Fundamental Motion


Everything is

a shark, moving for a living.

The day you froze, place lost

its room and time lost

its patience, only to snatch

you out of space. You translated

into perpetual light, unseen

like the gaps found

between film’s still frames, dead

but chasing the unborn.

Here in this nowhere, you linger

never and always, spread

into everything and nothing,

as only spirit stops.



The Earth is an old dog’s tennis ball, chewed

up and used up with joy,

which is why I don’t care for saving

the world. When I’m done I’ll lob

it out for the next kids to gnaw

as they’re teething,

because the Earth craves

our lives’ intimate caress, willing

to wear our footprints as laugh lines. Love leaves

marks, love rarely tames

the force of her nature, and nature’s force is wild

at our doors. She gulps at our wells and finishes

us all, while ever offering

her breast to my mouth. So I shamelessly spread

open her chasms and bring her to gasp,

for I live atop her, and the untouched

are already forgotten.

Lucid Dreaming, Magical Living

We dream the world into being. I believe this is a deep truth, and I believe there is something magical to be found in lucid dreaming.

Knowledge and imagination swirl and caress each other teasingly. In the waking world, one can know for certain that one is imagining some wondrous fantasy, but one cannot, we are told, manifest one’s imagination into life. In the dream world, one can imagine that they know something is “really happening”, but one cannot quite control one’s imagination to manifest what one wants.

Yet in lucid dreaming one knows they are imagining, and one can imagine anything they wish, manifesting it before their eyes in all the true-to-life reality-mimicking quality that dreams provide. I think, perhaps, this suggests that there is a kind of waking state of fantastical knowing which is the opposite of lucid dreaming and which holds all the manifesting power of the latter.

Lucid dreaming could, then, be a powerful to tool in learning the most powerful skill of them all: manifesting reality.

Learning lucid dreaming is more than merely recognizing that one is dreaming, but the ability to recognize a dream from reality is the first step. I myself have a few clues that tell me if I am dreaming (yours may be different). The first clue is the obvious fantasy of a dream. In a dream where I encountered a tornado, I knew it was a dream when I then saw five more all around me. It’s the improbable things that tell me I’m probably dreaming.

The second clue is my lack of co-ordination or ability to make things happen in a dream. In a dream I find it impossible to hit the right buttons on a phone, for instance, or carry out other simple functions. I fumble about, unable to act on the world.

The third clue is a bit more subtle. If I find myself trying to decide, in a dream, if I am indeed dreaming — I probably am! Yet still there have been times when I knew for sure I was awake, only to wake up. The point is that if I’m questioning it at all, or making a decision about my state of wakefulness, I am likely in fact dreaming.

Knowing these facts may help me to take things a step further: to know I am dreaming and stay within the dream, imagining a world before my sleeping eyes that bends to my will.

Changes of State

We’re freezing

rain, you and I, running

down streets, quicksilvering

our way between blocks of time.

You won’t betray

me if you freeze faster; even stone will melt

and reform, re-imagined

as everything fabricates

its reality from nothing, ripping

fantasy from the headlines. We’re dreams woken

to being, you and I, we’re air that grows

frost on blades of grass, we’re

one frame in a mystery film, captured

for a spell. When our photos fade

and all we know releases

back into imagination’s wilds, we’ll play

with the unborn who pass

away into life, then return

in a simple change of state. We’ll meet

as trees, you and I, flowing

like rivers when no one is looking,

as our every wish condenses

into truth.


I want an antithing

like a cigarette, want to mouth

it while I verb.

But I’m not doing

anything, so I start to think

about the resolution of the eye, wonder

if another instrument could glimpse

the slits of space between grains

of one thing and the next. Inhale

that one for your reward. But antithings are flighty

if they’re anything at all, and now I’m left

with nothing — I’m not doing

anything again — so I start to think

about how time isn’t. Isn’t that a kick

in the head? But now I have to think

time is a thing that animals do,

and fuck, I want to antido

it all, I want an antithing

that will last. My brain’s

funny, my senses are bent

into modern art, that’s all I get for trying

too hard. What a giggle,

the men who think the universe plays

bumper cars and doesn’t bleed

from thought to thing,

from mystery to knowledge. Fuck,

all I antido is nothing.


Suddenly I was air. Skinned, sublimated

like mist lifting from a frozen stream, I watched

you rape a river.

My consciousness hung

on a hairsbreadth chain, barely anchored

to time and life. Blood roared

as it pushed in and fell

back, becoming the sound of absence, cricket-song

superimposed on deep space’s silence. The stars twisted

and staying put took effort. I made myself

willing to watch you thrash and spasm

in my river, while I mouthed

a lullaby like a hook. Hush.


Then something snapped, then something exited, and it pulled

me as violently as the Earth pulls lightning

towards its own heart. I was on my back, eyes open,

spread over stones.

Submission — to what, I don’t know —

condensed in me, flipping

like a fish soon out of water. I lifted

up a shaking hand, I pressed

it to my chest, and I claimed

myself, again, as my own.