CHANGEABLE HEART
You’ve got to get through the tall grass stalks to make it to the glade, he said. He was holding a winner’s ticket and I was lastly frozen in plain sight looking into my own dreams inside my head and not seeing one that corresponded to anything here yet, wondering. Many clotted inks to return one, vibrant shape. Elusive lest in the bar maid’s voice. Crying out VICTORY in a small voice. I at my table drinking a pint down. Wondering where in the sequence I’ve arrived, if what is to happen has already happened to the God who looks in on my little life and sees. The plain light not tomorrow. Who knows. There are ghosts like birds perched on the eaves and radio silent. Quad a cusp like a log enough. Riddling bumblers. Being shot astray by whiskey warming the chest up. Predominant figures losing touch with the greater crowds all glistening with expressions of sweat description. Not in such a way. We have lost you. But over there beams go lots of loud. Into the outerbreak cloudwreath overhead where the pale drying blue to dark purple of the sky describes them, too. Away a wantward worship one and only receives away from the bishop stretch across the board and rook’s minute paranoia of hexagonals coming on in a fearsome way. Meal accordian gray. Coming light on right one way and not another. Delivering depths to depths and not in vain. These gruesome truths about us high time to be a certain type of thing, which makes no sense. Under an umbrella I watched the rain fall. Through the rain falling I watched the sidewalk. Through the sidewalk I had a daydream. In the daydream I was in a movie and it was brave. There was music being played. I did not know it in my world, but the shapes were perfect. All around me. The S-vectors closing in. Spinning wheels deliberately arching. I had a dream where the pirate’s cast included me and we went around the small world to various places. Doors opened up for me. I was leading all these friends to victory. Friends I’d never made. Wonders in our way. Not a chance relived. I packed a waterproof bag and fled by the large man-made tide-lake. To the other side, where the mission was and several more were gathered. And I watched from the tops of buildings a world of roofs. Clay shingles orange and red and brown and in every direction, concerts going on. But this was another dream—not the same. I walked from the top of my head to my toes. I folded myself into a circular coffin. It was great musical roundabouts going laid down in earnest getting frayed by the light-switch of eyes looking on from the top of the key the point disguised as person the person disguised as one of heart. I watched it all conglomerate in the end wish’s left off reprieve bath, where my mind was washed clean from all the drugging and boozing. And I did not know which a way. Again. The dark center changed. Millions of miles of milky brackish things low to the ground asway. I’d come up from a dumbest down I could not account for the meaning of. And I lived my own life my way. I was not separated any longer from the truth, then. White and violet. Eyes and eye-ends. Portrayed for semblance peaks. Of mountains made of dust storms. Len ver Nay crowed. Hindered nothing. I had a dream I was somebody somewhere with a mission through a fray to lose and cry VICTORY. Just like that. Just so the dreamer hears and says himself in his sleep the same thing. Whoever is listening God only knows, I love them. Let the words be and stay in your heart a way. That can change. Listen. The changeable heart. Forever in the flow of things. Ripping a match across some sandpaper watching it light right up red and rosy. Placing the flame to the tip of the wick of an oaken-white candle, waving the match out, and watching the candle’s flame. There are parts of the story not even you can handle, Lord God. Just kidding. I don’t really know. All the time. The fool playing tricks on himself starves to see. What the truth is and doesn’t seem to manage. Ever to know. For himself. What the truth can be. But do I know. Not at all. A freeze away from dumber still but not resaved. A cross marked on the floor of your chest with the tips of your index and middle fingers and thumb. Shoulders the crossbar. Forehead the crest. Where maybe an angel’s halo plays freedom from the earthly plane. I pray by talking aloud to the breeze and the inner room I’m slumped away in and the positive ambience all about me. I dream midday in a nap only God could really love and I love it, I love dreaming I love the sway of drowsiness pulling me back down to sleep again and I love lying there sometimes lifting myself up a little and falling back down to my side. Sometimes in all my clothes still, my jacket a cushion, just taking a nap midday. I want to understand some God’s code, some of everything. I want to make a peace with this still wondrous heart under the river of the mind’s noiseless breaching ray. Then for laying itself down in the soft kitch, green river person goes. Aswim this way only fish can. Type myself up a mirror image of love and loss and deceit. Type of way to the image in there you make but never see after it’s made you never prove or approve to yourself for your own sake. Higher dimensional fugue states lumbering out from exclaiming doors opening up down white-walled halls where the dreamer takes an old friend down the way in their janitorial outfits to commence the mission. By which time he must awaken. To the dark room and the time being 5:55 or some other brazen coincidence, wondering what’s going on. With the outer matter of life and grays. How the noise hits. How it sounds. What’s to….