When folx ask me “what I write”
I never know what to say.
Because, in truth, I write to understand.
I read to understand.
I read circumstances. I intuit the shape of subtle pattern imprints.
I write, and the writing gropes to match words with experiences.
I don’t wanna make you feel or even think anything in particular.
I wanna make you know.
Which is why improvisation, an expression of mystery, is so important.
I don’t know. Anymore than you.
The next thing that’ll come out of my mouth
I write into. More than I write of.
Into an intuitive process.
A rapt state of attention.
I cannot control my ranging thought order or contents,
an ecstatic dance of pursuits,
becuase i am desireless. Nonreactive,
I make a receptive vehicle of Gaia.
I don’t know but from patterns.
And yet, likewise, I notice
underlying these “unconscious” emissions,
there seems to be an emergent pattern evident
and I know it has shape and characteristic
even if only our children
are destined to learn what it means
We are as though Words embedded
in future stories,
believing our natures to be yet wholly lively + caused,
though the words ultimately be selected + placed
by a broader, more intelligent Hand.
We are embodied meaning, evolving.
We mustn’t squander this rich intelligence within.
The world grows ever more trustworthy,
its feedback ever more lucid,
its lessons ever more resonant,
as Ignorance diminishes.
Tell. Tell. Tell.
Tell spells n tell til it swells swole
all across the whole state
Let it show on their face.
Let they know
what I write.