Where are the levels at? Stepping outside, cool breeze across cheek, breaking spider web across my chest, proving nothing. Rocking, the waters, rocking, i let my hand drift off the edge of the gunnels and it traces my path in the water. The waters remember and help me home. Will the sun show the way in the morning? Will it ever show its face again? I wonder if i could see the turning of the spheres, understand their meaning. I want to shout to the stars, pass on a message that will hang in time, for eternity. Hanging upside down, never falling, the pressure on the eyes and cheeks, knowing a drop is imminent. Up, down goes the rocking horse. Who is trampling whom? Whose voice is penetrating the amplifier's skin? Can i chop thru a blocked road? His fingers attempt to calm themselves; he knows patience is in order.
And what is science? and what is art but the shocking neglect of everything else? Describe a transgression: what did one speak to the other. How do two shapes meet into one. The sounds of strings: cello, two violins--stretching out something that suggests hand-written script. The experiences come first, blind, wild, sharp; understanding comes after, enlightening, dull, nullifying.
The bottle on the table, empty, spinning, making a face in all directions. My blood is full, cold, and absent. What is the tragectory of blindness, madness, cruelty, dishonesty, shame, desire, sadness. Is the hair cool? Is the skin warm? Arrangement, may I have that right at least in their words? Repeating, again and again until it is right. Touch, repeated until perfect.
Waking, what is the sun like? Where does it enter? Is it closed off or welcomed in?
Is there any sleep to produce a waking? What are the sounds in your street below? Was it ever there?
I swear that it is gone while you sleep.
Counts on its fingers the ways to keep quiet.
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Words on a trampoline. Bounced about until they feel roughed up, used and spent.
Falling over the edge, shaking, exhausted.
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