was preaching The-End-Times when they asked each other to dance circa 1991. I come to the same conclusion-confusions as they did, and who says anyone is ready for anything? what did they know circa 1991? (i have no lessons to teach you)
Jennifer, in her Pink Floyd pajamas, eats her tofu wrap and wipes her fingers with napkin. she picks the fallen remains with a spoon and sees I'm writing beneath the tree. 'do you want some water?' she asks, I call her sweet and say yes, she takes the plates in and missions to grab the bottle. Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami and Sleepwalkers by Christopher Clark sit apart on the sunny-side of the lawn as archives of contemplation in different directions and yet under the same solar system point-of-direction (the one and the many). how absurd it is to realize that every single story has occurred under the same sun, on the same rock. how absurdly beautiful. how protectively healed, the race can become (as death saves all from tragedy, whilst causing it all the same).
the shade under Leaf-Life seems to fill itself in, sketching an extra darkness to contrast the brightening sun. God continues to paint my life, on occasion resting from paint to back picture with narrative, typing calmly and furiously across the pages of existence to write me a myth. I become an image of what you imagine me to be, and the words you read are the widow of imagination once expressed unto the world.
you can imagine, but I won't be listening. unless you take the page and turn to me to point and say, 'shall we discuss?' it all remains a strangers question and answer, so as you can enter my head-long at will and believe what I do from inside what I call my home, you wonder how close we are in spoken word, and believe you may take value from these excerpts. and you may.
but as I write, all I can think is,
(i have no lessons to teach you).
