August 11, 1:30am

I take a pair of tablets and now I am writing. You can see the moving. The flag in the wind and two monks, and....now it hits me like a punch in the gut....two monks, one arguing for wind other for flag, master comes in and says no, only minds moving. Flapping his sleeves, shaking his staff.
But only mind moving here. Winds here lie down deep, below the grass. Thinking of the gross nebulus across the skies, the walking production of lights, the lick of the lips, the glance along the side, the snap of the fingers. In the sand, in the sand and nothing to write except the outlines of the body: the indenture of leg, the concave scoop of ass. I drag my tongue across the sand, it is a ritual, I shake a hand at the wind and waters, twisting my spine to remember how to dance. In the sea, the body leaves imprints that lasts like voices, spoken then closed forever.
Instead, a hallowed ground, a sacred place for flowers. In this holy piazza, stones curved inward from pacing feet, the tinny echo of prayers that ripen like dried photographs. The seductive glances of vases in the sunlight, faithless women, hanging bluebells, gardenias and mimosas, across from basilicas decorated heavy with the scent of rosemary.
There are strange weapons shouting lights in the hallways; what are the contents of foreign closets and attics that look out over the fields that once salivated battles? Rubbing wet cunt of a pen across the open, reaching tongues of pages, an unprocreative ecstacy, a deliberative moan.
Name the lines, express the punching at my gut, the outward tug at my ribs, know that this is not me speaking, engulfed behind the chalky cloud. Enemies hiding cruel jokes in shelves tucked beneath the grounds, hidden names of value beyond all property, behind the dark of the woods, i go looking and discover a punch in the mouth. He lifts his hand to his face, finds something unfamiliar there at last, and smiles to himself. Rising from his seat, his spine springs taut, the ceiling reaches for his crown, which finally cradles his head like an architectual madonna.
Stop. Rise to get two more tablets. What is the source of this burning nag that I wish to carve out like the guts of a cattle? Swallow. Again, punch to gut, a spread of burning flushes my face below my eyes. Silence, the sound of crickets returns. Alas.
Sturm und drang. Peux-je délinéer une carte pour trouver le coeur de choses ? Je commencerai avec les schémas et travaille ma façon dans. Die lange Reichweite. An extended limb, a cartographer's gaze that translates as hunger. Name me a prey. Eating: nothing, thus being devoured.
She taps her forehead with a handkerchief, lifting the moisture up, away. Sturm und drang. Crossing over, turning the shroud inside out, a bird's wing, opening, gentle, safe.
Outside in the trees I hear the rustling of a sage that walks in a too familiar way. He knows my name and taps on the glass. I cannot sleep until I acknowledge him.
He asks me my name.
Again and again, he asks for my name.