Can you see without heart?
Within summary: We find our hearts.
The walls caved. (is this on)
The communal is only a service to vague, sentimental pullings. Trappings. Each floor a turret. Worm through the walls. A promise of poor action. A soundwave likening. All organizational. WE COULD NEVER LEAVE THE BODY would be a better cry.
Manifestly: The east.
I am merely, unless I'm moving, a map. Not flat. Place me in a place and I will tell you where you are regarding
Ready for a flake? It's gemstone. Here. Here—
Time has gone away when the soreness in a neck aligns with a wall, and pulls away. When it pulls itself out, like the spirit of the little girl by the lake.
Engagement: Non-virtue.
Correlation: All my throat can ever hold.
Perhaps you should set me down in symbols. Let me take hold or suck up something.
Encourage a holding, giving, bereaving: Encourage work. Workmanship. Notation. Bringing light behind a course of me. Let me be an article of note.
Even now I remember the true embodyists. Dreamers, all of them.
As if the scroll were a coiclass="underline" REWIND. Starting: Gathering under the cypresses and palms out: Hear me, he said, and then sat still for hours. Panting — shade of the cypress shifted away from the coven after many minutes — Eek cries out: But Mesu, what of your voice? And Mesu stares; enlightenment. Or, gathered and lined along a long table, to eat. The foul a seated odor. The men around Mesu begin to shout and lean against one another, but not far, and Mesu then goes: Why do you shout? And the chorale responds: Because some are angry, many are tired and few are full before this meal. And Mesu says: I am sorry for the food on the table; I am awake yesterday; I am prone to smile. And then: Enlightenment. Or when the Mesu was hung up on a wall of cane and nails were driven into him, from the sky a bird came and landed upon the dead debtor's arm, and Mesu looked down and smiled. And the guard, sword unhilted, came to cry up to him: 'You will not be smiling much longer, plight! And Mesu nods. The nails become tea. Enlightenment.
Do you feel the bubble of glory that has risen up around me? It shapes like cone, it puffs like bread. It is edible and only deep.
I have lost my temple. I have lost my tower.
Receiving?
Receiving?
Halfway through I picked a function. Imbedded in a mouth of flame. Never wrought, only through the space between teeth. Like hiding sense. Played out. A mana. Tapped, carbon soaked. The few hours devoted to meal-time and its consequence; all else is open with—
Till death do us placate. Listed as a comparable, fell a bit short. Make me use these things. Make them stop singing.
Black capacity.
Ahh! Perhaps five more sheets and I could craft a cube! A dollhouse; I'll fill it with candy. I'll fill it with finger men and finger women. I'll roll it and give them all a surprise. The house pasted together with spit and a light touch, soft as silk, soft as the mother way. Lunar and behaved. And one of the men inside the dollhouse will become a pamphleteer: Incite like the moonfull, he'll say. INCITE like the BLOODIED HAND UP!
To take the bilateral out of it: Trial, Both, Error.
Munitions supplies, an indexed average, a form that you can plug it all into. Wire hanger production and staph infections. Envelopes: Licked, stationary. Tuna belly. Races. Hunger strikes. Lacerations on the pads of the foot in the workplace. Nightly hours, everywhere. Uzi spray, average hits, all that. You can plug it all in. Then you can form another, much wider index. And that strata, now explained, will reveal itself as—
TRUMPETS, HEAVENLY LIGHT.
The hot iron ball that the saints must swallow.
I—
Limbic portends. Effervescent bouts of aphasia, twinkling necro explosions in the midrange, depth of field. Star sufferer. Compelled to shout. A curling hand, a soft and lurid odor. Not hunched, but bent. Knees in each other, grooved. Soft feet. Set to sea. The pyre lit with a remote watch, set to TIME and left, beside a gazing starfish, unspoken for, left to wash back, next to a stone, hugged undercurrent.
Or the man in bouts of smell. His fingers raw from the upnosing of them. Never far away from his hands near his nose. He did more breathing than anyone.
Balustrade: the gunmen, their knight forefathers, their mongrel widowed children.
All to avoid a hollow throat.
In the portions of one of: Do I humiliate? Should I strip back? Peel? Feel as if I never felt. Heal as if I never knew. Hung as if I never let. Shown as if I never took. Cause as if I never crawl.
Platitudes are costly, too.
Made private: Scented cloth, leather straps, flies, paste, torn (anything), erics, quail eggs, number, veins, lacrisising, melt, ice, heaters, fiber, bread, pleasing, water, animals in heat, day bathing, venom (to the ocean) (I don't remember much)—
General intelligence, cross and well represented, corn fed, only floats in a bubble of steam. Basically miscarried. Or, a theory: There are spans inside us that take years. There are bees that make honey in winter. Hunger is a detriment, money is a seed. Juries deliberate in earnest, always. Slack is left slack because it wants a pull. Pull me. Need me?
Maladapted wingspans, too. What shifts the place of trees, what swings on dry vines. Never dropping from the tree, even under blight sun. Pleasing hands could eventually form, that too from the wingspans rearranged, a hexidecimal away. Pleasing little hands, rined in fur. See them! For it's the fruit that called a motion up, and the temple begat the city…
Milk comes through a wall.
Never: A net. I've installed them repeatedly. They all sink shut and shudder and groan.
I am! I am!
When I feel safe I think about veins.
I run lines, too; up and down the walls, or within, coming in and out, lines that intercede like eyes, lines that take something out. Too sketchy? Let me clap for you:
Now with one hand:
Past the silver bar, just under a hue of gold that ringed and took up whenever spotted. Two, beside each other. Both in spell. Nomance. After half a step of pleasure in a maze, before a full night of empty alley and the windows all silver like film. A no sight. A shouting then benched. But, before: Bar. In between a two. After a tip. Bunkered and lipping the old flame, and admissions of displeased, displaced, then to return. Admonishment. Halos. Very early ferry. Mun water. Played before on a boat, never reached, always an always but never a never. Uptaught. But, again, before: In a night of day labor he divulged his drunkest secrets.
So there's an admission to trip. You have that. On me? Like files. A cubit, shorn aside from a mother drill, looked at, really looked at, treasured. Or stolen. Or sold. Or lost. (never lost) So: Taken. Then put back into a bitmelt and made to shear again. A hesitant meld, between the two layers of impact. Like dancing amongst friends. Heat unlike—
Or the torture of drinking until the water breaks—
Gone fission—
On that lakebed. All the way at the bottom. See it? It's gold for a reason.
There will be no
Foreign bodies, or foreign entities, or foreign presences, cells, replicants, addled to memory. Those who see that all is just motion are not to be allowed, let in walls, or paid for. Let them take themselves into the desert, like births from the desert. Like a storm they can find. And a chasm when they leave, or return. Never a solid state; dank liquid.