the fever becomes a routine:
sizzling, psychosomatic, living pictures.
like cryptic rites, Sunday classes,
studying the fever.
undergoing the pendulum, faceless
determination, stronger sentiments.
the fever is like cinema, speaking
to itself, the playwright becomes the interior.
to love the fever, insomuch as to
fear the fever, never fully balanced inside—if to get close, becomes
disturbance.
sometimes the inner séance becomes
a banshee show; the rebirth is in knowing with nothing to give; more to feeling
than seeing as it becomes itself.
the renaissance sounds ghostly.
there is always an answer. even if the answer is ghostly.
if to dare to speak it, despite its
fertility, despite its truth, most would deny it, despite, being solid.
the fever is inside, probing the
land, some tension in its understanding. filled with mystery, fuller in
disguise, each episode comes with delusions—seeming real, giving life, and
taking sanity.
so filled with sensory, so
senseless, so emphatic, to experience—is to be affected.
like a familiar fireplace. each
flicker is unique—writing its own critique. the fever is never the essence of
what it becomes.
the settee-blue-moon, becoming its
texture, without its skin. can’t place it on a telescopic plate, can’t ignore
it once it comes, and can’t conquer it—once it appears.
the days are to memories, to place
an abstract into concrete terms, too elusive to remain defined.
the fever has stardom, like a
professional thief, the becoming of foxes.
the fever is ageless. it’s still
growing. it becomes perception—outside of perception.
to have perceived it, the
imperceivable, with concrete being so much liquid. to come to it, deceived by
it, trying to unwrap it.
