Great blue bounded book, like a metaphor for the earth itself, as a reflective spectrum of oxygenated atoms and blue-hued electrons for the educational material that is all material you can get your hands on except some of it is created with intent to psychologically diminish you into a vegetative state and languish on the couch with your cats and your popcorn and your hollowed out eyes with the beer and the chew bottles confused disgustingly.
What the sun does to the atmosphere. What the rain does to outdoor plans. The Netherlands, a section of the Libyan Desert, and the Caspian Depression, circling the sea of the same name, are the three most notable locations below sea level. Folded mountains are created when the earth’s crust buckles or doubles over on itself as a result of subterranean pressures. This is why buried emotions often reveal themselves in the physical exterior of a body. “What’s wrong?” – “I’m crumbling. I’m doubled-over, folding. From the inside out.”
Living in a drowned coastline,
I almost said “of your love”
and realized I don’t want to be
that kind of writer.
I am the type to call myself
a meandering river
with emotions incoherent
Yet the certainty of melodrama
of love emerging out the delta
a smile like wave cut cliffs
or a mountain glacier, carving.
The Pacific Ocean is 63,985,000 square miles large and with an average depth of 14,040 feet. About the height of Mount Rainier, if you’ve ever been to Seattle or seen a picture of the skyline from Queen Anne Hill or the Space Needle, or ever knew of the St. Helen’s eruption or ever even cared about what tremors and forces crawl under your feet, in huge processes incomprehensible to you, and that shaking is a molten core not an ice cube heart, passivity wins where gravity no longer attracts you to anything.
Lakes and evergreens. Images of the world I inhabit anyway
yet romanticized with a French veneer
the Northeastern Canadian provinces and the lakes shine
turquoise, and the trees are a darker black-green by contrast
yet Banff National Park is perfect north
of Northern Idaho
and one day in a flurry of strewn about feathers
I will speed out over and up and yonder
take the train l’est and speak a broken french
with an accent of romantic cold
J’adore. Fireside book reading love
hot toddies and wool socks and snowfields
outside melting snowflakes and we cut our own out
of newspapers to hang in the window
There is a city called Swiftcurrent
yet it is a ghost town for ambitions
Washington, a-westering of most other states
had a population of 2,853,214 in 1964.
Today there are nearly 7 million people wandering about
seemingly with motives
to perform things with excellence or maybe
defined will. Ghostly.
Meandering glades of fire.
I tried to sleep with music theory slanted ideas in my thoughts. I wanted to lay down and fix problems with the cognitive cleansing of dreams and yet I awoke feeling like I thought about nothing in general and suddenly coming to about noon and then lapsed again behind I heard a genuine French accent and wanted to thank her yet out coldness wasn’t aimed at her we simply did not know how to say things or form phrases and the easygoingness of Maya was lost in the wind of inarticulate repeat-after-me phrases.
So sleep didn’t work. I should try using real life to explore complex relationships between idea and form and actualization.
I should look at 1960’s atlases for inspiration, see a huge changing world spiraling out of control, and try harder to put my feet down and launch. Explode up into space as rockets did. The sad, lonely moon waits for new contact.
And I only got to South America before meeting up with my girlfriend to make her say things in French on the radio.