Love speeds itself up, and love slows itself down. I’m searching in the prose to locate a rare gem. So conditioned by time, roses ripe for measure, tulips coloring dens, gardenias, such a scent, wafting into quarters. I’d sickle a root, damage a perception, capture a thought; losing pieces, Love, neither a grimace nor a smile. It means so little to say it; it means so much to live it. As an observer, in a vast world, returning to earth remedies. Pantomimes in measure. Ventriloquists by private universe. Novelists and cigars. Poets and muses. Life and her aches. It looks like an impasse. I pretend Love can fix all things—by mere presence, such a selfish thought. In trying to control it, I was controlled. In trying to resist it, I was seduced. It matters little what souls are doing, or it gives meaning. Mesmerized by arts, distance, ironically, love, life, and woes; and love is a trumpet blast, a faraway horn, a nearby nonchalance—such foolish binoculars, sweet and radical lenses, so deeply affected by appeal. A crazed moon; illuminating sunlight; in all the getting, in all the loses, we try to win Love. In some particular zone, silenced by reality, made vocal again through hope; so postmodern, part desiring pleasure, held tightly by duty, wandering mythologies, fueled by subterranean activity, and trying to distinguish between here, now and when. It’s meant to entertain, or serve as catharses, or art for the sake of art, or to seize the moment.
