PULSE

In the mind's eye, clothes hanging on the line to dry are white leaves. They will photosynthesize nicely, pleasing the nose. Wooden pins are pawns in the game of clean, where everything ends up in a basket of dreams. It is so easy.

A green canopy of dragonfly wings is glowing unutterably, the articulation in all its glory. And there will be, from time to time, an interruption of same, given an eye for detail. Or something scientific. Keeping track of the pins. Counting them, both before and after dreams. For a comparison to be recorded on soft clay tablets. Except the one that jumped out ahead, before its time. That was something!

Floating through the agapanthus grove at midday on small white wings, and I felt the previous life's connection. We were that unscheduled freakish day of plunking down one dollar for a lotto ticket. Midday and two ships passing at 7-11. A grave adventure indeed, laughing at such things.

In between boards of the boardwalk is where mind shelters. There, out of the scorching sun. While above marching armies and pumped up leaders quote ancestral rights.

Those things that can't be written, much less thought, are centered in the spokes of a forgotten Ferris wheel.

That which is dust on shoes, ashes to cashews, is an interminable cycle. Your shoes, too, right out in plain sight but scarcely reviewed. And there will be no pandering to barbarous proofs of scientific verification, hung on rungs of a bamboo scaffold beneath the coaster ride, even as a necessary perch for the fluttering of small white wings.

There unblinded are the untethered words left by one who pees on rotting leaves at the magic compost heap.