waking back up to the liquidity of my real life, of life itself, of you over there, us separated by reading ~ perfect automatons fighting to become perfect for the spotlight this fall (always something to look forward to; this could be Your Year, Finally, after All That behind you — surviving is wild; wildflowers over the grave called the present—this is heaven but you’re older; the afterlife wasn’t supposed to begin like this
so you write another story, autobiography, tear some layers, listen to your soul: now your life is lined up for this, the spring wound tight, ready to burst, and you the loosener letting the flames up, a temper tantrum waiting in the wings, a show that must go on
the object/symbol of success must remain out of reach
the throbbing desire to close the loop and make it work, make the thing (our lives onscreen) fussed with light up, tap into the abundance that’s just there in the frequency
and my fingers are cluttering over the keys, cobbling—no, these words aren’t what’s in my head & that perfect sound of twelve seconds ago is already gone—death is so slow; the vastness of presence (when awakened by love objects; lush meadows replaced my next thought
