Cleave close to the carbon, the coming salvos are meant to do more than shake rattle and roll. Attend to the poem of self, keep the roots on and in the loop, the clay ever lit with spit and spirit. The magic may flow, the magic may fizzle, you change it up and stay the same. That’s all you from the blue blazes to the brick house. Built among the blessings, ever striving across oblivion and bardo, enduring and eminent in the house of night. You and the forest of the fading moon, you and the song unfurled into the wanton winds.
There’s a notion I never get close to, something ruthless and sublime, something always offstage or hiding behind a curtain. Out in the night, here in the room, carried in with the mud caking the boots of words. Always traces, always footprints, always conversations abruptly departed as I step into the scene. Hunger and want and varietal ill blowings going on, chasing phrases and microdosing depth, the fool of the ten thousand partings still nursing dead darlings. The seal of kiss or fingertip silencing the idea before it can quite find the mind. I lose and lose and still won’t look.
The days all misfire before they are spent, carousel and Ferris wheel and these gears chewing up chains and scenery. Something met somewhere on the downbeat of the middle, a trust rekindled or an apostasy that fizzles, passions stacked like salad plates wherever the mood contends. Maybe there is a magic witnessed, maybe candles are lit for the ritual, maybe a spell is cast. From memory to the unknown to the forgetful end of the atomic bond. I see you in the sky, I feel you through the earth. The words wander around, the framework fixed in place.
