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I'm a worm in a forest. I show my ~
face when you lift a garden potted plant sometimes.
On a particular September night, I laid my wormy
head down on a thrifted tome, or perhaps a stack
of design magazines from the nineteen-nineties, and
became instantly melancholic with the weight of
knowledge of the efforts of artists of the past decades.
Asleep, on modern parchment imbued with culturally-irrelevant magic, under soil,
dreaming of
a nature where I stare at nature
and it stares back,
flipping through magazine pages as
lamp becomes sun becomes lamp, before quenched,
petting eight furry & semi-furry & furless pets
from a prone carpet position with a television playing in the
other room (I don't want to hear it but its sparkles of noise are inescapable!),
authors errant-- the oh-so-humble proprieters of pop-up books for
delusional home-sextons of immovable book vaults,
rising above the clouds with Nils Holgersson, Olaus Petri, Chaucer, that one
poet that wrote that one thing about the vegetative Christmastime knight & a shiny ball,
Julien (the Red), Trale Lewous, the wax-dripping Geoffrey who sketched & sketched,
the sneeziest lyricist, Ella's Machine,
& others whose names have melted from my mind but not my heart.
While I await my 5 AM moist-soil, stiff-neck awakening, I have been exporting various
visions to the Information Dirt Pathway via a contraption that siphons dreams with the
force of a jet from minds looking inwards.