The Brightest Nights

Crackling polka dotted puddles beneath droopy pale underbellied leaves.
A true mess of mixed greens. Next time we’ll label the rows. Oh well.
Sharp and lacy and either rape seed, turnip, mustard or kale.
Cat ate some the other day. Elbow tap. Look at that. A fresh kale.

It is raining again. The dogs are up. Birds are silent.
Earthworms being suffocated up out of the mud.
Flat mirrors unwink unending misshapen silver dollars.
Money doesn’t grow from trees. The older I get, the more it grows on me.

Spring leak licks down upturned leaves like the cat uses its tongue to clean
every fuzzy inch of gargantuan body. Roots exposed. Line draped in clothes.
We never got to them in time. Always fresh out.
Gray cap set snug arresting a rat’s nest of tangled green.

Time is measured by line of sight.
Rainy days are the brightest nights.

Jack-in-the-Pulpit

A creekbed drops ten feet and I can see bright green tops of adolescent trees, shaking. I just fenced a solid quarter acre of late April and let eighteen goats on it. Soaking wet morning after full rain, they’re up first thing realizing the boundaries have changed. They seem so predatory, considering they’re plant-eaters. I suppose if something can’t scream we don’t attribute it to the same value system. These bony, thick bodied and thin legged vultures rip and bark-strip their immobilized, submissive prey. Fleshy unfurled ferns and green razor wire and so much poison ivy my eyes itched. 

My heart now light and airy as jack-in-the-pulpit down low in a morning breeze. 

I feel vindication for the work I’ve done over the last two days. 

I’m looking twice everywhere I scratch and watching new life devoured incrementally by many goats. And if I stretch my awareness a touch, I think how I’m going to drink that treeline in my coffee tomorrow morning. I feel like if the world were a perfect circle, it would have ended where it began. It didn’t. And though the earth is round, I feel nature is spiral like a sprig of DNA. It does come back around but not to the same place,
or ever the same way. 

A herd of goats annihilates a creekbed
and old notions of predator and prey.

The Meal from the Cub (2 of 2)

We all start like seeds in our mother’s soil. 

Eggs are like seeds. So are planets really, bursting with roots of starved gravity.

Electrons are like seeds, the universe itself, spreading out from a mindbogglingly finite point of spatial dimension into this immeasurable, mystifying massiveness. Biology mirrors chemistry like a face in rippled water. There is a God. It was speaking to us in our anatomy long before it ever engraved a tablet or plagued a city. Clearly there is a loosely defined polarity to the universe, a general lightness and heaviness, a fiery push and gravitational pull, a female and male with all sorts of hybridized relationships in between.

The breeding we do just to exist as individuals, this is like a love letter written to us about how power transfers and expands itself within this universe. How much more important and potent relationship is than isolation and independence and general lone wolfedness. Enough so that plants even pretend to care about gender just to attract and entice us. It’s coupling. It’s power play. It’s essentially what happens at the heart of every atomic endeavor, as clouds of swirling electrons push and pull and shape and squeeze protons and neutrons between them, little bonds forming between things being stretched apart to the point of almost bursting and then held here, sustained, unlocking the energetic outpulse that engendered the universe and ultimately led to us: physical conglomerates sustaining projections of consciousness for sustained periods. Awake is something so difficult to do, it requires us to sleep half of every day, and eventually ages our bodies to the point of irrevocable exhaustion. 

I believe electrons are seeds of consciousness. And I believe their nature is agriculture, cultivation, provocation, stimulation. They accomplish a sort of guided husbandry between fertile elements, measuring the couplings and overlappings that work against those that don’t. I believe we, our anatomy, our minds, our instincts, our entire way of life, are organized in a zombie-like obedience to the atomic relationships going on inside of us. 

We see what they want us to see, and remember only what we need. And wouldn’t you know, the light learned early on the added benefits of keeping us in the dark. 

 

The Meal from the Cub (1 of 2)

We all sort of remember deep down what God had to do to make space for us.
We are already life after death. Endless death. We were born out in a barren nest,
and the entire community of life farmed this place into earth. We farm.
We work environments into habitats and manufacture solace in the fact that some day we give our bodies back. Say thanks for all the sweet stuff. That one truth.
The question you’ve been asking everyone and everything forever.

The hard shelled and bitter seed at the base of your character:
the personality of your energy.

We will all exist after death whether we want to or not, same way you were born the first time, unprepared, without choice, devoid of responsibility destined to grow into a vessel designed to carry it. Like an infant cradled in the jaws of a lion. We will be judged.

The meal from the cub.

#NCspring

Chainsaw carved horizons. Trucks glug
uphill with teenagers inside them.
Broke two different lawnmowers one afternoon.
Bought a twelve pack of beer. Cheers to the lawn.
Today. For now. It won.

The robins moved on.
Black faced bloodred cardinals in seas
of newborn limegreen poplar leaves.
Hearing woodpeckers never seen
hollow knocking water filled trees.

Detached campers eaten by dandelions
and sheer
unbroken
green

North Carolina spring.

The Daydreams of Electrons

We are so brilliant, and we are almost there, but essentially, we’ve calibrated our observational equipment around the assumption that we’re sitting still, measuring the movements of others, even on a base, visual level, when we see, we aren’t accounting for our own internal distortions. Objects appear larger in the mirror of self-image than they truly are. They had to, to get us to take our lives and labor here on earth devastatingly seriously. Enlightenment reduces the rate of survival for the organism that possesses it. They breed less, they’re less likely to fight to the death, less likely to be seduced by monetary gain and societal status. Knowing, not believing, or wishing, but knowing you are made of eternal material, really knowing that the life after death so many religions allude to is scientifically accountable. If you discard the seeds in every apple because that part isn’t sweet, eventually there won’t be anymore apples.

Your soul is the seed of you.

The sweet stuff and the tree stuff is too heavy to follow us where we are going. You are the voice of energy. You’re confused because you had to be. Knowing can be crippling. But there are depths to you far beneath your memory.

We are all the daydreams of electrons
born into reality.

Matter Farmers (part 3 of 3)

We do not have emotions, or any other experiences, accidentally. We’re the same stuff as stars, as oceans, as mountains, yeah we’re goofy and transient, but hell, we’re still here, and as far as I’m concerned, we’re pretty special. We’re storytellers. Our brains are like beehives for information we gather over our years. Electrons are using us to reach out to someone, to something. I don’t claim to have all the answers, but basically something cracked open and atoms started spilling out and over so much time they kept making choices until they became us. We study our anatomy, but we didn’t train it, or teach it. Electrons did that. Traded land and picked complementary crops and bartered harvests and shared labor. Farming. Growing it out to all the sweet stuff and pouty flowers and broad green spades in order to eventually cut it all down and save the only part the Great Farmer cares about. The soul.

The bitter part no one wants to eat. 

Eternal life looks more like an envelope of seeds.

Matter Farmers (part 2 of 3)

I love words, but I don’t care about words. They haven’t been around long enough to articulate what I’m saying here.

With no design or diagram, after so much, not actually that much, time, atoms have formed so many intertwining biochemical attractions that the molecules and organelle clusters developed autonomous motor functions, even such simple actions as swimming generally left, or right, and eventually, growing beyond osmosis, eating and digesting one another to feed the internal combustion fusion engine. After more time, those building blocks interbreed and intermingle to a frightening scale of complexity and independent decision making and unimaginable size and self-centered ferocity.

There is no thing alive that was not the daydream of electrons. Farming fields all on their own, splitting and tilling until it sustained a shadowless light that had only ever flickered on and off before.

Somehow, the dramatic complexity of our lives also exists on an atomic level.

Matter Farmers (1 of 3)

I have a theory. I am a stupid man. The only understanding I have ever glimpsed has been peering through the prism of analogy. Big metaphor. Dense simile.

Electrons are matter-farmers. 

Protons and neutrons only seem to exist in the center of a negatively charged cloud of frustrated energy, that has a pull, and a power, a gravity, and all existence as we know it, life especially, is a sort of sustained state of fusion. When we split an atom, the world will never forget what happens. Einstein theorized that if an entity could catch up to the speed of light, it would not necessarily feel like it was moving very fast, but more like time itself was standing still. 

That’s consciousness. The materials you and I are made of are moving at the speed of light. The energy we call our minds is as well, slowed through organic tubes and carbon based wiring inspired by them, but to the speed of light, nonetheless. Energy is motion. It is movement. Our thoughts are happening at the speed of light, at the very speed limit of time, yet it feels like we are sitting still. Feels like we’re not moving at all. We quiet ourselves to the rushing of the wind and slowly our senses are invaded by the ever flowing headwaters that fill our heads, and bodies, and the timekeeper ticker zapped by brain lightning into hyper dutiful obedience, all the way to flapping eye covers and growing new hair and salivating and literally every single internal life saving organ function.

Of Fireworks and Darkness

Where comets come from. Yes. You are brighter than stars
and have a magnificent tail. But we need to know where you dwell.
You should take someone there. Until then, you’re just an omen.
Of something. Beautiful. And terrible. All by your lonesome.
You’re a volatile couple. Ashley. Americanized Cinderella.
Do I know you hate that. Do we love you for it. Honey.
I need you. More than I ever let you know.
This has all been about you.
Give some back to us.
You’re American.
You’re British.
You’re Scottish.
And gypsy.
And arrogant.
You are America.
You are the cloth high up on the mast that catches the new wind first.
Before the sails that move the ship.

You are your own direction. Respect.
Head nod. Eye contact. Embrace. Stoic faced.
As streams rain down and embers soar sparks fly
celebrate no more than more light in the sky
sulfur in the air
no care
dressed eighteen hundreds
beaming red bursts with dazzling white gold finish
disappeared

smiling in the sporadic face
of fireworks and darkness.