Birds Under the Water, Heaven Moves

2015 § Leave a comment

Birds Under the Water, Heaven Moves

Austen Szott

Sift–
Be abrasive.
Think for a moment that you’re not part of the sand. Watch it hiss through your fingers. Lift your palms.
Stand up.
It’s been a long hibernation in the warmth. Each one of these mountain ranges are your brothers, and most of them are too tired to lift or they’d crack, but there’s a reason the people down there can hear the moans of dinosaurs through their streets and between their buildings in the morning, already sure their lives are short, too sad and too heavy to carry that creature to anywhere but its grave.
They have no idea where to start, or what tiny fruit to munch on their way to game without getting sick in their bellies or weak in their legs.
You are tiny, a child of the sun, but you survive.
Isn’t that important, that you survive?
There are no fruits in this desert to trick your fingers, and no water that won’t bring you home, and sop through your pores.

1

Look at that. What is this thing?
It stands up. It comes here. Why here?
Why this brook, this waterfront? Why this spot of this river where we can see ourselves mirrored, and why it carries its roots above its head? Why the scalp for the fur, and what does it carry? For what purpose?
It snaps branches of the trees to come out and breathe this air. It sees the trickle, and it sees the clouds, but it can’t reach far.
Don’t worry, children. It can’t reach far.
Yet, what is it doing? What does it match in its hands? What rod does it stretch, and what pattern from the forest?
Why does it sit with the leaves, and why doesn’t it pass forward?
Doesn’t it know winter is here, and that creatures are to sleep in the caverns, and the dirt?
Are we bored?
Rest while the waters frost our hearts. Will this newcomer wash like the rest of our thirst? Will it drip onward like all flow, and like all circles the Creator drew on the deep?
Dream while we make our colors.
He will be gone in the morning.
Will we let the season take us over?
Will we let the freeze wet our lips, and lift, and lift through the shivers?
Forget your ancestors, and your offspring.
Will we find new life here?

2

Live, and irreplicate. We want your kind but not you anymore. Breathe of the pollen, burst of the pollination, and outward. Give the seed to the ground, but what is this? He’s still here across the water, holding himself, shivering in the grasses. Why does the sun only warm him of the drops of spring? It is, “Why does it feed us?,” but we don’t ask those questions anymore.
Press, emanate the air out and choke the world with atmosphere, make him run from the huffs and pulses of our looming on his neck. Push into the roots. Crack the ground to muscle him from this space if you must.
What does he do now?
Where does he come from?
Why does he look but not drink?
If we’re to take our own then look what we’ve built. None of this is yours. It is ours. It is the angle of the terrain. It is the luck of the mix of the seed. There is no inheritance here, only life, and why does this creature impede our view, our swoon, our whistle and moan and sing of wind across the ears of the plain and of the forest? The swing of his arms are heavy, and where he stands slips from our grip like no rock. We call to him to lay and to give himself to the ground, and we tell him, for him, there is care, providence. We lie to him and tell him he’ll be one with the growth, and he hears us, but why does he turn away?
He breaks more space out from the branches beneath the trees, those old wisdoms that communicate with us beneath the ground at their tips and keep us here, and tell us it’s alright, or it’s war of fire or it is what it is and we understand.
They can feel farther out into our air than we’ll know, if not brighter in color, if not so many in offspring, and where has this man earned his keeps?
What has he given in return, and why does he stand like forever, detached, and picks the sweet berries from the bushes to taste the sugar and spit and swallow the seed?
The tree says it feels good to have the dried hairs scratched out, snapped and brought down for fire, if it was to wharf this field again, and over, and over.
We let him stay there, warm on this summer, and now rest, give over life for comfort, the shiver and the night.
We’ll wake in the morning and see if the winter has taken him from here.

3

Lifted.
Listen, “lifted.”
Faith is on the other side of the burst, but what for the water? What for the trickles and the gold of the grasses?
What of the rocks, the fringes, and the mountains outward?
Each night the universe swings out before us, for our joy and our pleasure, maps out the sunrises and the sunsets from where we are. Doesn’t it make you cry to see the ridges, and how many of them there always are, even if it means you’ll never be lonely? Will you sleep and hang from the moon, or chase over to that sunrise carved out from deep night, full shine, and rock back over here by the morning?
This is a cradle left to us by our ancestors, and when you flush out, will you be your best flower, and your thickest shade?
Doesn’t it make you feel, as day is turned sharp, for this thinnest strip of forest, that spring has sprung?
But what is this–?
Still there.
He moves like there has never been more than a NOW. He moves like each moment is not of the few last, significant flows to the next of his perpetual doom, a fall, and what his hand will be able to reach down there along the carpet, or the leaves. He lifts like the distances will be short, the leaps less than over the cliffs, what last inheritance or what final sunshine, before he rises, and what will our solace be for this forgiveness, for this territory, for this field of rain gone to mist? Never again without those same aches? And the better–IT’S SO MUCH FARTHER DOWN FROM HERE NOW. In the pinkest of flowers, You, my sweet, the sun and aura sky always so opposed to your moon and an inside of stars, you give me a room to churn dreaming against a world always so heavy with atmosphere. Listen to the children lifted, a chorus, “Out there, he’s rising up with an idea that every moment may not be our last. We don’t know why. We’re imperfect that way, but he’s rising all the same with bricks on his shoulders like something died here long ago, and now it wants to pick up the rubble again. He’s wiring brambles through his castle and his kind swing like the tree of life from which they play. They fall like they’ve never learned not to trust, and trample in their cartwheels from simple childhood circles between.
“We’d tell the birds we love you, but tweet, tweet got us nowhere so many times, and every time it broke us to scatter a million sacrifices across the stretching tables. Every time it was a treasure to know that You cared, but, Mother to my ear, a creation, a drop from the clutches, a roll under the beak and a split over the manicured grasses was another sort of forever brighter than the first, but nothing more.
“Remember we’re your air,” remember I’m your LIFE, and there’s no reason to be scared, and even the children know, “It’s not ours until we take it.”
He moves like it says no, Mother, if I am to worship You, now, and be happy, sunken and surrendered in joy, to worship the night, and the colds that shiver, in Your shelter, we can’t keep this forever. REMEMBER, it’s a perfect way to pass from the clutches, but His arms don’t TAKE any shorter swings than this, and there are pits there where you don’t wake up any longer, or farther than when you were born.
Remember how far.
No shelter is in the brush but we brush to that light, don’t we? The winds don’t carry me if I’m much heavier than spirit.
The day is sharp, the time is short, and your heart just beats here, if never better, and where do you sense the blessings but by the hedge and the urn? Do you call only yourself what you own?
Are your dreams so pure?
He lifts like he’ll never be scarred again, without the sense to learn, like it’s not a bite from the fields, a bitterness of the crop.
He seems like he’ll sit there through morning, and fall if the animals take him.
If for the fear, are the wolves on the winds, and the walkers in the night, real, or are they vacations from cut of the paper and the reeds, the razor grasses and to the slice of the knuckles, the knife from the dark, and the slash of the sword?
Will he rise and find center better, and heal the wounds deeper, and spread wider for enemies darker, golden civilization on crust, sweet to chew over?
Our whisper is rippling from those pounds across the water, the work, the work, the work.
They chain and construct and stack and build, clanking endless in that way, all day, when the light is fresh, and sharpest at the bidding, and they obey when it calls them in, to return, rescind, hide and cower.
Ask the sailor wafted in from the sea and sky of souls, “Never better, never better,” and if the dirt rattles from the roots, the dusted cheeks climbing the rafters can keep the scriptures of the kind before carved in on the barks. They are left in their caves before it chews us new water. The buildings grow deeper with each story higher, inverted like clearer roots, barricades, fallouts, the celled stalks.
Listen, lifted, to the warmth, and we can sweat while we call this sleep. We can breathe while we call this heaven, leavening. We can be HEALTHY, we can be worn, and we can tear each other apart. We could suffer, and endure, and wait our turn. Another Fall sops to orange and brown and remember that Our maker told us the pain and the pleasure were the same burst of power and sensation, so let the fires pass and warm the tiny, meek, and rolled together. The curling muddy ground-cover is the best shelter after the rage, and in these rains. They don’t want any more than what can be lit by the moon. We can stay in the light forever. Let the beasts roam where the daylight lasts its worth, and he stands tall. The righteous are those who burn, who fling their backs over their legs and watch the danger, faces in the sun, and now it seems the winter freezes us here, up above the Earth so tall, the dirt so wide, the stalk so thin with hardened silk, and barren stockades. We’re in outer space, and we’re never coming back, never came back before, except plummeting, unconscious, degraded to burnt dusts and shell on cosmic re-entry. We didn’t know we’d go this far.
Rest in our direction, another forever, and where is the mate for those who found their motion, and can’t take any more of the suffering? That is, for some, where they find the sustenance of survival.
Where is the mate for a kind of never, of nowhere where the times part, where lives have to Be, always? Where is the woman he’d find to spread over this ground with his burns? Where is the flesh to radiate smaller? Those accomplishments are energy and nothing better. They are flakes from the shake of the glow.
“How much longer until one passes us again?” the children ask.
Look up, it says, where the clouds are thicker, where the shelters are wider. The silence is deeper and the furs are brighter.
He roams like the the fringes and the odds and the ends are nowhere but where he’s going, to us the ballasts and battles of where we’ve been. It spit so many out here with so much stranger.
Open your heart, like it’s everyone, “I am the stairs of heaven’s path.”
He peers straight from bare organ, and bone, and home, as the soul peers from the heighth.
“I’ve seen only the universe.”
He’ll be gone in the morning–

4

Good morning–
What are you?
What a pretty set of colors.
Bloom–
The castles are set forth and the flesh is pulled from the Earth. Relegate, a bud like your sisters. Welcome to your own.
The mountains still breathe and the hiss of the icy waters comes flash through this crack in the terrain, this quivering plain, stream, waterfall, reliquary, oasis, and what falls beneath is not for us to know, outward, outward, outward like roots and dirt. The wealth of it all pushes out at us from the origin, the center, and sends its energy in winds over the brush of the needles, and down for us to sway in the trickle. The creek burbles, and gurgles, and lays us soft and soaked like hair on the figure of the monument, on the face or the mind, and keeps this forest shadowed, mysterious.
All that happened in the night was that a smoke started to rise.
The Titans, plated in corroding gold, the inside of the crust, turned out, they stick each other. They fight.
In the beat of the sun they pull their tools from the ground and stab the leader in the throat. He’s clutched the eyes from the fool. The fool swings back, blind, passes, misses, and clubs his brother as they all fall into the dirt and the sand. They ended it now, shining though they were, for all reasons, over the blood that was already spilt here.
The man across the way has built a little shelter, a sharp point and node of canvas and care, to sit through the bitter seasons. It’s conical, a shorter lean of the span, and though he survives, a warmth breathing up from the hole of the steeple, into open air, he hears not the rise and the fall of the Gods.
He comes out and we can sense there’s family there. There’s so much motion.
We haven’t seen movement like this in this cut of the forest, not since the beginning. To watch makes time real, makes the taps of its progression stretch, and lengthen. A peek from the flaps of the door, a swirl of a mother resting in the depth, children’s eyes from the path of the searching Father, and yet the hours seem to pass even quicker. The days go over in fashion, entertainment, and hunger. It lets us look away from the sky.
It lets us think.
Give more to them for their passions, more greed for the oceans that wash in the traveller, that sailor forgotten for his slavery, destined to make war with these sons and daughters, if you’re hearing the distances in the wind, the bitters, the sweets, the flowers the fruits, and the entwining leaves, flushed, wilted, and plucked or pitanced. Right now, they’re turned too far from each other. They don’t care. They don’t know much better. They look out at the sunlight, still smelling the salt from beaches far away, a wisp on the nose, salt, generous heart from the core, and little can be made of their shifts from cover to cover, and emotion to color. They smell still the breathless height, the spread and the decay where we all fall on top of each other in the brush. They traverse these hills like each of the trees are a press from the heavens’ clouds, a thirsty rain, and a sway that can be made down across the valley that leads us to thicker water, knotted into marsh. They look out, glitter in the glass of their eyes like all this is not a communion of mist ebbing and passing over the hills, camouflaging them in the color of season, steeps, and blends of weights and aura. They act as though they can move, and then return.
Against the imposition of the mountain, the tree is brightest, and weathers the storm, tallest, and yet is spread the thinnest, coming apart. Is it that we were looking at the light in the end of the tunnel that our lives got so dark this way?
Let them chew it down at the foot, let them reach for the stars. There’s a light that beats through here that you must resist.
A mind gone insane is a crop gone feverish, an animal of pure intentions leapt from the heights, wild and intoxicated with the flashes in his eyes, the lusts, the tricks and promises of this place, the sunrises and sunsets and twists of desert run to forest rising outward in wraps of vines, damned to fall, black and white, under the weight of the self, always in that image, a token from the face of the father, until it is lost along the fences and the wires. They don’t know to admire, not to touch, or reach. The enchantments look so much closer than they are, and we can see so many.
Each has its perch. Each has its blooms, like you, to caress its roots and shelter its own. There’s such very little space to spread a thing like you, as wide as you are, if you’re not thinner than a drop of water by then, and cleaner. You may roll as long as you like, but never higher than from where you were cast, tap up the tree or the rock, a silver marble that illuminates the color it passes on the downturn, elegant across the terrains’ minglings until you wished to have remained a sacrifice for the sunken center of all this creation. Each has its still winter birds, and none that’ll take you from your favorite hour where you’ve hung yourself trying to slip your way to the top. They are our brothers and sisters and they are apparent as we go further, terraced in our home, clipped from deeper stalks than you would understand, whether we’ll recognize their form, or ever do, when we stop to look around.
The man’s tent is a ballast to catch falling energies as they circle the salvation, a coin through the terminal, a chance at the new universe, and bounces them around longer through these understandings, if time is roulette when it lays down on space. Upwards we find nirvana like enlightenment, and in that chase wayward, you are stretched longer than that weight of the world, thin as the nourishing air, when it seemed just a step forward, in a place you’ve forgotten has nothing like the semblance of passage, if you go neither left, nor right, and a look to the side and sides reminds us that here, it balances.
Those creatures, rumbling and brooding as we can hear them now, seem to forget they come from nowhere near the bottom, and if they could see all, they’d be as bored and sleepy in the light as we are. Instead, they’re just reminded that they’ve already seen it.
Why does he always return, from the day, now if never once before?
All we seek is illumination, for a short moment and life of color, a burst and petal rested where the sun makes its disks of auras, and where the reflections trickle down to us, and leave themselves righteous and vulnerable and skewed across a brilliant air of light and levity, a pad for the texture. Our shadows protect our kind, our slopes cast them forward. “Why here?” is what is asked by children of all sizes, even those that barge and break branches as they pass in heavy winds of black mass. The trails broke out so few ancestors, and they had no moment to ask why it was their home, and they should not have, and broken their silence.
That tree that sits at the top of the mountain, as close up and along the ridge as we’ve seen. It shows the breaks of its failures in its canopy, the gangles in its fingers, the holes in its brush. It tells us that seed rises up on winds without its power, tells us it often bounces, darkened, from the trunk and then how far, how many more inhabited dirts, how sprouted from the glances with depth of creation where the waters and rivers settle, how much sleep to create life, how much wakefulness to bring about death? It tells us that it is right to burst here, nectar, pollen, and dust to cull under the green canopies in mist, trust we’ll not be lost to the stars, and be kicked back into the game where the animal threw his worth, in flesh, out over their surfaces, a cycle as us again, but what for cultivating the senses? Still now the children huddle back inside, and cradle each other like they’d lost their legs, and just the mere sight of these rains in the summers are as eternities when they hadn’t even known they were swept from home.
What do they wish to keep here, amidst all that has already fallen amidst their stance? Where have they purified their distant enchantments, the weight of their past sacrifice and proof of fearful judgement? How do we not shiver, if winds rattle closer to the ground to clean the complexities of the air through the corridors of our mountain home, and what do we do, but bloom, you character of forever, you, Mother of your endless daughters, and forget there is any Other as you bleach out white in passing serenity, rising, lifted toward the point of dark at the end of the tunnel of light?
This will be here in the morning–

5
In hell they have whole choirs of boys, castrated, singing, an alta, a purpose bred for spirit independent from the flesh, the risk of life reborn and nowhere closer, and how do we see these same faces again in the masses? It’s something we should remember, now that we’re finished.
Across that water, their little house has sprouted trusses, and walls, palissaded stacks of the fallen overgrowths, and they’ve never been more afraid. It helps to think, thinking I was a boy once, you’d be like the daughter, as turned from them as she can ever be. I can see them through the steam on their window from here. They look to be doing their jobs, to turn whatever silvers from the water, to raise kettles from the fire dwindling, moist, seeping, to be braving the gusts and winds, travelers and traitors of the front door better left, in these changing seasons, open, but really they’re just waiting for each other, to do something, anything.
If you were the sons, you’d be facing another collapse of the wood.
You’d see raindrops but only from lines on the awning, poolings already nurturing moss, and out to where the passings aren’t so sure, and the colors sweep in in their own hungers.
You’d maybe be facing a drier upslope of the forest. It’s a remnant of youth spent hiding the light.
Now we’re brighter.
I saw You last night, in the form of the horse, wearing the blue, sniffs of hay grass in your hair and a marriage proposal in thick karats, eyes that break for left or right, always green in these skews of projector views, down the chest, and then there were Your yellow, Your true, YELLOW irises, in such thin strips to wrap a focus which always know how to trample. We’ve both seen the black, and the white, and now I’d like to ride You through eternity if it’s going to be forever like that, in Your blue shade of gasping moonlight, purple with memory and nighttime. It was such a light scent, and how ready the ribs were for biting. You wouldn’t guess how close the daughter is to the corner, in that blue house, hearing her brothers’ screams as they play, in green hate or red joy, yellow wisp over the snowy, icy windows that only chills them, at the furs of their shoulders, and I think that in my dreams we could ride right out across those grasses, and cross that river, and raid the gates while they’re as far apart from each other, day to day, than they’ve ever been. I can see it all here from the red chair. Hell unfolds. At least we are ready for the mercy, when you are as taken alive as anyone, and we climb out that rooftop, hang from the terrace and spread our kind to the air, if we’re still searching.
Why in my dreams, is my best idea of a quick sacrifice to the dark, my soul to the girl in the green spirit, with the black heart, which I never understand, or of whichI see the bottom as I rattle down the latticework of lies beneath lies in the name of love? Why would she call any of this real? Why is my only perfect image for her, “What if I’m scared we’ll make it to the Garden, and burn it down when we get there?”
What if she likes the color blue? Listen, golden girl, how are you only love with passing heart?
Why would I dive so deep in the fire, under thick green, with nothing to wash over me but blue waters that put the fire out?
Why are there always more skews than for which we planned when we strapped the reigns to your mouth?
Why is there always more sex and blood that’s lost to the Earth?
We did that.
We did.
When can I see that magic on your face, only when I rest on magic?
Why wouldn’t I stay with the light?
Why wouldn’t we strap posts to the wheels, let them snap, and roll barbarous into the castle’s gates and then onto their lawns?
Can you believe with me that we swallow them whole?
Why do I feel no balance, even with You, up here, as I knew I would? How can we keep focus on so many dark alleys, glimmering if they are, for what’s lost or what’s ahead, and have I come here, Love, not for the sacrifice, but for the penance?
Why are even the clouds here in the blue turning red under the pink?
I thought there was breath here and no, I cannot let you break to your left as I saw you do when you found me, at rest.
The trouble is that every day, when they go out from there to climb those walls, to reach the sky, to hang with toes from the curled leaves, a body refracted from dew and mist, that yellow wind that sheens the diamonds in the snow passes harder, wider, and threatens to wipe them clean from this downdraft. Have they forgotten it’s only air over tighter space when they’re climbing into the fire to become smoke?
What if they’ve seen no carvings in the tree trunks, and nothing but medicine in the barks?
My friend, the mirage, in the desert where the grey road steams thin blue, she’s my enemy here. Everyone wears blue, and the older man of the blue chirps like a bird, like springing serenity as he passes, like they come from the mountains in droves, and throws me for a loop so I can’t stare at his eyes, thinking I’m fast again, thinking I’m sharp, looney waves that mute the frizz, boom by with steps, define flight patterns, translate sonar, and tricks me over, dropped back onto my work before I can catch him coming out over the ocean, the river that separates us, and the cliffs of sand.
He’s not growing so red on the inside, but some are, and it makes them drunk and stilted, and, yet, purposed, as is the fear of rocking, swaying water.
What if we never lose our focus?
I swear You’ll sleep tomorrow, when we’re fluttering in our hearts tonight, because I know You’re not worried about the truth anymore. What if I feel it already when You’re gone, and that you’ll come to me again, almost too fast with some new form, some new hair, some brilliant new jewels to hide behind that pool of shallow blackness in your eyes, in the prism of your senses, and still I’ll know the look on your face if it’s you?
What if we’ll never understand it and throw ourselves up on the stars to be peered through like a mystery, like a rag on the sharpened irons, and we just show up to each other in forgiveness?
They lead a simple life across those waters, those forevers, and it makes them trudge around on little trails in between, and gust up against their own clothes in all this contrast, and do their works of the gather. Would You spend a night in their hearth, to a cool dinner warmed by an ember, to stare at each other over that black table without thoughts, and eat and to fade away and crawl to find Your corners to curl up against the cold again? There where there is triumph, there is return. Would You believe they can hardly see the random genetic colors of each other’s eyes in this light, or how it illuminates that place where they’ve made their room, a backdrop for their dreams of midday grips and carryings? Sometimes, it is better to let the leaves fall into your hands, but you have to fall like the leaf so they swirl to rest on your palm.
What if we live for mercy, knowing there is none, and we know we’re in the sorrow of the promised land?
That’s what I can see, and I can ask You already, creature, face and nothing more, mind in the dark, How long have You been gone already, how long until Your return, how broken and exhausted do I find You that I must be gentle, how long until You get there, and for what would You like to die, if belief, power, faith, fur, doubt, recompense, or to find me there in the Palace after Your long torment in the dirt? What is it we can take that we know we do not receive? What do you believe that we die chasing?
I never moved, and this is always here tomorrow–

6
Centuries–
Oh, how many centuries?
Lift from the desert in waves, stand out blue in the sun. There is nothing but to show Your born, true color, now that You know there’s no one here but Your own desires, shaking Your own dust and structure at the trail of the darker caravans.
Generations pass and swing us farther out along flying constellations, taking us closer to the Destination, tighter spinning at the twist, curl, bend of the shot, the cast, the throw, and into the collision of the healing fire, when it is the motion that has been our cleansing.
Every new lineage shifts and leaves behind this home, ahead or back, and sometimes so chilled in their approaches that they leave this place to nothing but their own ghosts, and the echoes of their promises and frustrations. Sometimes, they leave this, to their pursuits, like it’s never been a home, and still, their life is re-born within those walls. They crumble back or ride up and through or across on some wind that finds them the sanctuary of their family bounds, whispered through to the cover of their more unnatural fathers that have been standing righteous against this same, in-roaming nature that sniffs the same winds that brought them in, to steal into the abandonment, the trespass, with their love or their hunt and leave a remnant of theirs to promulgate, and warm, and fill it up with life again as our attention is scattered, reminds us that some things of penance are more permanent, and reminds us what we were, once full in the light.
Every one of them knows they are the only family that has bloomed in those walls.
The rooms checkered out, gave steeples to the privacies of the deviations in nature copied. Mother, Father, sons, daughters, eldest and youth to infant needs and necessaries section off into auras and steams of their own breath. They keep more now. The daughter has her tears, and the little toys and symbols of the surety she had in her past, from start to finish, ends. The boys have a place to break their bigger toys and stand and posture before they know any better. The younger daughter preens her blonde hair and envies the pink of her even younger sister’s bedspread, and how they share the age of the old sister that just hid and cried in her room. The parents have their solitudes to find their black, and their white, and then there’s the bare public where the aging grow to inhabit, increasing, to see the hands wither over that once so pure and sure point and spread of focus, to see that strange illumination on the simple convenience, the shining counters, the granted knowledges, simple instructions and but the chance at hearing the lives collide as their sights are crossing over the conquered terrain they must not need traverse, to wake forever which sweeps our memory blinder than sleep.
It’s a reminder of what was taken first, full, in high heat and nothing but dry life, what was our favorite sustenance and our greatest length of fast until our lips were cracked and our mouths stuck to their own spit. It was what we needed deepest, and left first among dunes we would not return to cross, since we went there to be lost. It was what we found most important, and neglected.
It was, would be, all that would take us through times with even less.
Their home has stories now, like they would stand on each other’s heads, and hear not the yellow and red patters on wood board and carpet above their stands and reaches, or feel the crawling of black and blue and purple fingers tapping over, waiting, patient from the floor beneath, for those that inhabit the pulpit, the cathedral above the sewer, the choice or the granted awareness, with activities and boils and smokes that spill over into the grass.
We can see them wandering around in those rooms, lit by the candles or the moon. They mingle with each other. They keep their likes close, and shy from the breaks in their purpose, sometimes when the most potent carriers of the color are their own kind of creatures, almost ALWAYS the members of their own family. They find few friends that aren’t prismatic competitors.
What is it that makes them care for each other among a field, as the lines and webs of their sight, as sheltered as the dirt clods are bare beneath the stalk, when they are no longer looking up anymore, or down?
What makes them go onward?
What makes them move so long with the spread? What makes them grow those muscles like roots, and follow the sight only further, as they must if they are to look down life as a straight line, black and peering either? Why do they cocoon themselves so deep in the great waves and washes, gallop on the moss covered rocks, typhoon in sand over the offering and then ask of the landscape turning around their windows, and walks? Do you see them gripping it, their life? What makes them think it is not pulling them apart?
Don’t they see it is best to wash back and forth the soonest, in soothing morning and night, between our best and worst natures, and be reborn with malleable ease?
Don’t they know it is better not to stand too long, or with a true care in the battle between the black and the white?
Don’t they know they’ll see both?
Don’t they know quicker is lighter?
The mother is angry with the daughter, says she spends too much time thinking of nothing, and looking out the kitchen window over the dirty sink where a world is making it very heavy to be a spirit, and sends her to bed without her dinner.
She cries, but she’s all cried out. It squeaks out of her like a whimper and a muted, sad huff that had given up before it had lost, a sleep and a whiff of endless broth at the foot of the kitchen table.
The father has shown the sons all day about the ways of the out curls that surround them and their hunts, their searches, and still the boys learn more than they’ll ever know, every day.
He bats at their hands like gloves for rocks, some of them smooth from the river, some of them jagged, to make their grips like leather and to show them all the scarcities of the edge, to teach them that there are games to play everywhere.
That’s what he tries to tell them on the way back in from the day of fresh diamond mist on their faces, the rains and the puddles draped right from their eyes, the sun illuminating the shivers from the colors of the trail, and warmth of blood exuding out to match the cruelties of the climates, cracks in the obstacles underfoot, that all of it’s theirs as much as it wants the same. Desires sweep it from their toes to crawl higher.
Why is it that all his children want to do is run?
The family huddles between each other, in their separations, and then all together. What failures of the father would show, and show on their own, on the faces of the sons, breaks when they questioned the pulse that kept them brutal over a ground that was rather eternal, and were yet given another chance and forgiveness? The mother would understand the daughter and the daughter would understand the mother, and look for the gloom that suited her each her best, the crystal of choice that’d be better if left to never, if left alone. They’d love each other and remember it and ignore each other as they would not show it, and spread their ways, but when are they to sleep, if there is no more rest?
How?
A day full of value, a cool boasts us starlight tonight.
What a puff of clouds came from the first factories, the upchurnings of inventive labors, sprouted? What tribute emerged of waving steams to the moon, the skin, OUR skin, of the earth, respirating? What a thinness to fall this was, to dive layers of breath through and give us tastes of fresh space, if we are to stand at a reaching end of night, and sniff for the most pure.
Worry not of the others.
To look neither up, nor down anymore, and only forward, is to be as powerful as nothing, and never to return, if they are not to go from here.

6
Share–
Fight–
Take from Your brother and sister and give to the sky. Cast reels to the yellow sunlight. It’s none of it ours.
Go ahead–
Be charitable–
Question the plan not and go forth with hoods over Your heads, hungers that churn to be weightier than the knots You’ve tied them in. Be prosperous and be greedy. Be covetous. All the gold is good in one room where the truth is that its best luminance is generated from the dark, and its latent hoarding, proximity, multiplicity in unionized mass.
Be a sin and be lustful if You must, if You’re hungry for the flesh of young daughters, and fear not the peer of young, wayward sons of other homes come to sweep up Your wives. They do not carry them, and no one can take from You in Your rise.
Ignore the fall.
Ignore UNTIL the fall.
All is given back to Earth, and to Us.
Go as a ghost, as a whisperer, fearing not that we take You back in again, as You are, and all these passing masses become as blank faces buried in their many intents and purposes from far away, rushing into the lanes of Your infinity, tying the function together, and all the opposing headlights are those that seem the brightest, and luring for structured assassins, to stops and promises overhead like starlight on the road.
Even the free time is lost time, in time.
Take a castle, and understand its necessary punishments, and lie until Your family is Yours.
Sin until You are black with righteous purposes, as there is nothing that cannot be washed clean, and set away on the cool grasses again that frost in the night.
When Your kind spills over they swallow themselves as soon as the looming brush fences beckon them to the swallowing, and the scarcity, the collective clarity or great deficience of apocalypse.
They take their fur and run, and all the joy of life is even.
Look at them across that river.
They’re ignoring it now, and maybe, it is as true, if we are to one day join with these clouds, as thin and fresh and aware as water to which the Earth gives wings on the updraft, we must settle in and hope to catch the height that our neighbor has, lest his castle crawl over all of this at its lowest, barest foundations. Must we look upward, with the sound of his broken, rolling gears in our ears, to chew this out from the wood, and network, and mesh, an echo kept secret in our many hearts, and begin to lay the poisons or stilts to an army of our own survivors below?
Are we to hope to have our reliquary in the sky in time?
Can we watch, without impediment to our view, the rise and fall of the universe?
Why can’t it be with our own eyes?
Do we carry such temples, even sheltered, in the flesh, happy, when he has His?
Isn’t the poison to tell us that all is something to worship?
What breeds as the fleshes grow smaller, and cooler, in the warmth?
There are rains that come, and when their grey masses settle over this creek to drain through the pass, birds gather to play and to flap around by the drop and blip of the water. They wrap the grasses in hands made like talons, though they’re tiny now, and have nubs for claws. They posture at each other as they swoop in on the glitters, and the echoes and whistles that even the ripples make where the rains rain on their own floods. The birds peck sometimes at the underbrush, and chirp, but they aren’t looking for seed now.
Now, they’re looking for each other, and to wet their feathers. They know that they go far from here soon, but they know that everywhere they go. They’ve always known it too, if it’s just that some knew more than others, some led, and some followed, and many flocked.
Now, they’ve found a spot where all the prisms can peer through, and they can feed at least one kind of thirst, and for the moment they take in gulping the liquid crystal, just before the boundings and antics of their kind bump them and flutter them away. They are the only thirsts needing quenching.
As long as they don’t look up, except along the panorama of light rains mirroring concentric waves all up into the bending fog, to follow the sound into flight, first, here, from where they are satiated, and shivering with joy, with energy and weightlessness, they have no other need or desire until it has brought them already to its taste, a blue and juicy pick from the berries that leaves smears on their beaks.
If this was heaven, heaven moves, and to stay gripping that providence would be to watch it all wash and blow away, in such opposite directions as those always are.
To stay where the ripples of raindrops generate currents from the centers of themselves would be to spill slower and slower into their separations, and the ranks that run this piece of the forest off into silence again, released of many of its spirits, and so, much of its yearning.
In these summers, winters, falls and springs, even the birds find their homes weaving between the rest, strung so tight that they will not even see each other, the other kinds of ravenous creatures, crawling broods, swooping terrors and resolute monsters as they all inhabit, in temporary, regenerating safety, much smaller reflections of this same space than they understand.
They’d notice each other, or hear each other around the little lines of bushes and trees, and the little mute and drop of their senses, if they weren’t all destined to chirp and scream and call up all at the same time in this single, landscaping, blanketing reveling as the one remnant that reminds us it is not of separate properties, sanctuaries, solitudes, but a simple variety that stretches from base to peak.
Both the foot and the climax touch sky, and even where the mountain sags along the middle there is a way to dig down into the ground, and into the stiller of paradises.
Some jump up into the blue and are carried. They knew they were because they’d been carried before.
Some come through on heavy, trudging feet that release their mass and weight to the trundle of balance as all necessary in time, and hope to draw from the tranquility of the color that had guided them there, and keep its auburn promises, its yellow preparations, its green and red spurts and breaks and scatterings.
All these natures are made of promises that only turn out to be hisses and misdirections if you stay to see them turn to their own. It is a simple memory, for all things washed clean, and wandering, that heaven is, has been, has to be, and always would be a place of every sin penanced, though the ground never forgets its purpose as it offers up its new, innocent fleshes to the sky, sometimes lighter than the others, more often lighter than the rains, against the edges of the seasons, that are recycled up rather every day, and many times, many fingertips, every hour, every moment than every birth.
Sometimes, for less boastful lives, fed almost all of clear heaven, the muscles are so thin and dry that the bones go hollow beneath their rigid grip, and now, listen to the rush, the burst, the pop and then the huff like an opposing weave broke its path, light eyes at the corner of speed, and in a flurry, a cone of swirling power beneath resonance, all the birds fly away.
They fly straight up like it’s their only chance.
If they are lasting, if they are memory, lived and living, they find whatever they want out there.
They glide, wings cooled and streaming with barriers slicked, clean water wet at the fringes and spans of their growth when they’d keep the salt of their sweat, off and out to search for where heaven converges again.
Everything here peers for it, from the heights or the depths or anywhere in between.
Everything, even those people across that water, find it, descend, and follow it further.
Families of birds fly with each other, play there at the mist, even if they don’t know the difference, or from where they came.
The birds under the water flap, and rise, if not caught by the other hungers, and take some with them, on their shoulders, across all this scattering, and scatter it more.
You will be brought home, and yet, you will be sent from it. There is no lie if nothing is spoken at all from God and all that makes this real, and alive.
After we touch it, we fall as far as forever is–
After their thirsts have passed, heaven is as far away as it ever was–
Return.
Listen, “Return.”
How can it be that our way to the Lord, or to the One, is so like the amassing of the armies of Darkness, to follow, follow, follow, and thus gather for the war against the Light?
How can it be our only way to the washing of the sins, if we are musing, deciding, what are we to do when we overthrow the Creator, when there is no dominion but You?
Return and come to the light, knowing it takes you farther, and colder, from your kind? Wouldn’t the spirits, in the temples, have nowhere else to wander and to collect their thoughts that save their lives at the cliff, and wouldn’t their lives be without a chance, or so many in the specters of walkers, into existence anywhere but where the shelter has been dug flattest into the unsurvivable terraces of dust and rock, for those that need the rest?
The universes are reveling, everywhere.
It is the age for it.
How can those of spirit, or of business, or of violence, generate ripenings so deeply, of such roots where none had grown except the cracks of canyons and aimless caverns? Where do they find comfort as close to death, when some, and, it is true, many and most of those that seek to grip onto the colors of passing promises of bodies, of hosts, of angels, to the open surface, to the open viewpoint versus time and fasting, harrow and speak their strength and resolution and steady as they commit an entire life to the remnants in the darkness?
They look upon You, calling themselves the Light, with flat irises, telling You to come with them, and then they jump back on a running reel to be strapped across time like stretches in film, differing speeds, aeonic bends of locale, but always the same history, better just for the pretty passing pictures, if they stay, or decay like even this sparsest of mountains.
Where else but the driest desert to find the crag and volcano damped in snow?
They’ve known it before, they know it again, but You are aware that You’re at Your favorite part of life and pinnacle of generation, of a revolving survival, and where else would these spirits, fresh from blank starlight, roll around and bear their arms, stretch and test the reach, reflect their color from the inside, buried in pure cloth, and taste, and smell, and find the sound as it drags them around the objects, reminding them that there are some things that are real?
Where would there be orientation long enough to show them the possibilities in purpose, and let some through?
They tell each other stories, that family across the water, as best as they can and they can say. They make motions and explain the sights they see, from the places they always see them, and in and against what hues, outside or in. They explain each other’s problems in that manner and sometimes they understand. If there were twelve prophets of God, there are six that met each other on windy battlefields where even the climates collide, and lived to see the other buried beneath the overflow, the season.
They move to their windows and they look out as they are touching their trinkets and toys, even though they are looking and facing out at nothing, and however they call their intents in working with their own belongings.
They all have their commands, and they don’t know from where.
The son keeps cumming on everything and the mother is getting angry. She yells at the father who stands in the way of their new, wonderful staircase, how the light spills from those steps, protecting something he doesn’t understand either. Mom says he doesn’t do ANYTHING and he just spends all his time up in his room like that, jacking off and crying or whatever, but she’s remembering the daughter she does not see, or hear, or revile the less.
The daughter is having her own problems, and scaling mistakes, but everyone in the family scares away from her passings and emotions, shivers in some past worship and an empire lost to female deifying, some desire for it again, the same as it was, when desire always led to fear. She feels alone, and for no reason, for that reason, and keeps to herself as she enjoys.
The other boy so often never comes home, and runs out among the trees and the branches and makes this world his own home.
Will he never settle down in those green fields, on any of those marsh grasses, or does he comes back skulking and as young as ever before?
How many settlements are there like these?
Press for growth, lift the mountains to the air. Believe that power and chaos are CONTROL.
Throw a rock at the cloud castles for their transgression, for their unwillingness to stand, and solidify, and let the crumbles rain on the cities.
It IS the way to a wider shelter, for smaller hellions, and their brood.
What if they have to learn to re-build?
What if they survive stronger?
Isn’t that the infinite faith for which we are to prepare?
The father has broken his share of necks and finds a place between the pinched light of so many creaked and cracked slits of doors, one buried fire in the steel of compromised wreckage, where the reflection is almost red, and he can feel the shaded burn of love, and quiet, and hate and rage, and look up into the bulbs, the containment of balanced shine, electric fizzles, luminescence, and understand, in his silence between all the rooms, as he holds the peace, it is best to know that the Father loves us as His hate and His rage wash over us from the very end of the Presence, and the sacrifice, and the permanent suffering, where freedom is true to having nowhere left to go. Why wouldn’t we trust that red color, aliken to the bulbous rose, dangled, sliced from the stalk by the knife, stinted to sweat in the water, to perspirate and then wilt, lusher, to entrust us with the knowledge that love and hate are the same emotion, from different chases of the spectrum, and that their motions a

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re the same, if they’re meant to do such good, or such evil, regardless to the wraths and wars of the flesh that holds the blood.
Rest and let the oceans boil before they are to wash up to the toes and legs of your shore, like only in dreams, salt that stings the Lord, that pops and burns and pits, and since the healing fire was once cold, do we know that a chorus is not enough, “Lifted,” and let it tear out our hearts with compassion? If it throws some of us to our knees, sat some of us down long before, our preachers, our pastors with poison predator eyes, single, blaring, staring atop the mountain at all these people as far apart as universes in experience with vertical slits that grow serrated at their edges for their blinking, their oppositional resistance to the plane that splits and shreds the people in their vision and visions, do we ignore the mission of the peering, laughing mother at the door, a journey to go keep our eyes down from the gatekeeper, and rush forth into the outside inherited, owned, and dominated by the meek? Feel well to stand if the legs carry as the sunken behind you in the congregational pews cock and skew their heads to listen to the message, to see it, some with one eye melting out to their cyclopse, the shape of the orbiting planet, some battered into speed at the beads of their two truths that resist the spiral, those that had turned to listen, ears hollowing and spreading into their skulls to make the principal of their new face, and its chief sense, and its perfection for the new nation, its evolution, the open mouths, the noses, the bodies skeletal under elegant folds, swallowing, smiling, happy, and trust that our gathering is washed over in the transformation, as was promised by love, but not by the recompense of pure hate, that which is defiled, that which saw our love fail?
Rest, sleep again over the memory of the family, asking, “Was once forever?”
“Was once all there was?”
“Was one betrayal all there had to be?”
The mother crackles and relegates herself off to the patio where she can breathe some fresh air, and wish for smoke, and think about music when all she can follow is the sound of the night birds.
Does the depth of their family draw out more youths and elders beneath the sights of the true world, and our view of their simple canvas and awnum over candlelight as they find their way to unwinding before a bed to release the knot?
Are they greater, if not stronger, in the morning?
Are they happy, too, nestled into wood in this forest?
Do they bring back word of their yet separate horizons of universes, their connections, their angles as it lets none of us out as straight as our surety across the bend and bend and bend, black space between the light, spurting soul from all surfaces, strokes and highways, and still hearing any more through that glass of their dramas of what they’ve found?
We saw, in our sleep, a mountain tip of sand, dry in the sitting sun, and at its line it wavered in lava, and a thin strip of cooked magma like blood, a retainer of heat billowed from its core, and up, up, up, even the fire held its own power, rolling back against the slope and the flow, wicked and sizzling in the guts, a deeper satellite into sky-space, maintaining contact with some distant star through its choicest energy, and jagged, bolting, even boastful, our shelters, open carvings stood up from that moment where the flame ended, the base of the fire line, and surpassed it in simple height, if not direction, towering as the many towers are. The lady that was our guide, a mother of the heat, thicker, if not sharper, in the shade, showed us the needles of the oasis, the green where the green is coveted, and embraced with violent thorns, spined like the sunshine and without hooks. She explained to us the loss of life with those that ate them and their flesh, each one a lost life already, but the base of those cathedrals and homes bury as far as mountains, and into the heart of them, Earth kept as close, and so as dark as space, the burns of nowhere go as rock in coal, and do You let Your rage wash over as even the granules of dirt at our toes are encroached, and tighten under the weight of their buildings across the water, crushing even the divide that separates the clean from the filthy, the stream, and shows the faces even of angels across the glimmer at each other? Will you know there are priest ridden depths to relegate you from your transgressions, a life lost to fame, fortune, dreams and the bloom, and see how they trust that Hell so hot that it melts like liquid won’t break and release and snake through their, OUR homes, of all hidings, every or any night in the civilization of the permanent day?
Will you ignore the tightening of the river, and not ask, how are we to get THERE from HERE, to cross, and feel as even the sandy forest crust presses in for room, rocks in the dirt cracked as tighter puzzles, a vault from this field and to that light, and ask that we not go much closer to its burns, its ashes, and into it?
How are we to sleep, and hold not the visions we had in our best falls, our greatest failures, and our memories of a God reborn vicious?
What of the energy that was followed all the way to the good? This family stays in their spaces, as their works expand, and what of the reason brought all the way down to the quiet eyes and ears of the evil?
Rest, and forget the ebbing.
Sin already, so that you may meet your maker.
Sin, so that you may be crashed over the washing roar, love in your senses, punished at the end and so that the light is not lost, for itself, like our God, needles of pain and white and nowhere but the same, across the smallest, closest, most merciless and most unbearable infinite, triumphant, alone in blind heaven with no escape.
They will be gone in the morning–

7
Who wins in the battle between faith and law when the ruling of law becomes criminal?
Who clips the wings so they grow in notches?
Wake–
The mother says to the daughter, “Get out there. Quit being so coy with the boys,” and points off to the dusty inlet where the caravans have started to come through with travelers and traders and treasure hunters with their deployments or passages. Some travel lighter than others, and bring less with them. She says, “Go out and see what the world looks like,” when the daughter never wanted to look up from the glimmers of star and moon and decoration in her room anyway.
The father is showing the boys the water through the archway glass. They make themselves drinks, hold them up to their lips. He says, “See, boys, it’s already all yours,” and waves to the lawn and the crumble into the river of mushy green moss.
In death, the winter taught us that the slowest march is through the freshest marsh, and sops to the efforts like sponges, drags us down to the road. In that ice, it told us, the winds flow forth from the power of the sunlight harder and harder as the chase gets closer and tighter over the horizon, strapped to the sight.
It told us they compete in glorious games where the feats are to survive as the dimensions of light are streaked, and revealed in their oppositions, contenders of resilience to form, drained away in the day time.
It told us ice and the fire would burn us all the same, if buried, going over.
It told us we’d be shot out, scrambling, into green grasses, and we’d be given comfort, and rushes of packs to follow, or fight.
We have our exact love and necessary taste in the terrain where we were thrown from the track, and we get to reach for the steel winds with sharp handles.
It takes some of our curious favorites away.
As it must, their work day ends, and the cool dark rolls over to bring them together again, faced in their sprinkling of granted stardust, to eat.
Some days their labors are as paradise pre-packaged and pre-digested and consumed raw in sabbatical.
Water rinses their mouths, and cleans the sticking stains of juice and meat on their faces, and NOW is the time for the feast.
They gather around their utensils and say their prayers, or take their moment of helpless silence before the tasting, if they don’t know to whom their prayers go now, and yet get stuck in the ritual.
“Eat up boys,” the father says, the hand that was hidden in building all this around them, and appears now to give, and let the gifts roll off onto the table, steaming, and he looks at his daughter, wishing to tell her the same, all the same, all the well, but her and mother are thinking for a time, knuckles folded in longer waits.
The fresh breath that still tinges in their noses, full days focused, laboring, removing, and so, purposes in a trade for leisure. The eyes of the young men are bright over the dim second peace for the dining room, and they keep expecting things to happen, to spring and disturb, and clank and rattle, but nothing happens, delighting them. Their eyes keep darting for it, premonitions of the edges of their own sights, and then nothing but open help, and hunger fed, like mirages of night, as night has, blanketing over all the warmth of their table and the sensations it would spread, but not touch.
We can’t feel that forest across their home anymore, the sight or the sound, or the tickle of the roots that once caressed up and under the banks and grasses of this river, and now, compressed in the dark, idle, muted waves of needs, calls to the many clearings, colors and cares of the many communities, knotted beneath, send back word to lines of vegetation that fan off further in other directions than ours, “Release. Arise.”
How to empty the emptiness?
The mother asks, “How did my boys do today?,” and the father answers,
“They did very, very well,” and the boys are looking up, smiling, open mouthed, wanting to tell their mother everything, but there’s no such way, as fathers know and have attempted to explain to many mothers, and so his good natured answer suffices, lets the vision widen in the boys’ mind, come to full fruition, pass in a moment of memory of a day, washed of endurances, and lets them see that yes, all would be too well to be lived again, and that some experiences are theirs, and their own, and better, and none may see them the way they have, here. “How is my darling daughter,” he says across the table, and she closes her eyes to the presence of her kind, as she does when love pours over her, and fills her, and makes her blush prettier than she’d ever believed she would or should or could be.
They are happy while we are stricken, constricted, and strangling for the thirst of soul harboring messages pulsed through all this surface.
How do they sit so content, so prophesied, so blessed, when once we saw most of His power in standing, and building where once a creator would have passed over, abandoning us here, abandoning them to the glorious tribulations of height and self?
How is the cold so fair to the light, as the heat is in softening the darkness?
Why does night take over from our sprouting at each corner, at each chance?
The King, the Father, never meets The Queen, the Mother, until they are long past each other, fertilized, alone in each melding of right and wrong, ready to take each other’s place, and so we are to worship, even in confusion, and pain, for either direction to be above us, and may take us to our tier of greatest, matched opposition, the fated enemy, whether the knowledge is that one has already lost, or if it is the present action that falls out from abundance of infinite precision.
Each power takes us to our creator, our destroyer, as long as we don’t know the difference.
Is this what we are to have left behind?
Why does our nature, or mission, our purpose, always rip the ground out from under us as it shows us the floating waters, and the selfless oasis of rebirth, our home in the sky, to test whether we would release our hungers, fresh from thirst, just as we can almost reach it, and makes us wait for the age of our colony?
Why, if theirs is now, in their temple, are we never released until we have that which we hold dear, and dominion, and the field of our form?
Asking God for a mission is like asking the Devil for a bargain, where, in the end, Evil gives God the deal to sacrifice everything, for nothing, and is met with the ravenous, drooling answer to leave now, to go forth, and never come back, to give what a soul already has on Earth–a body–and so it is the greatest blasphemy to ask to see heaven, harboring the sentiment to take the throne and the view for Yours when You’ve snuck up over the back of the Lord, or whoever has His power, His place, and looks like Him for all He’s worth and all He does, and have found the Holy One, the Holy Place, vulnerable, trusting, over All, and, beneath You, beneath Might, Beneath. Isn’t it another of the cultivated, perfect sins that we’d wish to have and to feel the One that flows through all of this, senses it, that makes it together and full, and complete in its vastness, that we’d boast life without transgression, a punishment for our freedom, for a cold baptism, that we’d have to refuse the pleasures of paradise in front of us, that we would deceive and say we cannot, we must, and cheat, beg, steal, rape and kill and run, that we’d acquire the many talents of beyond to dwell on the oasis, alone, another time, all-powerful, without regret, without awareness, and sense not, then, that it is Ours?
Isn’t blasphemy an enemy’s measure to the belief that you’re pure enough to enter the gates, and walk among the clouds?
Haven’t we rather come here to be pulled across its edges, as we always are?
Haven’t We?
To take the place of the Lord at dominion is to praise God when You’re a curse, and slither up the back like a poison reptile, predatorial for what You are, smelling the jungle, smoldering beneath, the ocean at Your back, whiff of salt, blue skies all around, and bite in.
To see heaven is to praise the downfall and let it come.
We fall through these universes as fast as we’ve often risen through them, and what of that family’s such fall from the realm of knowledge, to the realm of love?
Such changes in the often constricting passages of time, in lanes where You see many of the same friends and enemies most anything that You’d do to avoid in its currents, now that Your choices are made, are still marked with their territories, and the souls that came there with a common, but unearthed belief that drives them on with or without each other, as both can be the most difficult, wither.
Have they seen the decomposition, the great, mystical caps of swallowed rot, and sick temples of the fallen fleshes there, learning to sacrifice their stomachs at the bloom even of wastes?
Has it taught them that this place runs through with love, and now runneth over with foundation?
Haven’t they heard it called from Others who are not Themselves?
They play with their forks and their knives. Their hands always work. They work more because they’ve been working.
Their palms, their forces, are illuminated, like they were locked in a room once and forced to ponder that growth of mind to Else, idle, without purpose, for most hours of the bright day, provided.
They’re counting moments, seasons, like they won’t get there in these life ages, like it wasn’t of their choosing to last this long, and multiply. It was their choosing to count the seconds to the hours to the days to the years, and forget the generations further.
Run fast at the wall.
It is afraid of you as well, as afraid as it has even the chance to fortify.
Can we hear that, that boom of civilization, that trickle of its steel implements worked into gears, that stacking of its terraces, far and deep in the valley where the open feedings are, wide airs at its edges, where the trials and the competitions and the colossal collisions are held in antrospect, presence, test and tribulation and scrutiny, scribes of the record, representations of the elements opposed within our own Kind?
It sections us up into our mountains, tells us this is not ours, sweeps the grain from beneath the children and presses us, makes us crack into what we become, what we’ve been turning into for a long time, and the sores are at the root and at the skin, crags of snapped rock. Our eyes are as windows on the face, and see only through the glass.
It whips and ripples and lines their wires across our burgeoning sex, the quakes and shivers, bordered with electric, shifting to fit the outer spaces, and its increase always of focus, when at any moment it could find force.
This landscape widens, and chews all life down to the very prism, at the promise of ripe territories to promulgate, and cultivate the awareness of the Awake, a breeze off the desert ocean, Safety, drunk on the purple Passion, and Lust, waving up through the winds so that there’s an energy left, and clues in its echoes everywhere, all through, so that there’s something at the end of eternity, as much sunlight for spacious dark as glimmer for depthless pupils to shine under all the glow, christened in stealth, and that that something is alikened, and never again, to waking in the arrogance of a Deity, all the castles aligned, life as vigorous all through as its suffering, every planet, and smite it from unfettered growth, and flowers for our grain at the side of the rushing water, unconqeured, in maturity of the many realms without a ruler, except the weights of gravity, and grace.
Choose the answer to Your question, and tear it apart, like an animal, a dog creature first to the kill, and red postules as springy as gum and film, crunched, and then drink from the sweet marrow of the split spine.
Drink because You have not had water in days, rained and sprinkled.
Spit because the fur sticks to your tongue.
You are relegated away from those who are so soft and so tender inside the glass, and the shelter, and Your mind becomes dim. Maybe all You remember, as many of ours, and their children do, is the thrill of the murder, a mercy to be penanced in later life, if not then as well. Maybe all You remember, ripping the youth to shreds in your mouth, your sharp teeth from no father, is the joy.
Maybe there is a time when you must refrain.
Maybe once, in heaven, all our impulses were our powers to fall through a permanent eternity, giving and taking according to will, watching the fuming nature of our shrines, shooting dust off into the great latticework of the atmosphere, our wars, representations of the cannons firing beneath the eyes of the all-trusting Nothing, and turning back to our palaces, long erect for us or others, and see whichever vision we must, now, as seed with better opportunities, or tricks, looking into that icy, unforgiving sky between the relinquishing Forever, and You would have all of them begging at their knees to please You across any edge of skin, bone, and slime just because You don’t know, or ever could know why You are treasured.
You would be like a carving of God, shrinking without a break to that purpose, not that wasn’t hidden and would be revealed by the end, bent and grunting over many shapes, implements, and bodies, sweating, purging, forgotten.
They’re waiting there, in the stress of purgatory as in the stress of two, fiery, lucid extremes, knowing, as we always felt they would know, as even the birds under the water know, and the threshes across all these mountains know, we brave Heaven as well as we have to brave Hell, and, knowing it again, the Mother whispers to the Daughter, “We have them good, right?,” and the Daughter looks over her brothers, notices first to how much her Mother must be akin, wide wells and swells spread far down from here in rippling nests, and faraway, kind in brood and breed and everywhere, and says,
“We should call this a holiday. We should make this a celebration now. We should make it special,” and the father, as the Father, forgetting already the spill from the ice, and the fire, and the scrapes and burns and into the forest, those glimmering days of uprising from humble Earth, Evolution, adapted to fresh comfort, like endless fields, looks up at the light, his own light, heaving in smiles, and says, “We can go wherever we want–”
We’ll be gone in the morning.

8
This morning, We are gone–

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