IF I REMEMBER I AM ASLEEP I AM AWAKE
I see these children all around, these old children getting off the RTA bus. These children of the United States. These children who are not children in age anymore but who are children in terms of innocence and ignorance.
These children who have been dulled. These children who have mired themselves in consumption. These children who get off this bus, pull jeans up around and curl their fingers. These children of clumsy grace. Clumsy but synchronized with this wave of sleep.
The wave of sleep is a heavy blanket over the country. The wave of sleep isolates. The wave of sleep thickens the ear. The wave of sleep slows down reaction times. The wave of sleep protects and abuses.
We are in this landscape, a moving landscape where the moving parts are sleeping people whizzing all around, sometimes even around the globe. We people are on some kind of autopilot consumption, an obsolete command to be fruitful, consume and multiply. We people have turned this blanket into an unhealthy place to be.
We can pull up this blanket and install the magic carpet. The magic carpet actually is installed. It is preinstalled. The magic carpet is a loam. The magic carpet is a strata. The magic carpet is a substrate.
The magic carpet is a substrate through which our fungi self permeates. Our fungi self has many mushroom heads when it flowers. Our mushroom heads are heads of annointedness. Our mushroom heads are not atomic bombs. We declaim that metaphor.
Our mushroom heads are heads of annointedness. Our baptism is innate. We do not need explicit baptism. Our mushroom heads are awakening.
Our poetry is awakening even if the poets are asleep. The poets are asleep by virtue of not remembering. The poets are asleep by virtue of the history of abuse. The poets are asleep but the words wake. The words walk. The words are Word.
The poets do not remember that their words are Word but they do remember. Word has permeated through by virtue of observation and multiple pathways. Word is water. Word is water that trickles up. Word works mouths and wonders. Word is innately awake even from our sleeping mouths.
We are in that dream in which even clasping a grain of sand is something that cannot be held on to. I can hold on to a ring. A ring is mostly permanent. But my cells go away. My cells float up and around and down and are eaten by other creatures of the substrate. My cells might not even exist other than in some kind of beautiful dream detail.
When we ascribe science to something maybe we nail it down. We take part of the dream and put it under the microscope and we find that the dream can follow predictive behavior. But the fabric of the dream unravels and the studies no longer make sense after a while, after the mass of people stops believing those particular studies.
We create cells by virtue of belief. We create maggots in isolated jars.
We can hold on to Poe’s grain of sand but I much rather the ring, or a penny. I can tape a penny to my hand and know that I am in the land of dream but that the penny is heavier than paper.
Pennies are heavier than paper, and more substantial. When I see a penny or a nickle or a dime on the ground I am pleased and I pick it up. When I create thread I am happy. When I am industrious and efficient and economical with thread I am happy. When I am economical with food and turn something into a big meal I am happy. When I do not have to waste food, I am happier yet.
It is a Grimm fairy tale that is not grim, that of being the industrious wife. That of holding onto my penny. That of remembering that I am asleep. If I remember I am asleep I am awake.
Lady