To Formless Thoughts, And The Open Plains, In All Maimed, Valhalla

The green hills,
A first morn breath;
The furrowed oceans,
Of all the grains;

Panorama clear lights,
Alone in Valhalla;
Maine, or The Seventh Star,
Or somewhere in the rays;

The webs, a dew,
The shuffling of a young fly;
Considered in the low webs,
I still, atop the dawns kiss;

She is single, and never lingering,
I am opal, of the crested Ether;
Or some love off, or someone…
The first long shrouds, night;

The level heights,
The tall king pines;
The queen and jack,
The Ace Alone;

All to call such Garden Home,
I walking in the wide moon;
Upon the leagues of wind,
For time in quite frost;

Exiled to golden rod cities,
Bound by passing seeds;
Prisoners escaping thought,
I in the seeds plant kind decrees;

The quiet groves, I sat in circles,
Snow song echoes, tiny ice alive;
Calling spirit of dismissed cricket,
Thorough dens of elder bears;

Then I cried, accident of creation,
For tired souls, do cry on ice;
Then apparent, was old bones,
The seed I once, and water wed;

The Soil was thick,
I crept up as a thin dream;
And out of the cooling pits arose,
I the vine, bright birches glowed;

I stood up, aghast,
Tall reproach of our dreams;
Nature and I twofold strangers,
To Man, and to our difference.


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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5 Responses to To Formless Thoughts, And The Open Plains, In All Maimed, Valhalla

  1. Evelyn says:

    “I in the seeds plant kind decrees”
    and this
    “Then I cried, accident of creation,
    For tired souls”
    magical. impressive.

  2. Jingle says:

    superb and descriptive,

    wow, what a delight to have you in.


  3. lunawitch15 says:

    this is just fabulous!

  4. Kay Salady says:

    Splendid writing.

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