CURRENT MISSION Extracting the fabrications from my mind and throwing away the frames we use to conceptualize the world and each other, remembering that we exist only in each experience, an uncontainable sprite of awareness, constantly diverging from its rapture. ABOUT ME It has always been difficult for me to not "move", to not shift, to become what the containers subscribe you to become, whether it's a student in a classroom, where you are expected to raise your hand and participate, or whether it's the person at the bank, cashing in what is deemed your "earnings" and what "keeps you alive"..., it's in these moments, and all of "their" others, that it is easy to become an attendant of life, and so hard, and often forgotten, to Be. Sometimes I am so filled with this feeling that is not quite a feeling, not something that can be answered upon "how are you?", but this expurgate promise not to think how I feel, how I am, where I am, but why I am, which is so removed from any mental speculation, because it's a question that is not answered through a question, it never truly belongs to me, and it cannot be posed with a thought, but sits here, like pages of a book which move without moving, because all that it is, is constantly becoming in its inability to be what it was but continue, and nothing can remove it from its passage or contain it in its meaning. How is this or that book not any different here, or there; how are you? What is ever the same? What is ever coming from a place which does not constantly change? And here I "am", forever, in this creation which beckons me in the silence which has no death, and has no movement. My origin, my history, the things which claim me. And even if a book remained unread, unmoved, it was written, it was created, to be something that is, and because it is, it can never be something that was, or something, somewhere, that isn't. It is its creation, taken from silence. Often it has been hard for me to find words, because I am not searching for words, how can I...? When it is something continually re-placed. I cannot make use of what I have been promised or what was given to me. These pages of words cannot be contained, even in their immovability they bear and whither, abscond and travel, until they are unreadable, unusable, and disappear, or become something other. A poem, I am constantly working on: "Escape Artist" And the writer became a beggar for words, the sounds which came blunt in spoken confessions, the listener stitched a weave as each meaning entwined and meandered, no more deliberate than a serpent in a desert, or the garden of Eden, whose oasis of temptation scurried like rats in a wall. Once the provoker, now the the ringleader. And the mind, a trail of feathers, rapt with every image, a passage of history. And the sleeper's dream of death is awakened by the reaper's numbing hand. And the reaper's dream of death is awakened by the sleeper's bewildered land. PHILOSOPHY And I thought of all these books, interchangeably, as movements going in many directions, but each penetrating into the concrete ground that I walk on each day to move this body in these ideas, moving in steps, thoughts that follow one another, overturning, with pages turning, becoming parts from their increments, accretions from their pieces, becoming my becoming as a shift between each, as a stride between blocks of thought, and a leap over the highway divides, wrong ways becoming yields, passages opening like straits, bearing, veering, exchanging glances with chaos, moving in a tumult, where pandemonium babysits the rat's nest, driving out the wet nurse, and setting in the crib of straw a crystal ball which melts in the heat of the fortuneteller's hands, out of dripping faucets and ticking torrents, where rivers consume and oceans are born, chapters flowing like soup from ladles, places marked and absent cradles, rhymes for reason, father time and uncle logic, mother's love and lovers mother secrets of their own, torn pages and wrinkled covers, a history that unravels in a tempest's chair wired to electric coils, and silently in the furnace room the watcher's stumble and relics shatter, breaking switches and blowing dials, what a mess, what a mess, cries the mad hatter clapping his hands in exuberant blessings, and it spills into the sewers, quietly flowing under the dim light of the moon, washing up into puddles where a young man and old man fish for tales out of the forecast calling for more rain, and a homeless son picks out the eyes of his deadbeat father, in the reflections that cast the type into the fingermarked pages, and the sentence runs away, longer than ever, running into crowds and races of races, and bombs explode in the rhythmic distance, providence, providence, echoed in claims tagged by oil rigs, and the children shop for black attire, brother's funeral and daddy's flag waving beside the flowers, and momma sobs looking at the gun powdered diploma, my baby she says, knew the alphabet before he could walk, my baby she wails, counting the steps to his grave, and on his headstone below his birth and above his death, like a book atop a shelf, dismissed, but for the ones who held him in their arms, but for the memories, but for the words in the sentence that outran them, into the black smoke of our country's white house, back to the sewer and the puddling streets, businessmen and corporate suits, the offices on speed dial and fatherly rehearsals when timmy calls, back from school, back from the gangs on the corner stoops, back from chalkboard erasers and history lessons, back from the past and the pride of pledge allegiance, back to the dreams riding on carcasses of politics, back to the momentum, no room for you-turns on this one-way street, back into the boulevards thinning into IV's, back into the years of writing and reading, concrete grounds of ideas, moving in steps, thoughts that follow one another, over turning, pages turning, and a leap over the highway divide has little timmy committing suicide, wrong ways too short to become yields, lifetimes too long for the peace, and the story falls into the cracks, unread like soldiers faces, unheard but for names and places, and the sentence runs past every single dream, hightailing in a scapegoat's chase, and the sentence carries the words further than the classroom takes it, further than the mobiles over cribs, further than the illegal borders of dreams, and the repetitions repeat, repeat, repeat, cries the mad hatter clapping his hands, and the schizophrenics dance in the street with their hands in their heads and their heads in hospital beds, and the kids got ADHD, and the futures an alzheimer of disease, and the autistics dream of a way out over pills that lead the parade, and the sentence runs into a cancerous migraine, how much longer can it go, someone shoot it down or call its bluff, hurry now, it's getting away faster still, if we could hold it down we might set it straight, and the mad hatter cries and claps his hands, wrists of watchers peddling clockwork devices.