Sleepy villages line my dreams, where no one goes hungry or grieves alone.  In that living space, connections are roots growing everywhere, hair so tangled and natural that there can be no crowded, polluted isolation.  Stretching down and in all directions, networks of roots take rest, seethe and soak nutrients to a rich livelihood.  Movement is slow and deliberate, play conscious, and work the off-spring of play.  The sun simmers in far-off heaven, reaching out to the Earth as a tangential consequence of its own existence, fusing and sizzling rebirth in magnetic electric fireball thrills.  Cast-off rays of just being bless the Earth, are charged with substance, charge the Earth with photosynthetic casual loving.

            In such natural systems, I could be content to sigh and ride languid rivers, knowing all is well and nourished.  Instead, I am confronted with a plastic potted tree as I write this.  My nerves are flanged with money-work.  I crave coffee and beer simultaneously—some fun distraction to untense my body or set my imagination off in man-made rockets.  A plexiglass window separates me from mulched plants, the planet.  I’m riding the rotation of Earth in a carpeted library.  Knowledge is information is stored.  The place is dry of experience, moss, wisdom.

            Moist recycling forests of variegated growth carpet my visions and dreams.  Cool, moist corridors lead deep to caves lit by efflorescent moss.  No math lines the cave walls, no computer monitors, no business records.  This dream of mine runs deep and naïve, an effluent sluice pool of all my unformed hopes—not abortions, but stillbirths and starvings.  I resurrect them with pestilent anger, ooze this pus on the page, trying again and again to hope, to realign, to set my worlds straight.

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