I try to unveil you. I feel damaged. By arts by grace. Inmost flickering. An unlit match. So confused about it. To see it has grit,
history, a fevered future. Such a yoke. So great those woes. So significant to souls. A mirrored response. A need to slow pace.
Stoic glory. It was by a whisk. Life had a present. To persevere. So tribal. So attuned. Realizing. & pursuing imbalance. What a
woman adores is misunderstood. A soul & flyleaf. Ink & memories. To have something askew, as it seems, such an inrush of
complexities. To shimmer. To sprinkle glitter. Such meaning at it. So great the falling into it. So destroyed by what sits in
one’s bosom. Brooding over diamonds. Long to lose diamonds. So preferred—not for essence, something provided. Too grand
an aberration; so abstruse; to wonder what normal looks like. Parts seem blighted. The garden seems under siege. The agony is real.
The mountain has shifted. Maye to edit a theory, as time shall tell, it seems unsteady. One has invested heart-earth to prove a
point; one has shed personhood to signify excellence. We ask – We don’t ask. Either/
or is by grace of person. But the muse isn’t
the person. The muse is the craft. They blur into each other. To know by finesse; to sing a song; to sense too much; to wonder about
the horizon. In a furious fever, to refuse remedy, or some turn of events, so cultural, to sense a mixture of hierarchy; so alchemic
at times, pulling tears, tugging feelings: Why should fate deign to us? To manage the madness, to unlock ink markings, so thrown,
so cursed, so blessed in between – one says, it's all partial, part way, with ulterior motives. Writing becomes it own demons.
Such as prescience is required. Those seconds in between space & time; those dear realities. Such casual surprise, such a
skillset—as making it by waves, to feel both attached & detached—in part to take something, in part to impart something—a
slight concern, with a need to redeem an emotion. The question is: Can we handle the cruelty of fate. In opening to pieces &
fragments, in soothing a great ache, without attachment, we prove robotic creatures—albeit, fraught by a warming kiln. The muse
has yielded. The rot of the beauty—the beauty of the rot. The tiles as witness, the waves as an audience, those pains as
glorious redemption. To feel rinsed. To love in accordance. To have a particular ideal. To meet unsaid ideal. To meet eye-to-eye, to
feel face-to-face—better, to capture heart-to-soul. So confused by it. Reading parts of Numbers—skipping into lights, the muse watching.
