Out of The Chaos

I dream paintings whole and entire in my greize dreams, in the colour of languages, a click away from sensing, like a great vowel shift of perception, the way I know things; seeing my feelings, tasting my perceptions. 

I dreamt paintings, and when I woke I still had them, in the narrative form I call poetry, though it has neither meter nor rhyme, but only a kind of rhythm like a pulse, like breath. It has been missing in me for a long time.

They were bright and flashing metallic and rich with color, these paintings, though the color, the form, did not exist unless I described them, unless they were delineated by poetry first. They boiled with the atmosphere of the universe, but if I was not careful and attentive, colours would go from luminous to dark and opaque, and the edges, instead of vibrating, became hard and sharp, and mass become object immoveable, trapped in a ground instead of shifting and becoming like a gas in a galaxy, making manifest.

All the dark matter of the universe is pushing and pulling at us, energy flashing like the wings of an insect.