4 Reasons the Revolution Will Win and Other Notes Done in the Garden.

These can be considered directions for escape...


I have never wanted to know the contours of my being more than when I am with you. The irresistibility of being undone over and over demands softness of ego, clarity of intuition, and devolution of proprioception. Images of us display a circuitous assemblage of encircling limbs and flesh, our childlike selves appear in full form moistened from heat produced by extreme bouts of laughter. Our giggling-flopping-flails stand in for our jaunty angularities that once shielded person 1, person 2, person 3, etc with concern. Upon arrival, we become soft like ocean grasping onto the bay. Let us be soft for as long as the world can hold us, and then let us be a gentle memory.


The color and taste of preserves on diatomaceous earth and the possibility of laughter underscores a village of cackles and barks and squawks and galavanting with extravagant births performed in time-lapse along the peripheries of each direction through the surrounding wilderness. Go! Find them! There are saplings and drooping appendages: nipples, vulvas, and other orifi abound leaking nectar, clear and milky, upon the artificial scars left from the previous apocalypse engraved into the crusted surface where we call our habitus. You may call this place the nest, or soma, or mother, or the proto-nation depending on your status of residence and intent for arrival. There are cots made of bamboo and cedar with corn husk bedding and steam-bent archways of mycelium framing the moon overhead who gossip past midnight with the forest’s foliage as you sleep quakingly, re-coursing the materials of each of your past lives with tender REM simulation. This place is yours as it is mine as it is no one’s, and must be protected. My body is old and tired but you are true and must chase the phenomena of this ecological cypher. Be weary of enchantment of travelers. They will plunder upon your will and tenacity for potential. Take form, and reform again and again, to never abandon bliss.


When I have thought of myself to be of nothing it was never true, just in time to recall I was alive. Survival has not been guaranteed, and will not be. Touch, in the immediate and distant kinds of contact, make up a synesthesia of fractaled colors like blues, indigos, and violets underscored by the sounds of shh, hum, and how echoing through the terrain of ones clavicle. The machine of the earthly plane is a ricochet motor on wheels running on the desires of those who we call, ‘the living’. It will aim to take away your titillations and numb your senses for the nostrums of a common good. These verbal cues have helped us make it out alive:




Please teach them forward as you see fit until the illusions are replaced by another matrix which you all shall unshape too. Do pass them on and on until...


Sweat often under the warmth of the sun and satiate in the essences of lilac, bathe in jojoba, while sucking away the succulence of papaya. Blend extracts into the follicles of your dermis when comes the subtle sprouts of mourning. Travel daily on an ever expanding path until the birds eye view reveals your trailing choreographies as crop circles communicating with the not yet and back when as a mischievous sacred geometry. Night is for contemplation. Daytime is for rejuvenation. Take midnight voyages even as your eyes swell with inundation. In winter, build yourself fat and bristle thick with hairs prickle-jagged in the cold of the opaque hibernation season. Know seasons and relish loss of human control to the climate mother. Listen to the ground for resonating bodies as your feet tire. Your mind is oft to race uncontrollably, and should. Sleep is imminent. I will walk with you until I must sit. I will roll myself alongside you until I must crawl. I will crawl near to you until I must lay. I will lay in solitude staring out in content knowing you are. Let us go together until the road leads us to the spacious curiosity of change - the gifted consequence of survival. Let us go together until we meld — wayward we are. Let us try…

** Published in OPERAnews, 2019 **