Judgement towards a day-star

a dream from a few years back:

That line where the water meets the sand. A long que of people, from everywhere and anywhere, a glass partition in front of us, along that line. And on the other side, rivers and unusual, unearthly birds flying themselves, as if dying, convulsions, into the water. But here we do not have the concept of the otherworldly or alien. Nor does a glass partition conjure metaphors of separation/ imprisonment. No, not here. A young woman next to me, annoyed that she has to queue in this indefinite line without purpose, complains, and is rude about the people she has been unfortunate enough to have to stand next to. Usually I’d think she is a snob, but now I tell her we don’t have time for that. Not because we are running out of time anticipating an event, no, we really just do not have time in any usual sense. ‘having time’. Its about to mean something very different. I am very calm but not peaceful. More resigned. Two poised women stand next to me, they seem royal in some subtle sense. I overhear them talking, they say how the men wasted them some time as they assumed they were more nobler than the women. But again, I don’t know much what wasting time means now. I look to the other side and the birds, not dying, instead almost look as if to turn inside out, diving into the water and bringing up fish, fish that get caught up in the birds opening centres, closing again, changing their faces. Just an expression. A whole cross species evolution is just this. and back again to the beautiful birds. But wars go on behind them. Their water dances seem to be refractions of this war, somehow, but what does that even mean. The regal women look at me, as if to notice my wondering, as if reading my thoughts, and say, ‘you should really visit the zoo’. I say okay. And I know that visiting the zoo will be very much like this line, and I will have no metaphors of confinement or time, but I fill with a slight anxiety as I think, oh god, then what is a tiger? I will really
face a tiger…

drink me
living the jubilant judgement involves copious amounts of alcohol to ferment abundance and collide the two witches.
the table top is my courtroom.
table top theatres with oblivious audiences turning performers.
 I snatch from the air their falling words like falling cards; a grasp is a re-contextualizing

“you should really visit a zoo”

face a tiger?

How would it feel?during cat-fights hair is pulled into tatts that look like scribbles. 

and sound like the squabbles of indecision.
sporadic marks made on the blank page.
a mess

as the spies v the i-spy?The big S and the little s

the Spectator and spectacle

the Scream and its consoling ‘shhhhh’

Sleep

to grasp a falling looks like:


and let it fall again.

is the art of plaiting and cutting circadian rhythms.
of flickering eyes

inhale-exhale

diamonds in the soil

The soils first mark
is the shimmering of a first finding.
 is the cat pushing vases from table tops


to fall in a blink...



another lacuna,
opening

for the next bloom



(I spy)

in this garden

Judgement wears heels
and treads the elements
when she is done

with the non-chalance of a cat;

 judgeless and godless

in the interval of a

sun-shading hat:

Eclipsed

night

i find a star...

furry night in broad day light.how is it even possible?

to face a tiger.