Through the Cycles

Such weary and unfounded qualms with the now—it’s never fair and never was, and sometimes moods bleed in kaleidoscopic directions, tripping all over an uncertain fate, it’s malleable and permeable as water, it runs wild!  My place is transitory and I molt endlessly through stilted chevrons across the sky, I reap hypothetical havoc in the clouds and the blue blur of ether that clothes the green earth, in a way I am mechanical in my musings about time, music, poetry, the spider-trees that wrestle down the salt air, the Christmas trees that tell stories and stories and stories… are they real?  are you real?  Are you hustling your gifts through chalky streets and tasting the cider from the taps so warm and forthcoming?  And how does the moon’s sickle cut through the darkness as if right from the farmer’s low and deliberate lunge?  I hear its thick whisper as I walk across my lawn in dreams, knee-deep in a meddling mind—tucked in and around the raw cushion of my heart, my bloody life beating words into the overheating servers of the illustrious iCloud, the pride of Silicon Valley, the little book with no hinges—I do it for you!(even before I knew I was telling the story)… where does it go?  What mountains and streams, plains or tundra must I cross to sip the strangeness of you?  I get so immaculately confused as I face the season that drips with hope and change… I am a faucet that will not stop running to the drain, down worlds, up planets, through the living cycles of you… and the more I drain, the fuller I become…