Dtergent
Bluelight Crew
(This is not really a poem, it's a letter. It was meant to explain a gray area. This is where I am right now.)
What do I miss about the days before my superseethroughpsychicpowers?
Guessing. Guessing is good and you can make guessing silly and once you are guessing as well as you're biking or breathing then guessing becomes dreaming-while-wake and building some stories and bashing them laughing.
And when guesses make stories they're not the un-truth because guessing is different from expectating.
And guessing is a mess of little ideas from the tips of your fingers and retina curves. So my fingers remember and my shoulders remember and I'm guessing you into my future right now.
If then the guess is not addressed and remains a guess and doesn't factify, if it jumps into the wide warm ocean of fancy, and I blow away on my pirate ship and through the looking glass glance at the vast Ocean of Fancy (Past Fancy)-- then way all the better!
If we are connected by gentle spools unfurling over oceans of space and circumstance, it is meant not to lead us to the crashbangboom but to be tugged, softly to remind of the other... I cannot see through you, and won't grow to, either.
But my fingers remember and my shoulders remember and I'm guessing how it is to remember more. But we are still guessing, deducing, theorizing, imaginizing, and fighting against the experiment that will plunge the tugging and dancing into panicky thrashing in dark deep doom.
What do I miss about the days before my superseethroughpsychicpowers?
Guessing. Guessing is good and you can make guessing silly and once you are guessing as well as you're biking or breathing then guessing becomes dreaming-while-wake and building some stories and bashing them laughing.
And when guesses make stories they're not the un-truth because guessing is different from expectating.
And guessing is a mess of little ideas from the tips of your fingers and retina curves. So my fingers remember and my shoulders remember and I'm guessing you into my future right now.
If then the guess is not addressed and remains a guess and doesn't factify, if it jumps into the wide warm ocean of fancy, and I blow away on my pirate ship and through the looking glass glance at the vast Ocean of Fancy (Past Fancy)-- then way all the better!
If we are connected by gentle spools unfurling over oceans of space and circumstance, it is meant not to lead us to the crashbangboom but to be tugged, softly to remind of the other... I cannot see through you, and won't grow to, either.
But my fingers remember and my shoulders remember and I'm guessing how it is to remember more. But we are still guessing, deducing, theorizing, imaginizing, and fighting against the experiment that will plunge the tugging and dancing into panicky thrashing in dark deep doom.
