the intensity of flying, upon
one good idea, driven to accomplish impossibility. the war to dismantle the
unattainable, the touch of the uncanny, to hear something inside ushering into
life. by the calling card, the interior phone, the mind’s xylophone. if a tear
for certain, upon a stream, so sincere, so passionate; like religious fervor,
fevered ecstasy, so apostatic, so alarmed to have esoteria—so scientific
as religious breath. one cave too many. one grave meaning more. one parent
standing out. at one dream, some vision, a soul soaring or vanishing from life
and reality. so much too mysterious, a canvas under the surface, like ceramic
potteries, ghosts and wheels, seated neatly. the dearest insanity, is conundrum
insanity, a riddle in a frame, the outer regions inside; like ball bearings,
some mounting and stirring—a good deal of spinning; the mountain’s eye, the
peak of the solar system, the heist in the old town as it goes wrong in Boley. so
much a twist the unexpected, the dreamscape, the meadows, in orbit, into a
shadow. non-passivists, aggressive spiritualists, the silence of the day, the
pain of the evening, the ascension of the night. only minutes into an
experience, something more critical, more than any experience in history—so short
a term, so distasteful the inclination, with an unspoken rule—falling into
alignment, falling into ascension—the transcendence of the interior.
