automatic writing

some idiot determined it to be a metaphysical exorcise
harry houdin channelling his dear departed mother
the ghost in the machine
the ghost inside of you

this thought,
not intellect
this visceral spasm
i bleed and secret
it's a chemical, darling
that's all it is
electrons
whirling little pieces of nothing

and if you could pass your hand through this table
-and why could you not?
-because it's made of wood
after the fire,,,,,
that's all it is
atoms
electrons
and you can pass your hand through that?
-cant you?

look at out past the hood
it's a million degrees out
tell me if it is real
or just the heat playing tricks
I can feel you breathing...

and why is it, that when I'm made mostly of water
I don't dissolve when I immerse myself
and stare
at the far end of the tub
why do I dissappear
when I'm swimming naked
-did I ever exist at all....

it's a matter of time
a matter of time and a matter of will
eventually it all sort of blends
kind of happening already
like the same loop of tape
year after year
recorded over and over again
listen close to the grooves of a potshard
found in a mayan ruin
-the sound is captured in there
you just don't know how to release it

what does it take
temperature
tiredness
the touch of the right lover
sleep

they kid around about spontanious human combustion
but they'll never understand
how the moment
standing like the winged victory on the nose of a Rolls
where you can lean
into the sound, the motion, and the cues
none given
all felt
simultainously added and joined
a hymn sung by those who don't even know the words
what ignites then?

Why dally around with such things in a contrived manner
why create something
when all you have to do
is learn to put
your hand
through this desk
to see through
to pass through
and relax one's vision

it's merely twilight
that's all it is
twilight
where we all came from
and where we're all going.

'sweet thing you're borne once again, for me.'