Friday, October 18, 2013

SAVAGE DANCER IN THE DANCE OF THE DETAILS OF A NIGHT LAUNDRY OF ONE’S MIND ABOUT NOTHING










What is the measure?

Various dangers emit a spit of contrition. It takes a long time to arrive at the point of poisoning. The night, in its orange bleakness, surpasses the sunrise in its utility. Language that ceases to be bent is best left unsaid. If you had seen or loved me, buried underneath the glass bulb of home, you would describe the inherent leisure of the library. We are moving the tomb into another country, one where one sees what one will, only with more clarity or doubt. We live by breaking our hearts in two. One half manages, the other mourns. Like hairs hung in the deep wind of space, we linger like the body shadow of comfort. You see the crowd of pilgrims as the ultimate absurdity:  they want not what they want but what they have to stay theirs. The disease in one eye speculates towards the other. They crowd the road like an empty bowl amongst dogs. It wasn’t made mad, it has a story, and that story is the madness meant to mean, meaning that there are worse facts to reason with than simple autonomy. It is inquiry by difficulty, bleeding along the edges of personal history and breach. The easy road stands a burning and languishes in the ash of its trodden making. Colors bleach out the makings, the wantings of measure. To talk of pleasure, we only babble about want. The longings pour down like so many gumdrops, unaware of their want. I want to be able to be alive as long as I can, but my wants prevent this so. We measure things by successes, not by defeats. One whistles up the side of the mountain and down the sound comes eventually. Timing is important, in the middle of things, arms hung down and swaying. One talks of truth like a nervous lover’s description of his beloved. Purpose has no purpose in the vicinity of purpose. It is elected as an absolute without. We are moving on the heart for awhile. We instill our purpose with a beat, a man stunk with gold. Riling through the rough patches, you, queen returned, nestle in the bed of the becoming.

We measure our things with our things, both body and soul.