oh so

this floating world reflected in the lens of my cell phone shines for you.

The Ultimate Truth is unspeakable

That's why I love this painting of a Saint holding his cut off tongue--before G-d we are all mutes. But I couldn't get this picture to stand up straight-- I suppose even metaphors are sideways in regard to the ineffable.

what you see

is who you are.

How to see,
is where you're at.

Where to look,
is what will be.

I don't know what got into me

I don't know what got into me, but I started to write nonsensically, perhaps because I don't know who I'm writing to and it seemed like the best thing to do was to write a long run on sentence so that, even if you just read one sentence you would get an impression, very probably, a false impression, of the writer--even though who the author is, is another bit of writing-- and because it was a question of tone, a tone that rambling can emit, like the sound of tires on the road from inside a car, a tone like quiet hum of the fridge syncopated by the clicking of a clock, a tone that is only recognized whilst alone and aware.

There's only poetry

In this dream of mine
unless I choose to make a solid bit of time,

Cyberborgians lucubrations

I like writing to myself, almost as much as I do to you, my virtual friend, surfer of the electromagnetic byways into the friendly brain waves of fellow travellers through the etherial waters-ways of knotted online time and past the dangling gerunds of my loosy goosy grammers. Seeking out the geneology of being through acting. And finding the genesis of time in a moment undone.

Blogospherical Lucubration: or blarny ahoy

"Hello," he screamed at the top of his lungs, but no air was emitted into cyberspace where his scream echoed across digital networks. He half expected an echoe to return his sound, and lo, there on the screen, words of his making.

He called to you, though he has never met you, as if, his counterpart would somehow find him tucked away in a comfortable corner of cyber space, head in the screen, eyes like the mountains surrounding him beyond the glass doorways to his deck--the halls, lonely halls, he walks before retiring to his soft Egyptian cotton sheets, sandwiched by a young cat named, Eternity and another called Lion-- he originally wanted to name zero because of a white zero eched in white rounding the cats midframe.

He pauses, time has found him, presently, writing to you, fair stranger, in and inn without walls, through a mirror without glass, peering into a land without a ruler, with invisible eyes, he sees you, coming to him in mute address. Redressing the present, he hears your silent call and it echoes ever so gently between the sheets as he falls again into the oblivion of sleep