What grand conceits engage us now this morning in our Knowledge! The gardener tools the soil dumbly an early light breathes over the landscape of your thigh, I wake up, undead, again simply myself without shoes. And so we must imagine ourselves, against blood's dictation rivers coursing through tunnels toward incredible distractions. Each day will hold its wonder visited some say be death and dread, Yes, death and dread provide the cellar's warmth and constrict dimple-wide folly to its inevitable construction: Daughters its children's games ceilings a cat pawing the rug and closets knowing war and the whiteness of winter. Many things will be lost in the storm storm and indescribable food. And so, too let silence cease its waiting banishment... breath and the body --the dream coiled essences-- regain season's horizonless actuality unto each dying fire; Wastes untouched by the thumb springing before a thing unknowable. We, the hobbled darlings, in a stumble wild beyond forests which reach out to hold us the jackal, the gnawed root We have tended the garden's mysteries with machines the mechanism, the calculus certainty the faces turned in habitual recognition until, like fools, we possessed even the unknown. These are the stones we throw into the face of oceans. Is it not the heart whose hands reach out to collect the faces of agony in this place not to be placed out of? I look up, the broad waste and wonder of it draws my eye and thoughts and being out on to the sea and sun setting slowly, in that domain where pity, regret, remorse and anger are exchanged like aces in that game where each gains his hand by asking for cards from the other sometimes going to the deck or going out before the rest-- a game with no winners only a sad panic like blind alarm clocks going off each second in search of each other. I have wept I have courted fear as food I have bled I have run with wounds. Carved my father's moon-shaped scar freshly on my thumb to be like one other in the world or just to see the red on a turning hand fall in droplets on the grass... Spiders. Spiders. The cries of women in saxophone Shadows, mirrors I am lost and a lover of airports at midnight Oblong sunsets collide with rush hour The victim was patient during the necessary inquiries. Spiders. Spiders. the whine in the jet stream Shadows, mirrors, I am laughter falling from a distance down. What grand conceits? A people without a We, suffering the grand stroke of the Impossible. We enter the City in the grip of hysterical folly by invitation only These buildings: incredible! mache! and me? at the stranger's arm weeping for the Prophet's vulnerability. Deaths of men, that pain remits, recalls deaths arcs of unseen gulls the ending of long months all that put away death scars and the waters at the edges only frozen. Having crossed this river often I expect to lose and do studying the distance with odd and serving eye.Birth sign: Capricorn
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