And Wearily I Dream

All the burrowed sylvan snakes,
are eating Angels in the lakes;
more pain
than passive passion fakes.

Asunder black, and
coiled Thought,
To reverent sands, and
Kingdoms caught,

In the still sea, over edging glass
with the Lady Lake, and summers

Eerier fires
than a glass of wakes reflects;
And nothing but the sunken,
submit to foolish hex,

Nothing past the broken glass
can carry on a tune;
The oldest God, the youngest man, the symmetry of soon,

The promised land is sifting sand,
and wearily I dream;
of broken glass and dirty windows, open to its gleam,

See the sorted future now,
rebel of the Meta-mine;
over wild lapping waves,
and coils caught in Ice-Time.

See them sink,
see them sing;
the halls of dust,
and willing King,

Sits atop atomic thrones,
to all our sins undone,
blessings of the upper sky,
and see the Atman one,

Of all cautious woken nows,
and banished bloody thens,
or if only my soul were clean,
and vapor glide my whens,

To our waiting

And soft hallowed

Upon Edens
shores I lay,

And wearily,
I dream.


About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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