i sow to my Spirit and reap from my flesh
i sow to my own flesh but reap from the Spirit
i seek the mint in the body
it is lodged somewhere
i look for it with my mind
the divine farmer holds an amulet in the shape of the primordial leaf, they expound on the flora thema
the haremint bush is a cloud of butterflies. in the sun, it extends its essence to the left: the tree which bears amulets as its fruits.
each flower sings a prayer for 4000 days, the discs of its petals shine in the dew
resplendent bees the size of birds are drawn from the ether to sup on their mild nectar, which brings about a state of bliss without fullness, when the nectar enters the body through the mouth, it seeks its exit through the eyes in the form of visions
the bees see their small cousins dreaming below, collecting meager pollen which fills without bliss
the elder bees understand: dreams find no purchase here. all water seeming is just so seeming, evaporated right as it is wrung out of the lungs or the stomata. upwards, insight is held in the clouds' hands. this nectar so mild is full of light, shuffled behind that cloud now, trapped under the horizon then, dragged across the sky soon, ever wherever it twists the mind towards its future origin.
the entire universe was a long ear. it spanned the perpetual east and the endless west, it stretched to the boundless north and the bottomless south. it was so large that it broke under its own tension, and fell to earth in three pieces.
the three ears touched the ground close to one another - each tip almost touchin–like a triangle. rather than grow and grow in all directions, the ears began to grow a hare at each point, a hare radiating out to connect two ears.
one day, one of the three hares grew restless, wishing to explore the desert by itself. saying “there are three of us, and each deserves our own ear, it’s only fair!" so, it made to break away from its siblings and start on its own
all day it gnawed off one ear, and all evening it pulled and pulled the other, finally ripping free from its neighbor.
one ear tip nicked and the base of the other gaping, it went off into the night.
the hare died, it was a sac of moisture covered in fur
its still body a waterskin, no longer exhaling moisture, metabolism replaced by decay
being made into a thick paste
a mysterious horse religion
millet, a small grain (but not the smallest, which is teff), is a blessing
resonant hues / sibilant cuesa cactus combs my hair penance plant abstruse guide
the way the cold air and ice knead the ground: the water enters the soil, and turning into ice in the night it contracts the soil, forming runnels in the morning, eventually melting and flowing deeper or sublimating in the dawn
the churning of the ground: the ice constricts dirt into anthill-like shapes and then evaporates
mistaking midges, with their flitting, stochastic dance, for falling ashes
plants praise us with their outward manifestations, their workings within us, and their self sufficient beauty
how does a plant become sacred?
what is haoma?
an illegible smile
is a plant knowledgeable? can a plant know?
we only have our sensory observations and familiarity with the plant's actions. i hesitate to say the plant's mind or soul just yet, because those are both anthropomorphic qualities. i would like to phytomorphosize the problem. intent, planning, self, and agency are all concepts we ascribe to people and animals, but to apply the concepts to plants without reflection seems incautious.
a lone herb each branch giving the other branches just enough room.
seeming to follow a plan, and improvising on that plan:
touched by light, angling towards the light, setting improvised electrical impulses in motion, echoes of radiance in viriditas:
an aleatory aeolian sun chime.
in another life, i possessed a sasquatch for several thousand years. later, as a human child, i shout from the bus at the cairn in the middle of the field, where that old body is buried
i came into contact with the forest person when it nudged some plants deeper into the ground, seeking tender sage seedlings, it salted the salty plants, it rubbed some leaves and sniffed its fingers, it touched the succulent ice plant leaves, and it found me...
the sasquatch legs were hard lost and well-founded
Ashes were thrown ahead for journey
from the trees, i watched people get advice for birth at hollow tree;
mycelium lightning spidering across my eyes
vegetational attributes, kurganization
from animal to fruit, to fruit to animal
an exhalation of the bitter ground
its flowers blown a thick white vapour
a figurine with a sown field pattern
in the beginning there was flesh and spirit.
the two very much wanted to touch, to battle, to join together. the spirit glew and the flesh shook with yearning.
however, as they existed on different planes, the physical and the ethereal, they could not touch. the spirit was immaterial and the flesh was full of substance. the spirit grew forlorn, and the flesh became likewise.
aeons passed, and the flesh became weaker and weaker, while the spirit was as bright as the first day.
one day, the flesh ceased to quiver with longing and became inert. the spirit wept, and its essence flooded the still-empty universe. it cried until there was nothing but water. meanwhile, at the bottom of the water, the first flesh began to soak up the water. it took in the spirit's sadness and became pliant. aeons passed, and the moist flesh became dirt.
the spirit could feel something distant - as though its senses extended beyond the ethereal realm.
aeons once more.
over each passing moment in each passing aeon, the spirit's corporeal sense grew stronger. and it noticed someone else - the flesh - it no longer spoke in its dulcet primordial voice, it felt with touch.
the spirit was close to weeping once more, but stifled the tears for fear of drowning the universe yet again.
you see, but the field feels, lady of the open bitter grass in the field
the doctrine of signatures written backwards
When the plant looks into me
with its light-eating leaves,
what does it see?:
in the middle of the great ocean grows a leaf, whose edge is serrated and covered in fine, bristly hairs. beneath the surface of the water, flowers grow from its lower stems, each flower is the similitude of 8,000 souls, holding their divine plenitude. each flower’s calyx is greenish blue with spiritual perfection.
surrounded by order, I look for the wildness that sticks out in defiance
Where in “nature” the settled garden bed calls proud attention to itself, in the sterile car pastures that pave the world over, the slightest errant weed calls forth in warbling song.
The eyes come to crave for wanton destruction, the return to something, the tilling of the field
veins a river
after the rains, the way grass points downhill
steel girder bones
i dream of taking my hair down, washing it in the river and letting it flow downstream
"Be idle without rivers or lakes"
forests without trees, rivers without water, plains without grasses, tundras without ice
overwrought then overgrown
cup overflowering! vessel mess hall! missile flower
There are five colors and five changes, five elements, four seasons, four seasons, and four seasons.
hover head under sulphur crag, breathe deep, and sing
lose yourself to laughing
no fees til the end of days
stop pretending super mari
and grapple with the beam
gallows pasta—esper drill
angstrom capital Å
cludgy cloggy cudgels
and doom surrounding
dream the light web of your body, and gather your sustenance as it blows in with the wind. growing by false suns, and guided by false stars, led deeper into the widening notches in the tree. new life from old, patience, plastic-eating, outlasting the long brutal years of summer in the dark.
the deals reek of benzene rings
you live most of your life in your body
pistils end in dogteeth
the center of the seed a spore
the spore a dreamy flower
sight graying out in the dark
a slurry of stone o'er which i clomb
finding neither golden fleece nor floam
dry stone dykes, some fields, bearded grasses singed by the summer heat. trees thirsty. in the shade, some dead logs with hard fungus. cow in heat hollering
or, cicadas loud and dry air hits you, when your head walks out of the shade -- you step on a root and push yourself up the hill and back into safety - you smell something sweet (sassafras).
looking for slender mountain mint and maypop, but it's too hot.
plait plant plaintive
bone hard bone marrow soft squeeze
rattle cage cone
smirr pizzle gristle
the hem of my dress, slightly wet
wadding with it hiked up
the chiggers, skeeters, and ticks
the thick hot air full of them
a mountain stream a-flowèn
no soma in them thar hills
just rocks to farm and weeds to munch on
red clover, mountain mint, kudzu
i can be a wisp of smoke,
the filtered flash of sunlight through leaves,
ash on the fingertips
the veins on the underside of a leaf
a mountain mirage image, purple in the distance
have you ever had a scuppernong at forest temperature?
like a baby or a frog
turning off instead of on
like a dream inside a dog
drifting off into nog
by plaited streams
winking waking waulking
seer gas queers chaffe
peerage seepage steerage nonage
anguillette dwellers oft
elver gosh lara croft
warp weft wind mill skin
efts' clefts craft theft
brimstone grindstone, waking dire lover's swoon
no remorse, changing course, remora theodora
salient points; sore joints
saline cream, cure stream
│ s │▓
│ u │▓
│ n │▓
soil pocked by rain
the way the cold air and ice knead the ground
the water enters the soil, and turning into ice in the night it contracts the soil, forming runnels in the morning, eventually melting and flowing deeper or sublimating in the dawn
the way ice constricts dirt into anthill-like shapes and then evaporates
bedtime stories for wee weans and hopeless adults
relentlessly hatching eggs (obscure sunlights emitting from them). gourds from my mothers' garden vibrating and humming—until dawn's dawn rises within itself.
i feel the air melt and sway under time's heft and the determination of dogged overdetermination
my dress fills with the easterly wind, trees inflate as well and sing their soft filtering song. whipped-up leaves follow cloud banks at an offset. the dark gray blue of immanent downpour, and looking straight into the distance, there is light, fleeing.
the cave in that hill and the riverbed under the lake are restful, but everywhere else is seething and hurting trying to escape itself