because i went to forks and picked up some kind of plastic they called native art

Fake &

Plastic

Made to look wooden

Tribal by

Association

Financed by

Custom

What will you do when your culture goes out of style?

Trade more culture for profit I suppose &

Sacrifice more folklore for recognition.

Grains of

Fictional abstraction

Of native North America

For this moment

The guise of your society is cool

But your beliefs

You can keep to yourself

The least

Of what’s left of it

One vein of information

Collects

And distributes

Because fantasy sells

And appropriation consumes it.

So find salvaged minority hiding in a page

& Your lineage sitting on the shelf

While it’s still

Popular.

but for the motion of currents

In penetrating quietudes
& silent dimensions
between silk drapes of burnt orange hues
shades of emerald and illuminated crevices of sunlight
i leave sound
to come into ocular saturation,
the hazel eye of the forest.

The senses shift greedily from one to another
and soon my skin is coloured by the sensation
of soft earth and hushed condensation.

As thoughts that dance on treetops dwindle
and the presence of my tangible body ensues
i am curious to find myself start
at the physical sensation of my own heart
beat,
screaming with every passing second
that i am alive.
this stark fragility,
this forgotten song of existence
(blurred by noise and the passing of life itself)
is tragically beautiful.
an endless rhythm of beats seeks me
startles me, revealing one organ
bearing the weight of continuous life,
carrying blood like the river current beneath my feet.
for it is not i who chooses to live
but my heart who chooses to keep beating,
(elemental value) and some distance of flesh.

silence, but for the motion of currents.

sea beyond sea

The way each wave in passing moves
is almost as if a hollow mouth of earth
is breathing into the flesh of sand 
that sinks with each footstep
salt tinged lips of foam
pour like lava over stone after stone
carrying molten of age, inhaling the surface quality of things

a sigh remains.

crystallized sun conducts an orchestra of fog,
harpsichord clouds,
wind blows into its flute to the synthesized notes birdsong 
& harmonies of the seagull,
the sky a sacred chant
and words rattling
like a tambourine.

Under the breathing mouth of the ocean
submerged under white frothing collision
a deepest silence reigns
heavier 
than a wrathful sky blackened by storm
& leaden with the pressure 
of limitless heaven
where far into solid blue
is absence
of sound.
where
past all the eye can see
infinite creatures run amok
dancing in muffled sound
the persistent hum of the water's surface
hiding the span of the living world beneath.

a sea beyond a sea. 

Cryptograms

Today
I decipher cryptograms
written in the code
of hypertextuality

finding myself
beating to the heart
of technology

whose presence,
assumed and pervasive 
whose power
to inflict dependency
reveals itself to me
like a story unfolding in a book
whose ending
lies in it's uncertainty 
and whose pages 
could cause me 
to stop reading,
because modem links 
are like plagued vines to me
something

i try to avoid if i can
but alas
the 'web'
may really be no different
from that of a spider's
And i
am really no different
from the fly,
unwillingly trapped
in the midst of intricate lines
invisibly thin
and spaces
of open illusion
to hide in.

I have dreamt before
of myself
looking into a computer screen
at an image of myself
looking into a computer screen
at an image of myself
unsure whether or not
my dream is lucid.

Yes, 
Technology has even penetrated
my dreams
which can only mean
it has a special place
in my subconscious 
And considering this,
i picture my brain
if it were to be x-rayed
to reveal an unmistakable outline
of a google search bar
embedded somewhere 
between the tight foaming grooves
And i often wonder
if electrical energy
is not seeping slowly into my bloodstream
over time,
clicking 'history',
tracking life by day.

And finding 
my eyes so sunken
so glazed
from the gleam 
of a macbook's screen
that when i close them
i can still see the fluorescent glint
branded into my eye's retina.

And finding myself scrolling down facebook
already forgetting
the reason for being on the computer itself
And recalling Technology
to be something more
than I had considered it
a world in it own right
This World
where the physical
becomes image
and the tangible
becomes pixel
still cellular
but not 
entirely
the same.

And i know
that when i can count
months more of emails 
than spoken words
from my father
and stare 
into single dimensional
reflections
of people i can see
but cannot touch
that i must
in fact
be in a place
some extension of cyberspace
an ubiquitous force
without a face,
and i know
that
Today,
I decipher cryptograms.

grapevine

I find a spot on the kitchen table
where an old brown grape vine lies
defiantly lost between computers colored pencils
keys paper teacups and electrical cords
twisted and knotty 
like a dry naked bruised and scanty tree in winter
a solitary, minuscule grape
wrinkled and brown
still hanging
from a tiny ventricle of a branch
empty and sagging
creased with tiredness 
but still
somehow
hanging 
from the tiniest arm of a vine
a single grape
attached,
still hanging.