Simple Theories

  In a canny move, the grey remnants of poet Walt Whitman bought the rights to lilacs. Purple and white with ripe green herbage and a fragrance of abundance, lilacs exist and subsist as subsumed sentiment now. We believe implacable legend has purpose. We try to ignore "O Captain! My Captain!" as the poor marketing transport that it is but lilacs in spring loss fosters something deeper. Whitman knew he needed something deeply riding and present. Lilac skips ahead with a shout and full vernal escapade. Wherever Dooryards gather, there might you see lilacs a-bloom. We can forgive Walt and the crust of his beard. The nation is a bedstead and the cranks have long Lankin dreams. Consumerism called the shots all along, but lilacs stay.

  The anyhow time of beaver seems simple enough and directed. Build a home in the idea of home, and make it the wet part of everything in elemental time. Tho called industrious, beaver has yet to light a furnish. They shape the landscape like liquid lightning, that enterprise. A tail slap of water provides rousing vocal claim. Teeth that never cease to grow look like American aim. Flood a forest in the touch of time. PowerPoints from the beaver lodge explain life as ongoing. You have work to do while being done. Drag a branch into water in your own time, just try the challenge of chewing a tree. The state of being without or beyond a thing seems strange and without reference. Corporate continuity includes paperwork, fluffy forensic nothingnes. The breeders at Goldman Sachs have the future of no future faintly in mind. Numbers flatten the picture to easy register. And that becomes thriving. Flooded fields and forests trouble no beaver, they vindicate with a thriving lodge. Why does ...

  Isn't it always joking aside with Cthulhu? Humourless Cthulhu reaches into endless depths of Earth and time to bring up horrid muck and the smell of sortilege and cheese.  Forsythia  sends roots into the world and springtime flowers appear. Yellow flowers, a précis of Spring.  You choose. The whiplike branches fill with blossoms even before fledged with leaves. The landscape sparks, news that stays news. Green ordinariness follows as the season matures, but wait. Those thin branches may just lean and droop till touching earth itself. Roots form from the touch, and new plants to send their share. Generative brightness could form a reticule of maybe bee-line calm to meditate the process: staying in time to the time out of time. No need to shame grim Cthulhu for being a lug. Just step it up and step it out. Let rain be the  beginning  of rain, in the flower, branch, and root.

  The town of marching even includes turtle. You know turtle as that rock that wants to cross the street. In the time it takes to cross, death could be called. Rest in light, death supplies numbers but nothing more. Know the business end of business by the lines it erases. Turtle must reach  that  water, and no other. A concourse of a lily pad makes a place for feeling sun. That clanking sound comes from you like the glory you invade. Your course lacks focus or constraint, just following the car's hey day continuation. Any ploughing path will do for you. Turtle sees the lights of earlier crossings, which proceeds in the uncorrupted vision. Bland trampling fuels your forgetful turbine, and turtle becomes that same old rock. Scolded, you will still just see stones in your passway. The anomaly of presence springs alive in the moment you wait.

  When mushrooms dance, only mystery prevails. The sound of earth in dire network returns a useful word. Mushroom spoors deliver delicate shape note song but it remains optional to hear. Even groundlings receive the touch of dark fertile find. Death contracts into a lesson on how business works. Nothing seems so available as spoor built for speed because nothing can be properly spared. Ground resurfaces at the buoyant point of growth, with great mathematics as proof. In swath and rood the spoors engage premium enterprise. Unions have proclamated the  hyphae  of  mycorrhizal fungi  joining with plant roots, almost like understanding. To grasp that means that brick there, and some full tilt bosses. In our dream, love has not yet lost.