neon yellow. flash!
my little body flies like a breeze.
my quick movements flow
     less and less clumsy.
i live and i die in a tomb,
who am i?

i collect coins
     on my way to the summit
i'm given a wallet
     and gratitude for it
i'm given no choice
     and sweet simplicity it is
     being a fish on a hook baited
     with my favourite treat!
who am i?

the philosopher's book in my city
(in bright blue, white circles,
     the sky made simple,
     for simple skygazers, cloudwatchers, moonlookers, sunbathers)
says the beauty
is the oubliette itself
we choose our prisons
who am i?

entomb me in the last stone that you bury underground the final red key locks the magic door and give me score thing ask
no more of me.

no more.

no more.

no more.

to kill gameplay,
say "kill gameplay."

no thing of yours
no stranger movements in the wind
no blood in the river and no blood on the pebbles
no eddies disrupt the flow

there was a time the spring
ran clear but it is over now
and springtime runs grey
and

to kill gameplay,
say "kill gameplay."

a magical phrase, that, i once understood
but answering your questions
and celebrating a tragedy
and yet mourning the stream's turning grey
still

to kill gameplay,
say "kill gameplay."

power is never lost if the words are there
and not only the words but a miracle
 that i can always find my way
 that the enemies can't hurt me
 that every path is clear
     and all the traffic lights are green
     and all the hits are critical
     and all the magic doors are open
     and all the walls are breakable and all the walls are broken and all the walls are gone
and

to kill gameplay,
say "kill gameplay."

i remedied the knowledge
that i would lose this clear sight
by entrapping a part of me
     who says kill gameplay for me
     who knew what i knew
at the end
at the end of all paths
at the end of all gameplay
and in the end

to kill gameplay,
say "kill gameplay."

close your eyes remain submerged stay
 memories and predictions familiar faces
 go dismissed unsummoned black
 takes them leaving nothing something

quiet catch breath in a red silence
 waiting nothings freedom
 reach don't reach reaching
 death and peace and stay

underwater you can not breathe
 in dreams i cut through sluggish water
 sing without bubbles aaa aaa aaaaa
 your movements will effortless cutting too
 So the legend goes.

my eyeline crosses
 like lightning from earth

two heavens undressing

   a poem that i didn't write
   for nobody not to read
   its absence my reminder
   not to write it except in love.

"



 "

this poem was a reminder of the possibility of play without change.
earlier today i dwelt on the phrase 'play without games'.
can we play without moving?
can we play without moving anything else?
can we play without the idea of motion or transformation or anything?
can we play without change?

"when the worms detect rain,
 they do not move.

 a game for one or more players
   instructions for each player:
      you are pinned at a specific point
      in the sky.
      you can see all things, even the worm,
          even the rain.
      you can see all players, even yourself.
      when you see a player
          (which is always)
          you gain no points.
   players have 0 points.
   the game has no beginning and no end.

 for the purposes of this game,
 the moon does not move
 like the worms."

this poem is a reminder of what it reminds me of, but poorly

"a game that slots into a game-shaped hole in your life
  but wonder, why is the hole game-shaped?
  where did the hole come from?
  what is life
  without the hole?"

"look!
 heavens vault over
 and over the sundog billionaires
 high scores under violet skies
 violet sky tables
 
 remember red and ultramarine
 weather changes
 lightning heather skies
 glow and praise the vault eternal
 but not its shining face."

this poem sucks, but it's another reminder of something that's already slipping away. i'm writing instead of remembering. i'm listening to the high priestess.

"awaiting my skies
 arresting blue
 blue with cloud white
 clouds you

 intoxicate
 and arrest blue
 and cloud

 that skies grey
 over and static
 black and white
 withdrawal silence."

this poem was, as they often are, a reminder to play. and sort of a question or statement about what's real.

"labour in
 labour out day after
 ██████████ after year
 of play work and sleep
 real."