Wednesday, August 24, 2011

What The Ego Dimly Senses

In a sitting position, one's thighs fan out across the chair. Why did I write that? Language is optional, meaning is not. We are all tracked, one way or the other. Fratricide remains illegal I'm afraid. Spirit see what the ego dimly senses. She said enlightenment was bullshit, just another way to glorify one's radiant personal dysfunction. We met for ice cream and it was as if we met for ice cream. Form equals pressure, content spills across a transom. An orgiami practice, a kite-making workshop, twenty sentences a day. Reference bleeds. When scaling a ladder, first you look up. What a fine teacher you turned out to be! His wedding ring fell off, rolled across a bridge, and as he pursued it, he passed an old television set, its guts hanging out, its face cracked and blistered. Consider the possibility that what we call content is just space bounded by what we agree to call form. In other words, no sentence at all. Illusory cauldrons, boot leg recipes. A box of peaches above which wasps dance, while we loll in the hammock, revisiting old kisses. Grace by whatever means necessary. We burned our marching orders, we sang as we loped across the countryside.

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