To race that way. To wait on dice. To dream in
visions. So great to adore it, to love it, with fury & honor in us. Deeper
turquoise woes, jasper skies, jasmine scented. Patterns of behavior, to notice
& say nothing, to move like motion. If it lives it dies. Each has a right:
to freedom, honesty, life & pain. Each has beauty of purpose, to extract
what works, satiated by orgasm. Some were genius—fraught by a calling, driven
to answer it. In
winning there’ll be sacrifice; in losing there’ll be
an opening. In managing depression, a soul might become enraged, made furious,
just one breath. Soul fire. Soul aches. To invert it to live it. All I wanted—All
I needed—it became complicated. I imagine time is coming back, to ask a wish,
to loosen pieces and mantles. Art of its mask, divinity of its dance, a mind
will trick itself. Out of darkness we make lights; out of skies the falling
rains; from earth to clouds & one dream. Nothing
but itself. Something observes consciousness. So twain in existence at all
times. Parts of self, unleashed, distracted by itself. Tragic souls watched,
made infinity, dressed theorems, & drove metaphysics tightened by logic. To
become provoked, to listen to itself, to nudge an answer. Indeed, too rich, too
much, seeking reason above assertion. Imagine self. To lose self in analyses.
