now available in Phnom Penh: The Mushroom Chronicles
on ordinary days of quiet celebration
some know how
some know how
some know how
some just cannot
as you find the years you lived through
actually produced something amounting to history
while memories twist into narratives
that you remain oblivious to
and you watch and wait
to see where it goes
or if it goes
or what it became
on ordinary days
of quiet celebration
there bloom
small moments
when it all makes sense
1,222
1,222
45
23, 24
74, 75
6
9
999; 1,000; 1,001
999; 1,000; 1,001
9
9
6
23, 24, 42, 32
3, 5, 7, 19
12,222
1,222
122
12.2
1.22
.122
0
upon waking
this is where
it begins
again
chimera of dreams
inserted within the
humility of the unconsciousness
a newborn cries
because it cannot speak;
we cry when
we have no other way
to deal with the inexpressible
floating
I dream
of one who is two
and neither one a floater
this is where
it begins
again
mobius strip
compressed and flattened
against itself
sticky
floating
I dream
of another who is no floater
magician rather,
conjurer
a reaching
via ineffables
sending messages
through third parties
upon waking
upon walking
upon sharing
the messages pass
through channels
cut through
the air/time
that flow
with grace/love
this is where
it begins
again
coming soon: the mushroom chronicles
coda
ah yes, but to begin again
to rise again into life
to resurrect our damaged souls
with new sacred knowledge of
joy and pain
ah yes, but to make and to shake and to break
and to join together
in clusters
in circles
of
joy and pain
there are places that I’ve been
that I’ll never be again
there are people that I know
that I’ll never see again
a diet of late night conversations
broken across language and culture –
it’s not for everyone
but you know how it is
when you try to outrun the train
I swear I heard
I swear I heard
I swear I heard her singing
all we say
is no more than
the wind in the leaves
but one last wish
before i go:
let the story play
let the story play out
let the story play itself on home
I swear I heard
I swear I heard
I swear I heard her singing
I swear I heard
I swear I heard
I swear I heard her singing
in this small room
there are things that
will never change
in this small room
and those that will grow
there are expanses now
in this small room
never conceived before
now that there is a limit
and limits never seen before
in this small room
now that the door has slammed
it is quiet, but not silent –
somewhere in the distance
a radio is playing
our favourite song
