There is a disconnect between this, all this, and myself in real life.  A developing, broadening disconnect.  There have been signs suggesting such for a while, but they were signs that I chose to ignore since they were indications that appealed more to my emotions than my reason, more to feeling than to knowing.  But last week I could no longer resist acknowledging the rift as the true dimensions of its extension and  the rate of its expansion came clearly to me in a vision.  And that’s precisely it: visions.  I am being whelmed over by visions once again.  They come especially as I run, alone, in the cold, at sunset in the cemetery (which I often refer to as Dreamland).  And with the visions are voices or, perhaps, just a single voice.  It’s hard to distinguish whether the whispers are from a lone warbler or are a blended chorus provisioning themselves in unison.

Last Thursday while running, a whisper: “It’s a lie.”   Altered reality, heightened perception ensued.  Before I could respond with unmoving lips “What’s a lie?”,  the vision.  Kicked-in.  Kicked down the door of unknowing.  I ‘saw’ things even as my heart protested they couldn’t be true.  Dark things.  Things that must and have already begun to change my life.  Yet in this vision there was also hope, of sorts, I suppose.  The voice (or another voice? voices?) whispered: “You are a king, you know.”  That while running between row upon row of graves.  Goosebumps.  Immediately my gait lengthened, my back straightened, my eyes searched everything everywhere, and the pain, the pain that has chronically accompanied me on these runs for pretty much the last 9 months, went away.  What did I see?  A pair, two brothers, both Norsemen, running the very same ground as I was upon.  They were ancient yet alive, shaggily-clothed and running in a snowstorm.  Intrepid they were and disregarding of all comfort. And then I realized …  they were running through the winter!  I mean literally that: I discerned their intent to ‘run through’ the cold and darkness of the grisly season unstoppingly.  Suddenly a shift of vision.  I lost track of one of the ancient ones.  And I ‘became’ the other one.  I saw myself as I ran as the lone brother that was left.  Left behind.  Left afar.  Left to run.  Through the winter.  Unto Spring.  And then the feeling of being a genuine king flooded my consciousness.  And an enlightenment followed: I, in visionary embodiment of that ancient Norse king, have been left to seek.  Simply seek.

i.

the tree fell for no reason at all
it did it just said “goodbye”
and dropped over dead
with a thump as I looked on
and shuddered with dread.

ii.

a group of three lightning bugs
convened last night.
how do I know?
they lightning-ed (no thunder)
though.

iii.

(?) ever notice how tombstones’
birds sit (thereupon) perched,
tails extending over polished edge
—so innocuous, until down the sides slides the bird
shit, i’ve noticed (this repeatedly) that tombstones are
manure magnets for the foul
of fowl and I do think they do
do it intentionally.