Let filth cleanse
me. Let dynasty rule with patience. The
moon has motives, the cricket is silent, and justice wavers with time. I was consciousness absent of consciousness,
and Song appeared. I was out of sync,
aligned in a dimension, raising a brow at a mirror. I can’t figure anything out. Some things
seem apparent, and then unapparent: music for faith, souls exhibiting spirits, —
most pretend we never understood, its breathing. I keep with consciousness, trying to be
unconscious while conscious, mud and water, clarity and soaring, more art and
intestines. A lily on a leaf on a frog. A tile with a voice. A dream it shouldn’t
to get in. And mosaic as intuition.
It feels like living is dying slowly, absorbing wisdom, if fortunate,
passing knowledge on to family members. And a gallica on a roof, upon a wind,
into a palm. To have existed in
breath, to have developed faith, to have witnessed fruition – let it be so!
