Journey to the beginning, come with me to the sea when fish with legs first played hopscotch plopping on the brimstone rocks, it was brother eat brother to survive, but oh the heartache when Cain shoved the blade in his mirror’s back, and from his head grew a tree.
The fallen, angels, are trapped in the bodies of trees, waiting for a time to awake and be set free. The trees speak, the levels, the planes, of reality, overlap into a forest of evergreens.
The kings of the forest, roots clenching crucified toads, deep in slumber, begin to awake. They arouse birds, as they sing to me. At the cruiser helm, the angels, flying inside tree spirits, start to open their long creviced lips, they speak of star dust and babies, channeling the living energy from each galaxy, they draw maps of the way back, painted very intricately on each leaf and in deep mosaic strokes soak color of spring painting the flowers, maps of galaxies home, on the heads of frogs and bees, messengers of the kings.
The trees, eyes deeply marooned behind manes of moss and bark, stir, with leaves and flowers along the path, raining down, the wind bristling as I walk by.
With deep roots and stems blooming, I notice Shakespeare writing his play on a toadstool with some Zen monks who have plastic hands inside their pockets, their hands are glowing, full of sunshine, underneath their clothing. The path opens up allowing me through, and closes behind me. Tongues dip in the palette of Nature’s blossom, and lick along the walls of the forest where lost thoughts grow in abundance, confusing the adventurer, and darker diseased things lay in lairs of the spider queen’s woven cocoons and caves of earth demons.
I spot a feline smiling at me, “Who are you?” I ask.
The grinning cat replies, “Who am I? I am the cheap-desire Cat, but you will not understand, feed me your clock’s head and maybe then will be when.”
“The camera’s rolling!” says Socrates.
“The next shot, a close up, may want to fix your shirt by the way, will be from that camera by the tree stump, Wait! Don’t look at it! Just act natural!”
“Oh boy Oh boy!” squeals Dr. Freud, “This has the makings of an instant blockbuster best seller! Your movie will sell millions! Now I want you to really play your part, an old ranch hand with a sketchy traumatic past, a drifter who has found a…. what should it be? True love? Married to a tree? But a new take, time traveling to the land of the dinosaurs romance mystery! Try some action shots. Now for instance you’re Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road, when out of nowhere Darth Vader attacks! Now ready 1 – 2 – 3 Action!”
I see the angel fire, flaming hearts, burning from deep in the woods, a doorway to another place, opening gateways to different stars. Patches of time end and erode, to unravel the patterns in their bark, I am mesmerized looking at them. Legends of lore, all of the answers, to the secrets of the universe, all the time, written right here. I read the scrolls of wood listening to the birds speak, casting spells, trapping forest dwellers who venture too far.
As I pass the totem poles, ancestor ghosts turn their heads and cheer, “Welcome Son of Bob!” they greet with longing. They laugh and welcome me, sensing an end, finally! “Happy Eirthday!” they yell, picking up the scent of exciting jubilee.
“Jason!” a feeble voice says from behind a giant iridescent head mushroom stalk. I turn and see lights dancing further in the bog, leading away from the path.
“Who are you?” I ask to the mesmerizing lights luring me in the distance, I see nude women in the trees, flowers budding with pink and red surface moss blooming out their mouths, burning with smoldering fire inside their pulp. They shift from side to side, uncomfortably waiting in line begging for relief. Moaning, the wood deep inside, they call to me, legs smooth bark, onto the tree branches they scale in a collage of beauty, flowers, moist, open up, stirring, surround me, each flower, soaking, a seductress, each tree a castle of make believe. Pollen out their mouths, powdery puffy lips calling for the bees, attracting them, attacking them, “It’s your Eirthday! Lead us Home! Please, Jason, Please!” they beg and plead.
Faces merge changing, faces of long dead Egyptian frogs submerged in tattered head dresses, hawk and lions bloom budding and guarding the ancient tombs.
I hear all the ancient ancestors walking beside me. I am on my way to becoming born.