Mind-straw reins—it never died: I keep seeing chairs. Restitching seams, begging big ass questions. What in life was painted? And how horribly Nietzsche died. We never mention Camus. So fervidly contrite—living like elasticity, facing plastic morals. And Love, I can feel it, too metaphysical, so we ignore our guts. December comes with an upsurge of charity. We love Jesus! Each tree is decorated. (I’m pointing at something.) Daymares. Nightsong(s). Nothing like koan love, hands trembling, songbirds, inner lockets, why can’t we win? I was unorganized. I never saw a human being. Indeed, to unveil Love was to have disappointed myself. [but]—days in limbo, to see a stranger in his mirror, to notice features, to tread a thin ass line. With pain becoming a legacy, depression an empire, malaise like tangling our guts: some are experiencing redemption, the end hast to be ascension. So jazzy in beliefs, sheer blues through drums, tender to meet the beginning. Such a primal aching, to have seen glory, too special to claim it: (when we might doubt experience!) I grip a lectionary. I lean into faith. I’m not adverse to logic, preferring reason, at times, they seem to disappoint. Souls tried to fortify standards—creating maxims, seething with searching for absolute truth, to make arts into axioms, so inadequate, only parts stuck with us.
