Permuted Waves of the Ever Expanding Now

Anticipation. Dark rituals:  through gaskets,  we are birthed. geese in the duckweed, green ducks in the lemna, the slave built the limnion of stagnant rushes, and shallow mud [kanał] a noun.  no olympus on the water,     just   rocky eddy turns and    microsurfs, a parade of:    ZEALOTS   I will break my bread at   the edge of the river,    greeting dawn where few  have tread or swam,   and the eagle will break it  with me, and in this   breaking we will also be    reborn.    błask. the sharp red dawn   over    pointed river surface   what you see   may not matter compared to   the deeps’   stealthy teeth.   against great slumber and waters’ uphi...

awake in the dark in the last days of warmth before the sun the freeze is coming and the squirrels can feel it in the breeze from the hawk’s talons close upon their back. red lights, white lights, the neighborhood sleeps but the thirsty road keeps on drinking down the gas  mania underneath the serpentine cement (a drain plug down the sewer - recovered with a crowbar and a grin). subterranean: most of the flow,   is beneath the surface. If it keeps on burning, the rapid will be submerged, and according to Dave, Chuck and Fred,  we too will be subterranean, techno-trolls in smogy caverns, claws upon our backs in the feeding frenzy. A kingfisher sits, white belt about her neck, daintily plucking a fish from the canal. The land is fat, the river lazy, wide, a few pointy rocky holes here and there, on the swirl, the current is playful - fast whips into boily eddy lines, the beaver slide, juicy, ripping, bucktoothed and squirty; stay upr...

Three weeks three worlds There’s never enough time it seems and though God is Red: and SHE IS Placed, Rooted, Planted, we float like the  whites of their eyes. in the fog we see what we touch but the scene drifts surreal humans pass in boats, disappear, appear, and the sound of the river almost drowns the big silver birds above. in the whirlpool, one can  squart the wall, or swim in panic from the upside down feeling and in the dark side at high tide mega bouncy surfs pinball on pointy rocks, collide and flip,  near broach to bow rescue. the dinosaurs are getting hungry, time is the enemy the earth is hungry, the river is thirsty, the land is starving  some people are worrying some people are slarving it’s all so alarming that the forests are burning and the cars keep carrrring but  no one seems to care except what the orange lunatics are pardoning I got ugly in the fog thinking about the history of b...

[a draft of an idea that has been circulating for a long time] and the bananas taste like blood and a 100 years of colonial solitude are ended by the reign of ants (a known metaphor for socialists) and the orange juice tastes like blood and all the fruits are bleeding and the earth itself is bloody and my head swims from the blood my daughter is drinking and its normal like a supercow and the blood oh the bloody civilization that makes fruit out of blood because they will always pay less and murder if they can get away with it. it makes me sick this drinking of blood in the milk and the murder on my lips reminds me of a man walking like he’s got a 100 grand in the bank and credit left over to boot but he’s still anxious and yelling at his neighbors the blood in his face swelling the veins in his temples till one bursts, pop! the blood returns to the land and the river by way of the nostril to the gutter.

the city sleeps a pre-smog slumber and  Ashberry is dead, like Wordsworth - beautiful words to soothe the aristocratic mind from the stress of colonizing. in nonsense is strength, from metaphysics comes physics from the physics of the mind comes a virtual world, and a heron hunts in the sewer outfall: czas pogardy, czas zemsty, czas idiotów z karabinami. the paw-paws slowly ripen, the mist is thick above the river that tastes like soap and the heat returns. 7 mellow souls on a float,  and all of the them came back. the wave is glass, and pretty fast,  wide enough to carve on: the dark is bottomless white air in the water won’t support a low brace. there is glory in this fool hardy life:  boofs speed and pittedness soothe the psyche; the return to normal grates, with the sun high it feels the day is done. momma always told me no blood no foul.

the night heron, relaxing at the top of z-channel and the pointed teeth of the river invisible in the low angled sun. us four, under the tropical verdure, paddling our way to church, in acceptance of the forces greater than us that make our lives great (or not). last time I was here, the zambezi hole was in, and you could feel the dinosaur before you could even see the monstrous waves off her/his spine. it’s good to get Michael out on the river, bow stalling his way down, and J man never left, though his surfboard plus cockpit is a little squirrely, nor did Tom who got a full upside down lap in the room before the second roll up and down the VA side. there is Always a touch of the Fear. That’s what makes it the Dark Side, it may never go away, but it can be avoided, that’s for sure.

dawn, the birds chirp off the glass the sky looks thirsty after all that rain last night; the sun going down over the gorge, the river brown swollen, fat fast moving current the Guatemalan man, incredulous, that one would lodge oneself in a small plastic boat and head out into that. but,  the sky is iridescent, high-lit- blue and yellow, the clouds going purple, pink, strung across the raging golden sun, the tumult above center wave a big brown hump - locked in it’s almost vertigo  inducing, a shifting sluice, the chaos, constrained by gravity shaping up into one glossy wave. the morning. the brown is still up. the feeder looks almost the same, but beyond the trees, a violence stirs the low violets are almost all dead, back into the ground for the next season’s food, and the tropical bloom is upon us. It’s a long quiet flat fast stretch until the waves kick in, and then a calm like no other, j-man gets eaten by a wav...