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| Solar Journal
by ghostrider4107 at 10/16/2009 9:19:10 AM
Solar Journal
The sun in the garden. The Easter egg hunt in the garden. The talking flowers in the garden. The buried treasure in the garden. Metallic sun-shower from a watering-can. The secret seed in the garden. The prehistoric egg in the garden. It's yolk: New York, grass and baseball diamonds. The field: light broken into daylight, the specific day, and to which field shall we go? A map of the drugstore: white lemonaid spring, cherry-lime lake-isle, grape glacier. The sun in lemon. The sun outside the tailor shop/the steam. The liquor store: the dark bottles: this is a map of the city. Toystore: red, the red truck, the red top. The sun in the toystore, the silver truck. Yellow and Blue Donald Duck. The sun in the tunnel. The sun in the bath tub. Floating bar of ivory soap/evening. The moon on ivory soap. The memory of the bath tub, spashing over the sides. Each element by it's own laws, no element by no laws, no element that can be abstracted from me, no element that is not medicinal: sacred. Last night I dreamed of water and swimming. And the sun on the water. Opening windows clear to the bottom: a frog. A frog in a swimming pool. But it was the ocean. I was naked crawling low through the sand, trying to hide my nakedness with the sand. The children in the water: were girls. Was there water in my dream? And it the water that I dreamed? Or was it endocrine alchemy, based on the illusion on a world of light, and ignited by the king and queen level of dream? Did I dream out by the world ocean? Did I dream in the swirling prima materia of the scrotum and other sacs, raised by the level of water, and the Word, convexed for the body of the dreamer to swim in? Scrotum: source of creation, of sun, of speech, large and fertile as the Atlantic Ocean. Without life, surely we would have the same dreams: formless hydrogen suns, a music that passes on the universe and falls on the created planets by the name of time. Alchemy still reigns, but rootless words are the going currency for acids, sperms, herbs. The moon begins to pull. This is not a pretence or a metaphor: we know already of tides and cosmic rays, active particles from other stars that fall in the scrotal and somatic waters and germinate in the golden world ocean. The moon pulls all day. At night the effect distills into a prickley sea of animacules, born worms of Psyche and Soma in my body, children of the conditions of night. These new cells transform the living surface of the planet, changing it's patterns through open nodes and young rivers. These are my chemicals, my protein code: through them I can become subject to conditions other than my own. The moon begins a dream in my glands; I find water and swim with the deepest fish and ask them their names in languages I do not know. And return singing, without memory of their reply.
-J.L.B.
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