Thursday, December 17, 2009


It is these ink-stained fingers, never deft enough or strong enough, but endlessly working still. It is these halos of light and fog, the dull lift of vapor parting lips, the endless accommodations to the workings of this most native tongue. If you could fly, the world would swallow all your other possibilities. If you could speak, the world would listen, rapt and breathless in the longed for spell of voice. The questions beg the question that the answer can't evade. All these riddles unravel, leaving you like the clinging of a cotton robe shed before the bliss of a steaming shower. Everything washes over you at once.

The text itself is at fault. There are never words explicit enough for the glaring eyes of absolute truth. They approach life with caution, drawing scent from the air, nerves seething at every flick of shadow unspun from the moon. Language bolts when it is too close to being the thing it describes. The implications of this complicity in being is more light and heat than any comfortable fire ought to provide. Escape is the only option that will not wind up singed. So the explanations always need further explanation, the seduction of culture the closest the human heart may ever get towards the eternal. Sentience finds mirrors hiding everywhere.

So the words turn you, they scrawl across the heat and earnestness of your flesh, scratching every itch with dense, luscious hieroglyphs. They open up your thoughts to the notions inscribed upon the glimmer and drawl of your life. They mingle with your blood and ghost, becoming only yours. This, then this, then the next, then the other. The very alchemy of being suspended then enriched by removing every detail. Expunging the evidence being the confusing proof that faith requires, becoming special through the compilation of endless denials. Someone whispers that god is only the kindest of coincidences. Someone once says your name, and forever that whisper is upon your lips. Every sentence needing that one last look.

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