I do sing for hire. I'm a high tremor.
I've extended an invitation to dance more times than breathing to you.
Take—
Can you bring anything with you?
No.
Can you leave anything behind?
Here?
Yes. For right here.
I can—
Light!
Light!
Color!
Light!
Light!
Light!
Light!
Light!
Light!
Light!
Light!
Light!
Light!
Light!
Did you get all these?
Light!
Light!
Light!
Light!
SOUND!
Light!
Color!
SOUND!
Light! Incrementally I'll do it—
Light!
Light!
Light!
SOUND!
LIGHT!
Color!
Light!
Light!
Sight!
Color!
Clolor!
Light!
None.
Now he focuses. Stands up, draws breath. Slowly exhales. He looks ahead but not quite. He keeps his eyes from straining. He reminds himself not to look out too far. He's stronger. He's wiser. This is his moment. This is his time to shine, his spotlight. His moment in the spotlight. This is his moment. He stands. He stands and is ready to deliver. He's stronger. He calms himself, collects his thoughts. Gathers his wits about him. Is stronger. He collects his wits, gathers himself. Cool, he exhales. He draws his breath, he stands. He stands straight. His back is stronger. He backs himself away. He draws breath. He's cooler. He draws himself up. He strongs himself. He gathers his wits. His time to shine back, spotlight. Time to shine spotlight. Time to gather his wits and back himself strongly, back to his spotlight in the back of it. Strongly. Gather his breath back and strongly back himself to the breadth of it. Breath it. Breathe it strongly and wit gather himself strong it cool it strongly making force of it. He's stronger. He is wiser. He is gathering himself, about to strongly. He is about to deliver—
Aria.
Or, as a boy:
A sick wind rises up. It is unhealthy. It isn't cared for. It is a wind that has been left without other less frightening winds. A wind that has no way of its own length, and reach and height, above all. A wind, young, that derives its power from forward movement. Leaving behind all it can, including the knowing that it will, full well, come back in circular ways to where it began and was born, a wind without ease. Unease. A diseased wind. It knows it can only circle before a gradual disappearing or dissipating or placating sadness. And so the wind cries, not in song but in motion. The wind is crying when it runs through the cities that touch a certain height — cities with buildings large enough to call. And it cries when it knows there is an answer behind it. It moves. It always moves. The wind, though lonely and sick, can take itself around the world, or around itself, an equally as circuitous and impressed feat, in less time than it takes for the men the wind winds around to realize they've been left behind by something that moves forward much faster and much better than them. The wind is not pride. The wind is sick. There is not a cure for the wind, there isn't a cure. There is no diagnosis. The wind can only allocate itself to itself, can only cry because it knows the very motion it uses, forward, not back, back would only be forward when trapped like the wind is trapped, so the wind can only move its sadness into a furtherance of itself. The wind is immortal. The wind is cherished, though. By the men and women it warps around when the weather's right. By the calls above the buildings — they're known. By the ones who bear it. By the parts of itself it does not know but knows it does not know, by the same parts that do not know they do not know, they only know, like the wind, that movement. It is a forward wrapping circle. The wind cries. The circle does not change, as its only is forward. And the wind, who is born sad and cries to move, does not think about its height or furtherance. The wind sees the wind ahead of itself. The wind an impression of the next wraparound. The wind, because it was born a very long space ago, knows its lengths only in regard to the changes in face that the men and women make with it. The wind also knows that, as it must be bound by a stream of itself — a space unlike the wind because it is not a part of the wind, it is a part of itself, and a part of itself, and a part of itself again, until there are no parts but only the spaces between — the wind cannot move alongside itself like the men and women can. Because the men and women are all the same. Their faces. They move alongside one another and have that union or that left behind sadness that the wind cannot fantasize about or dream about but knows is there. Feels in itself, but only in motion. Another — not another, as the wind cannot know another, or two, or one more piece — please, the wind must run by its own strength of forward motion. It can move. It will move. The wind is a will. It does not know this, as it must be still to know, but it does feel. The wind feels this. This is the secret of the crying and the sadness and the diseased circuit — the wind does a sensing. It senses without itself knowing, like numb parts of the men who run alongside each other, or the women who smile when wrapped around. The faces do not know each other, but the wind senses. But the wind also, while moving, feels in it that if it stopped, the sense of itself, the wind knowing that in its motion it is a motive and sensing thing — it knows it can stop. To stop and be still is to not be wind but space. Filled or not. Air. Wind, though born, feels unknown to death. Feels itself to be known only in moving, sometimes achieving the same place in two circles, sometimes wrapping around the same faces — all the same — sometimes in fear of its birth or fear of its sadness or fear of its ceaseless motive motion or fear of its sensing, knowing, fear of its not being wind. Fear. The wind is fear. The wind is fear in knowing. And the people who run alongside each other can only block their eyes, shiver.
You want a history?
I am shouting for XXXXX but an empty room is coming up in place. Maybe that's it.
I move only through hunger. Find some parallels while I eat the stuff on the floor.
No, that too is an attitude.
This is medicinal! And it's working, honey!
Come to and imagine: Massive piercing light behind a hard smile. That is infinity. (I invite you)
Like lace interiors.
There are three keys. You may have them all by now. I go no further.
There are two common objects. Demystify:
Right hand left hand a more formal mode of electrocution or soliloquy an ancient device framed by throngs of goats gathered to drink dark milk from a mother of the sybil child king who cannot sleep and instead blurts little bloods out his eyes and bleats like his pantheon of followers all a grand theatre piece meant to rave the constituents back together after the long winter shepherd's war pike use and falconry or science jump cuts to three thousand advanced metronomic gunplays and sex play and forgery of genetic switches a smell lingering a dumb pastime—
A dull pastime.
Like a bulb emulsed in kerosene, from which the bastard roots grow: The rhizomes grow heavy among each other. The roots sprout then curl into themselves. The roots behave under just law set out among the other bulbs set in kerosene. The roots have no fingers. The roots can breathe. The roots are quantic and contained. The roots have no metric. The roots live around the bulb but also independently: The roots are new material — the bulb emulsed in kerosene does not recognize its lineage.