Till
then, a task far harder still awaits thee: thou hast to feel thyself
ALL-THOUGHT, and yet exile all thoughts from out thy soul (The Voice of Silence, 66).
I’m nowhere, adrift but everywhere, that casual atmosphere—as
pardoned his life, accustomed to ink, buried in den-man-ship. I’m ever afar, as
closer a dimple, so lost—so found: that beautiful swan, that achy fever, those
countless wasps—as saw his face, that “fixity of mind,” abased but mystic a
dream—to stress but stress-less, or move as unmoved, while cringing
tranquility: such musicality, as purified attentions, those cycles of ages, by
fire that “Guardian Wall”: as terrors to live, that seventh gate, to pass such
blissful entrance; as moreover a flee, or captured a fly, our blues on repeat;
that deep sorrow, as losing by wins, that grin that gorgeous sorrow. (I must to
find it, that shore-less ocean, as holding your grace—by liberation, that taint
to skies, our entrails knee-high at excavations—that frontier, those mahogany
ships, our faces pictured by stars—as drove his mind, that day she left, that
ensuing kef—to seize a beast, trekking through rain—our shinning faces—at cores
distorted, by inward waves, such language to wisdom: that horrid friend; that
loveless instructor; that terrible confidant—fraught with eagerness, in an
eager-less swirl, as purity of paradox; while loved our souls, to leave his fold,
at mirrors flogging impressions; that make-believe, as carrying reality, those
scolded climaxes; to see an image, bathing in waters, as fully dressed: that
ink-ish disdain, pushing rivers, a beaver to a dam; as disguised her face, that
flurry of dragons, while pointing towards brains). We reappear, sitting aside
ourselves, peering at strangers: that deep ecstasy; our thisness as thatness, those
trumpets so silent—as moving by ponds, that static motion, such casual
extensions; to plummet his core, or plumage such arcs, afforded one kiss to
transcend. I though it us, to face our faces, encased in a pit of faces—by
shorn discernment, that cryptic fire, our stomachs growling.
