Circled Wagons

0 - My head keeps moving halfway to the pillow but never touches

Open:

That hole.

That pit.  That cave.

That slope.  That slips

that gate to night.

That dreaming meme.

(Are phantoms frictionless?

Do they slide quick?

Or scrape slow?)

Happy?  And always ever after life,

half eyes open.

Fear?  Their constant for the rest -

paralyzed our days.

There is a meter,

an iambic diameter measure

of panic and divinity

that when raised offers two choices:

deliberate ignorance

or

impending desperation,

which choice prevails

depends on previous rolls,

premeditated roles and

aforementioned holes.

Mine?  Sure, mined mind.

It’s bubbling, rising.

An uprising at fact and

a revolt against logic.

An artist led war;

A carbonated revolution.

And as they (artists) proceed

from diction to fiction

from style to guile

from two dimensions to three,

their flag turns spherical,

which renders mine cubic.

My plan: a filigreed flat fiat:

sit still and wait.

Their plan: a brainstorm:

volcanic, chaotic and maelstormmed.

But who are they

inside my mind?

Who bears this spirited sphere flag?

If it is not mine?

(Oh it’s mine.)

Call them past me’s:

last me’s,

gone me’s,

bad me.

Every dream and mystery of mystory’s history

crammed into an army of circles

headed directly the capital city of

now me’s:

solid me’s,

reasoned me’s,

be me.

But they are their own me now:

you me’s,

other me’s,

detached me’s,

deployed me.

1 - The eggs come home to roost

The invaders take shape

just outside the background

just past solidity

jumbled so they can not be seen.

They seep sleep sneak at the margins,

the burned borders beyond the map

where veils part and seals break.

(Still, I sit still safely at center.)

I wonder how a circle might attack

and not just wander round around rounds.

(Imagine offense without lines.

Image offends with lines out.

I, mage end, offer in lines.

I’m a genie offing outlines.)

That kind of parenthetical flanking circuitousness

doesn’t exactly make me bubble fear.

Its all billiards and no cue.

Its all scissors and paper sans glue.

So I wait.

I know:

It’s not a plan,

It’s a reaction.

Wait.

What’s their plan?

As the hole threatens a cave in.

As the dream lengthens...

reality departs, debarks and restarts?

No.

This is entropy.

As the cave darkens.

As the captain crumbles...

logic capsizes, capitulates and coalesces?

No.

They plan to hedge the edges

to move the outliers inward

sew the center into nothing:

capacity made cromulent,

concavity made corpulent,

convexity made conduit.

The barbarian line

inching inward.

The barbarian noose

crumbling centers.

The barbarian spiral

shucking sanity of its husk.

Edge civilization, hedge construct, dredge cohesion,

edge meaning, hedge manners, dredge myth.

2 - Sitting at the Heart of Something Iconic

Hindsight becomes rindsight, the kind of

strip away banana peel that becomes

a compost heap seen only in the

rear view mirror of circus cars.

So what do I do as the peel rots?

What do I do in the puckered mouth of exposure?

Do I do the dance of one uncovered?

I do the stance of the skinned man?

Do these revelations peel the plot?

I wait more and weigh more.

Not as in time to measure systems
nor time in to switch measuring systems

but with time measured systems

to outweigh unmeasured assistance

as in the knot is thick enough

to nullify any usurpers sword swipe.

The knot is the middle and the trouble

with waiting - the trouble with relying

on weight is that it depends entirely

on gravity and when the edges of the

world crumble away, when the

sphere is shedding roundness, turning

cubical under the circular saw of gravitating madness

everything gets less heavy

everything gets more prone

to float away.

And can the center stand alone?

Can can you dream a rope, a rigging

and a boat not from a lone knot?

Are we always alone, even now

under siege from former selves under

dream’s renegade reneging of reason?

Am I, lone I, not knot threatened?

I am, for ice circles outside city walls.

This city, once center, now floats windless in

a seabed of volcanic once agains, amongst a tide

made by fumbling full moons, all the

roaming romantics, all the mumbling musicians -

yes here they stream and scream at my gates

demanding... my attention?

3 - A Sort of Sordid Conversation Monologues

“Yes what is it you want now that we know you can’t come in?”

“Yes what is it you want now that we know the dream time ends?”

“Yes what is it you want now that we know what we know?”

That’s what I said.

Is it different from what you would say?

Faced with the dissidents

Traced with deference

Laced with the imminence of your own reprise?

Maybe I should say something different.

Yes.

Let’s start over and try again.

“Yes, friends, won’t you come in with your torches and spears?”

“Yes, friends, won’t you come in and burn down your fears?”

“Yes, friends, won’t you come in and drown me in tears?”

That’s what I should say.

Is it something that you might say?

Faced with no defense

Traced with no recompense

Laced with the semblance of your somewhat self?

Maybe I should say nothing at all.

Yes.

Let’s start over and try again.

I swing the gates open

and if I wake before I die

I pray the words

will tumble by.