The fire river is filled with flaming mud. Days are
filled with rain. Water washes wilderness.
I’ve been lower—thrumming through papers—jotting notes about the
table. I imagine it’s harder in us—the
silent furnace—the constant impressions. We’ve become familiars, accustomed to
losing life, redeemed in gaining life. You know the weather. You ignore the
rainstorm, the warnings, you add to the ocean—its flooding, its dangers. In the
distance, I see an aura. It’s huge. It’s maniacal. It’s sane. It’s crazy. It’s lucid.
It bounces back and forth. A lady is
a miracle. Having a child is unimaginable, speaking metaphysically. We know the
mechanics. We don’t see the esoteria. We insist on carnality. Sound traveling
underwater. A baby acting rowdy. A mother filled with eagerness. And time keeps
inching forward. The nights are filled with heat. Air is getting tighter. Moonlight
has reached by essence. The fire river is filled with flaming mud. I’ve learned through the haunting. I never
believe in the haunting. I just remind myself, it’s a haunting. The attempt to
explain is excruciating. Many dance around the sequences, permitting time to
reveal itself, nothing worse than offending the Beginnings.
The way you held eternity—the corners you bent—the way
you insisted upon esoteria: the rituals, the damages, the pills, the science,
the extraterrestrial at a given second. To have loved the life, until it
suffocated, living in an ape’s silence. The feeling of the water, the baptism
of the art, when nothing is left, one has a gimmick. If to define the existence
of the haunting—is to lose the paranoia of the haunting, they need a certain
language. It’s easy to write without concretism. It’s harder to gain
correlation. When nothing is left, we have a beating heart. To sit watching it.
To speak conundrums. To come close to accepting bull headedness. Or to believe
as if something so unique to existence has occurred; the sweet anger, the
sweaty miles, the roads are fraught by magicians. The mystic is a movie. To know
for it, with it so estranged, whilst one is mantic. So insistent, a raging
ocean, a flooded city. The feeling will find you. Life will become defined. You
will hate others possessing mystery. The calmness of the manic. The essence of purity.
Softer sounding surrealness! I must
confess—it was a ride. We begin to
insist on human centeredness, some type of participation, defined in the
papers.
You prove existence daily. You have sullen secrets. It
has become exciting again: the happenstances, the triggers, the writing, the
notes, the laughs, the smirks. Such aging—sensing another has gained
immortality, given permission to pursue until the target becomes insane. I say
it’s insidious. A mind must be powerful to withstand deliberate assaults. The mixing
of the countries—the courtside profanity, the assertion of sacredness—inside the
beauty of the misunderstanding: so oxymoronic, none as strong, where it angers
the target is resilient. I would be
pressed against myself to become the space in which you dance; such a shell, so
delicate, so fragile—running across sand, trying to feel normal, after this
ride, there isn’t a break!
