Friday, September 7, 2012


06 september 2012 friday 6:52 to 7:27am

i dream about writing this poem
i write this poem in a dream

i dream about a poem
i wake to write a poem about the poem in the dream


daniel we are reading a poem on a computer screen in a future
i look up, at the end,
where light comes from the computer, projecting stars onto the ceiling
the stars are metaclusters, pinprick patterns in deep fallows of darkness
the poem has pictures in it, and great whorls of words
all in ?portuguese/spanish? 
a child follows me around, comes up and hugs me

[i can't believe my friend is in the hospital with a garden hose out of her neck
will she get a transplanted heart? will she decide to be even more bionic]

at the end of life, or its cusp, 
at the cusp of life, its limn
remember how the moon is 
larger looking on the horizon? 

in the dream the computer has a setting
the computer that is emitting darkness
and light, color, i had never thought to wonder
what the poem meant, i was so taken by the beauty of it
the way i could feel the ardor of the poet towards the muse
the beloved, the central picture, the way the fabric flows
and flowers, whorling words around her skirts

he clicks a button and it turns to english, the font so
small it's barely legible, yet i do take a look
into the incantations of incarnation
is this how an angel speaks, or g-ddess? in whorling poetic
sketches, with light and darkness emitting into the ceiling
where the constellations, tighter and more amassed, rather than spread out
become another kind of alphabet

are we looking at the same poem 
curling around us every night
with seasonal variation? 
is the sky a kind of biblic braille regarding
the (re)generation of the world? 

how small and fine the lights are, how impossibly
beyond a light bright set, into the passion that made
the world. two small children come up to us and ask for hugs
fully eloquent, out of the mouths of babes

if all that is sent this dream to confirm
that life is beautiful, i am right there with you
right here, gazing up at stars in the darkness
[ in the story the man can hear his beloved family
speak to him through the stars, and he can send messages
out on clouds]

in the dream, the belly of the world, (the furnace?) its belly button
is  also its coded dna, through the lighthouses of stars
guiding our way back home

we look up and see the deep seed blanket, not like gems on velvet
more deep than that, and darker, the image of the thing also being the thing itself
we are gazing at the dense fabric of night

[when the crystal in mid morning shines and shakes rainbows
across the room, i go to stand in some of the rainbows

i go to stand in some of the rainbows
cast by crystal and sun]

it is just exactly not that, it is dark. it is so beautiful
like lights and stars are bells ringing
i realize surprised at the end i had never thought to 
wonder what it actually said, this poem, the phenomenon was
so breathtaking, i am so OK with the world i don't need to understand it

[like when i hear my friend has 6 months, maybe]

[part of me rushes to live all the unlived days
the other part knows we're all already ok, there is only this moment]

daniel finds the "translate" button on the dark dense screen projecting stars
into the ceiling and it all uncurls, moves to the right, in english. the words and lines 
are so long and ornate on the dense screen that keeps (fractally?) becoming more and more of itself
as we zoom and zoom, we have to keep scrolling right. 

the lines of the poetry of the world never cease. the creation spark of dense
unfurling metaphors and clarity ripples onward in all directions

the man in the poem is declaring his love, he keeps on describing it
even the stars of the night sky are insufficient. in the dream, there is no light
no sunlight, only these densated hallows of bright tiny beams remaking galaxy 
upon galaxy of night, and the larger darkness. the swirls of the drawings of the 
world's skirts flaring out. the wind we feel though we cannot see comes from
the screen. is there a way to stand and feel the wind from the turning of the earth
its friction with galactic wind? now, writing this, the awakening sun (our turn toward her)
overpowers all the kinds of darkness, the tangible, frangible bellsong of blacks
that the dream describes. in the dream, the poem, the better world, 
the world we might prefer, we walk in bellsongs of starbraille
and unrolling poems tight dense small they go on beyond dark screens with shaded letters
in the generative dark of homestead towns. tintinnambulation, 
we walk with these stars, this song, hoisting children into the fallowing depths
of night-maker-sweetness.

i remember the moment, beyond the black screen and dark
 words, the color drawings embedded fifteen lines high with whorls and roils of poem words around them, 
i remember in the dream the moment, stepping back
to realize all around the poem was glowing with dense galaxies
projecting onto the room, the ceiling the floor. 

perhaps you should step back now, reading this, 
and gaze up. they are there, like the glammer-furl-glowing of coals, 
the dark deep galaxies of creation
their star song. go walking there, the tintinnambulation. 


  1. Yes, yes, interpersonal, yes

    take a breath for lucid reply
    take a breath to knowing how i might pose the question:

    how lucid you put the broadest possible finger
    on the outwhirling gravity of language and its play:

    the details and the blur and how
    life is but a dream we row.
    “i am so OK with the world,
    i don’t need to understand it”

    fascinated by language
    and its impersonal interpersonal music airplane

    to travel me anywhere,
    to that single window in the skyscraper i see
    out the single window of the skyscraper from which i look,
    to Portland, China, Betelgeuse,
    and to sweet unnamed foams,
    imaginal beingstates

    where each detail is a star of diamond detail
    star, precious detail, star, detail
    chicken, egg, albumen, mitochondria,
    and a nebulae in the shape of an orangutan’s grin

  2. Perhaps it's the poems that, shining out, make the galaxy to begin with.

    This is one of several recent "big dreams" (that's the fancy word in dream research for it) - where there the dream-feeling reverberates, where things feel fuller than full, more real, an act of making

    a doorway into how the world makes itself
    how lovefeeling literally makes the world/the world produces itself from pathos and passion of presencing that is so full it breaks out into creation/starshimmer - is this the thing before the bigbang? a poem?