Superposition

I write between the day and night, early, when the ether is thin and permeable and laughing spirits play with your thoughts

When the ether is thin spontaneous words flow out of a heart of coal onto electronic parchment

When the ether is thin I can see the tiny singing miracles, and jinn particles caught inside the loop of time, and the Great Electron; superpositions where inspiration is living, and waiting, and hiding… like a mischievous child

But, I am stretched thin, like butter on too much bread, an old set of near see-through jeans, a lone cloud trying to spread worn out love across the entire sky in vain 

I grab a book I received in the post last night, and open to a random page, “My Near Death Adventures” is the title of the poem, and absorb its breath

I have lived and died by the eternal dance of the time gods many times in this river of fate and fortune, cheated the ferryman often on 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 trip around the wheel, and relished in my feral qualities and tendencies 

I’ve looked square in the face of other dimensions and yet still my feet shuffle along down dirt roads and asphalt highways, always with keen senses; open eyes and ears and closed mouth

“I grew older and younger at the same time everyday” the poet writes from his old Kentucky home

Now, I am neither old nor young, neither feral nor domesticated, neither here nor there, I 𝘢𝘮 like butter on too much toast, a thin memory of other times, other lives, other loves 

The time between day and night is a purgatory of unknown, a prison of self inflicted fears and trepidations, and a jumping off point into the veil, where life is just a dream we dreamed long ago when the breath of God was young and still old–speaking in unknown ancient rhythm and dialects we can only know in our hearts

I stretch my thin feet across the floor, scrape my toes along its grain, and wonder how tomorrow can ever follow today, and like Maxwell the Phoenix, I’ll spread my wings again and again, in each life and day, and fly into the thin ether