by Michael Kriesel
Apperception. Knowledge tattooed on my
brain. Like knowing my left hand’s there, or time’s
demanding God’s attention all at once.
Every bill falls due now. No credit
for the lord of time who floats above the
grooves of linear experience. Old
In grooves we live, forced forward. In dreams we
jump the vinyl wall, travel astrally.
Kept in line by time. The only way we
learn down here. The perfect training tool. Time
merely measuring matter in motion.
No matter, no time. Just eternity’s
ocean, and consciousness, attaining to
pure light’s height, looking down on its record,
cued to every note at once. A burst.
Release. We become lighthouses on a
shore with no sand or water, one at a
time. A light for others to steer towards,
until we’re all light. Eternity’s not
very long. A winter walk. A movie
where you’re frozen between frames, like slides. You
exit, enter doorways in the air, as
you balance on emptiness, between fields,
zippers jingling a second, stepping through.
~ first published in The Writer