From bellow to below

We treat the eyes as if it were another’s and the earth like some latent moon beneath the grass, when beneath the feet are not a thousand million waves resonating from times elapsed, but also merely the dirt itself whose brown resonance is that of your immediate concern or feigned insouciance, betrayed by the very sense your toe nails initiate in their crusty tonality. Bending each end of your body to abide in your breath the space allotted by the restrained violence wringable from others who likewise retain their communicable gregariousness, appearances that themselves suggest an essential earnestness, however alien and inconceived, for one to meet another one, without needing any sightful mention of what we share as the earth. In our repose a shade turns in the shadows that the cloud the sun imitates when we reflect our inner suns in our outer eyes, and we speak not with words but with our very placement here on earth, structured like so many frills along the quilt of our collaborative humanity, each thread a word issued at the flick of an eye to make contact between such disparate visions that one hand cannot afford another just yet, unconscious beams that is like weather cast as pattern on the final blanket that we each form serendipitously univocally. We engage our own survival atop this surface like earthly crusts making for hammocks we mistake with each weave for trees, and so in our inadvertent stances put unfair pressure along one edge and cause the whole fabric to bolt towards the place pressured by feet that have lost the hands that were threading the very craft the then unanimous whole, and in one faulting person an entire engine begins to sink to the bottom that we are forced to understand if only just to crawl on all our fours back to some airy surface.

Sword and Brush

The pen and the sword by their own sides, departed from previous hand, as like one finger that bends to play its own melody upon a stringed tool built from the fibers of a further removed planet, that with each strum there upon is elected a new series of indeterminable phrases. Now how to bring the two back to oneself, after having loosed them upon the world for such a cause as to incur the pains of a future whose shadow is the same shade a flame flicks into the sun, the latter which waves to life those terrestrially aimed plants that our hearts lovingly though with their respective private faults in minutes, to a life bound to a boundless glamor of guilt that one who has if having tasted storied blood can but take one step short from standing back on that sword’s edge that has proved itself sharp by each letter catapulted to the ascent of rancorous walls a vision once espied in its youthful wanderings, the very quivered trails that defined an era of emotions no longer but still defining the present one has lost in the that-much expanse of the appeal forwards into the past. It is as if the leisure one has gained in languor exercised by right of having done a day’s work of a previous days hollowed out demands, this totality of catch up that calls itself the work week thereby a whole unit of life is plotted upon a single hand’s single pointer that brings to a head thinking itself, insofar as it captivates meaning’s sight as if thought and a life were a stone that could be carved by any man, as it would be a mistake to confuse any man with any other man. In this identity of one and another, there the brush and sword sweeps their elaborate styles and all times are warped into one focality, before myself that sorts out his life not by any measure, but now by that pattern one can read onto the other, like a paper like an air.

Much of me

An earth of rivers some part of me has found, and I make of that small offering a raft over which no wind blows but which winds through the world itself, winding it up, never to release it to its ownmost devices. Irked and worried wretched, I can now wriggle, having found some tension to turn to my advantage, and the entire scope of the windy scape before me is blasted open and found behind the shield of it all is nothing but more and more air. There is too much now, of this me that tends the garden of water his pen sculls its craft through, marinating the whole routine of bending waves into contours of a universal yet specific figure of contours themselves, whose own main line is my agency itself, with its mouth and hand, organs of no set function but to create futural patterns. Yes, you could say I have been relit, with the understanding that at my core is where some ignition of the notion of a start is to be found. No externality, no altruism of doubt, just the mere amplity of a will that challenges the pithiness of selfishness, by arguing into being another angle from which a brand new planet can be sighted, giving to the present currents a vision to reflect everything but itself, for from now all could burn, even the flame that dances itself, until nothing but some point can be made. This is the challenge I call the void of my past, seeing it as nothing transposed into the future possibility of a waterfall of steam bottled into the funnel of my heart equal to the world of everything tangent to it in this elaborate notion known as the present.

Open House preparation

I listen to Alice Sarah Ott, sip a green tea poured brewed in my cup lined with blue centerless flowers. I’m more on than at my desk, descending the piano with a stomp whose plural form is missing in my own missing imagination. I have been tasked for what feels like the last and middleth time with putting on a show for the higherups shadowing through hearsay from the parents that will in fact be the ones in the room in three days. It is Open House Season and on Friday I was jumped by my supervisor onto camera, recorded for review from the Head Mistress who will upload it onto the Drive for all to peruse and judge for themselves the judgment already branded over the dented aura that has perched atop me, awaiting further correction by those two and then the company owner herself. It is because, all of it, is due the lack of hard toys that I am the one expected to provide, when the school itself does not or cannot. Were life a matter of simply doing what one loves, certainly life’s own titled would be my own. But as it stands before me, whose priority is unquestioned by those who also even further stands before me, life involves that dreaded and misabused word of my father’s, “sacrifice.” I had previously fashioned in a dreamlike sequence in which I all translate in the morning, teach in the afternoon, psychoanalyze in the evening, and occasionally play music on the weekends day to day. Now a day is but a day, incited by a sleep whose contour is that of the revealed depth of my pillow molded into place by the water left to dry lingerly after my showers after putting away dinner, called to mind to inform me that a form of progress does exist, somewhere. But how does one keep silent as I do, yet attain a voice whose room would be a square permitted only by the voices of an age I would deserve, such as that of my own burned behind the flagging banners of ambitions that once held it up in a day bright and positively burning. It is but now when I look at the books to my right and think of instead copying down into my notebook some poem canonically recommended for an amulet that once found me in my efforts as I hunched over the text myself, spending all day from day to day fashioning my heart out of every shade of the page from every angle I could put myself up from and into, rather than merely looking over at Crane’s wind-tarnished face. I’ve got to get back to my Open House planning, hoping somehow I can find day in my time to brandish another meaning I once had, when I had the alterity to be simultaneously myself and someone else.