This Is Temporary

 
In all the silent sitting there is still and present peace. Yet soon the June bug pops against glass, until, upon release, it exerts a fleeting thrust, like a clumsy and foolish Icarus, flying towards the setting sun. Grass grows and speaks its grassness. Strands of bubbles blown from the bows of skeleton keys fatten, float, and burst like swollen exploding eyes. Swirls of wisteria and bindweed hint at beauty, encircling sunflower and honeysuckle in a tangle of summer. The flickering code of fireflies climbs the sky through branches above the backyard. The nights are cha-cha, rumba, bossa nova, and samba on the patio record player, and like the bright bricks of the back wall, colored only in chalk, fade in three quick months.
 

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This Is Outside

This gallery contains 9 photos.

  Lock, lock, and unlock. Every door a danger. But beyond, a multitude of voices, an exactitude of each. I listen as they’re calling. Each voice in my own throat. Subtle clear collages blessed with ambiguity. The written note. The campfire. The seed planted. The curled chameleon tale. The dragon. The glistening turquoise egg of it all. […]

Distilling Thisness

 
Since you know a soul cannot be extracted or even quantified by anything like reason, or in these easy hours of starlight clothed with the hum of toads, you discard the charts and sentence stems and bask in the blooming sensuality of elemental radiance. You said, each thing is a thing that is never another thing, but always connected to every and all things. You are your own apparatus of embodied knowing and unknowing. This one and exact specificity. From the corner of your eye, or in what you tell yourself are dreams, the tiniest drops begin to fall. You decide to remember, or maybe imagine, it could be something like what you call real. More than an optical interference of liquid immiscibility. The astonishing essence. The everyday dispersion of color, light, ether, vapor, and heat. 
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This Is Inside

This gallery contains 12 photos.

  And yes, they find discarded husks of locusts in the tall slick grass. And yes, flies of all sizes make of themselves offerings on the altar in the downstairs room. This place, a cell of silence, flame, and smoke. Clinging to the fabric, tiny eyes separate from once alive bodies. The wall, a larval manifestation […]

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This Is Left

This gallery contains 9 photos.

  Always we walked in the whole awful everything of it, teeming with incessant joy. What do we know of patterns and paper? What do we see of the difficulty of awe? What will this time say? Arms, legs, teeth all locked. Words all locked. So and yet and still returning. Pensive and late and blister and rot. Distracted, it […]