our land no longer provides honey
bloated on milk, we seek new
we explore edges of distant formations
a remote past when the sun burned outward
flares reached us as freckles and light’s ease
another kind of mastery and extension of reflection
the sun went dark when it could no longer perform
release undulate fornicate rewind redo
burn then take the ashes and digest their precision
such erudition is the faint route
returning to influence confirms proximity
waking up to darkness pauses feelings of safety
a bitter fragility of posture and circumstance
we fall asleep oblivious and discern love as temporary
forgetting how blue skies kiss fading moonlight
those who stay philosophic and curious are reborn
thoughts released are worth more than when preserved
I gather myself in folds and layers; heaven is here, today
March 29, 2017, meltwater channels on Ellesmere Island—the northernmost island in the Canadian Arctic Archipelago
Dystopia in real time is not like the movies. We’ve digested so much spectacular violence we know no tender alternatives. Fighting feels so good. The characters we play on screen form dead weight on the streets and sink us in our bedrooms.
Persistence is extractive.
As surf buries smoothed rock, we turn the calendar page to July and spread like picnics under cloudless skies. Our flesh a moral document scrolling beyond politicized reach. After all, the bottom line is always evolving.
Sea levels have always been inconsistent.
Ideological battles are taken for granted outside a schema of pursuit. This adoration, a relationship of necessity, remains prone. A curious posture. Abuse is normal. Its purpose is to feel. Subtly is weaponized.
Perceived as commodities, we trade.
Auspicious tensions act as purifiers for taste, a basic sensation. Our judgements psychic protection. Didactic fracturing agitates into frothy comfort. Perceptions gain value for their ahistorical subjectivity.
Aspirational dissent is the chorus and the bridge to ——
If we listen carefully, joy is elegance reproducing itself into near future referential fits and starts. Inspiration is a slow bleed. Murmuring into abruptions delightful as salt penetrating unhealed wounds. An intimacy as ancient and poetic as opiates or fire.