another game to remind me of imagining movement but also real movement. proprioception but also body. touching

second game:

"hold infinity gently one two
 cradled in your mortal hands three four
 smile five six smile seven eight
 select anything at all smiling nine
 make it real like ten
 you are certain eleven
 you are correct twelve
 because you are thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty."

a game to remind me of imagining movement, my movement, in the gymnasium, on a day when i recovered despite being poorly rested and making undirected decisions, and surreal proprioception in the real world, touching

"player's doing and being
     everything and everywhere
 placing hand on stovetop
 leaping and standing still and running
 screaming and not screaming
 crawling while screaming and not screaming
 wearing own clothes and another player's clothes
 touching wall
 touching ceiling
 touching sky"

"player's
 infinite
 hands

this morning late at night i imagined being with you nobody in the dark room, wondering

could i be nobody with you without you or with anyone?

tomorrow after a sleep insufficient through noon and after i walk under a burning sun and before i reach out for my lost pride

i thought i don't want to write anything except in the dark room with you but what or who are you? only darkness? like sleep and dream your shadows

in the bright room my dark room anywhere, even here where the suns glow creeps, even tomorrow where the suns fledged and scorches cartops

my dark room even at night when everything is already dark and already room, my dark room on purpose, my dark room with everybody.

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
and when the final red key locks the magic door
     give me no score thing and ask no more.
who am i?

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?"