It’s the way the world watches you through each crack and crevice. It’s the world that watches you beguiled inside your sight, this testimonial of chemistry, this scribble of quantum epithets. It scratches at your itches and lies through your teeth, a victorious laurel or funeral wreath. Every breath all rasp and ration, syllables slipping through flesh and bone, the cloister of the nasal and the brothel of tongue and lips evident in every prayer. The are a million million transitions, sums tippling from the tree roots, staggering calculations made entirely of the collateral coiling into infinity and exhaust. You build and boil in filament and plume, your secret only lasting as long as you burn.
It all keeps coming so you fill in your fire with whatever might fuel you, the hard won placeholder as you tack against the billowing moments, the star you are in the minded map. Immediacy always currency in the profane exchange of nows, the seeing only after the say so, the vow gone as it is voiced. Everything errs on the effin ineffable, this expression of scads of peculiar particulars, this stir of collaterals reaching out to the firmament. This slow inventory, counting down by unfathomables, blood and breath and the stubborn depths. The stagger, the struggle, the grudging not so fast. The grace despite the placement, the strive behind the trash.
It’s there as the sun beats heat into the scene so hard I can feel it in the shade of the porch, a soft opening of summer, a stamp upon the back of my skull. It’s there as the scenery is shaped by the laborious light, plaited grains and blazing chains and symbols shed to the syllabary, a loose conspiracy of various wings and halos and the usual harbingers hearking it all to hell. It’s that natal rhythm section bending your ear, all these lessons having evaporated years and years ago. No leads, no limburger, if it’s dancing then we dance. No primer, no paint, just this faint pulsing of the process. The tilt of the wind in what is missing.