Time travel is now. a real responsibility. as in. here I am. through the bliss. of jet-powered flight. freshly transmuted. from the 20th century. and eager for conversation

Night is become day. and day is night. now. in the cinemaesthetic. trance. how weirdly it plays. the divine. nature. in each of us. yes the meaning is. each and all the many. billions of us. one by one

Bringing forth the old garments. the home-cooked food the drinks. we shall ignite. everything we have come to understand. could be medicine.could be poison. from mouth to breath. breath to speech. speech to singing. we could choose an old hymn

Finding the portal. the entry. the Arcadia community in Kingsport. the getting onward. getting off and getting out. place and boatyard. to which this time-travelerreturneth.yetagain

I am thinking about how the green grass. all over town needs cutting. in November nearly Thanksgiving. and my heart skips several beats

It was a peaceful childhood. the whole wilderness of the world. more alive than alive in the uphill alley. to Sevier Terrace between Elmwood. and Mt Ida Place. birds singing galore in the dandelion summertime. then the fire flaming rustling leaves. their russet fragrance comes to me. our winter sled-run eating icicles. the many secret hiding places. soul spots for children 

Beneath the mighty Elm. Tree of Life. standing steadfast and faithfully still.
in the McCurry’s front yard

A strange and palpable thing it is. to stand here on the Great Warrior’s Path.

and feel the endemic planetary fear. the raging rage. of the whole wide world

of national and international weirdness. as it is today 

When I was a Tennessee child I wondered. if I could ever or ever would.

navigate to this neighborhood. from far far beyond the beyond. and trace my first steps again. in their cosmic. celestial.plenitude

How it could be that something. anything might for ever remain. the remains of the beloved. the beloved remains. I could cry now real tears. as I could in those. white clover honeybee. stingingdays

And I stand here now. on the pinnacle of present consciousness. working with. what is recognizable. and what is not. going to be

Daniel Boone followed this very stream.
by this old house on West Sullivan Street. this is the very truth. behind the crumbling asphalt car dealership.

behind the old Coca-Cola Bottling Company. but I figure Ol’ Dan’l was a very smart feller.
and just naturally recognized.
the primordial buffalo trails here.

not yet to mention.
the paths indigenous.did Daniel. where I can remember riding a red bicycle. in the new light of blazing day gazing. up the exploration-al side
of the Reedy Creek bridge. vast vast vast.
the frontier it was. how little we did know. and how limitless


But it’s okay Johnny. you’ve not missed out completely. the backyard lightning bugs. have turned into these. instantaneously worldwide. communication bits. sharing the flashing global.
resonance just now. this spheric resonancethat is very strange. and so little understood. in the fullness of time

My New York New York friend Judy.just wrote me. a late autumn in Mannahatta. a hard place to live and a hard place to leave.
as she says.

Have something that might be of interest to you. on the Himalaya and Appalachian mountain building.I am thinking of the Ordovician snails.

sealed in calcite limestone on the Hogohechee riverbank.beside the sacred island of the People

Yes. so it goes. this time. traveling. Remembrance. this hope. I surrender

John Dotson
November 2017