temple

sometimes our hearts are vacuums, yet we still try to pump out silk and fabric - weave them together so blithely so, molecules of strings vibrating in a space of air; tranquilize that organ, steal that masterpiece: sweeter things are when lost, as dust they turn to when you hold it in your hand, while in your head they rise to the heavens when vaporized. it's enough to split the dust and examine it, wondering where the love went. it's still there. it's a trick of the head, the trick of false firings and waving white flags. a kind of dazed state of mind, a kind of heat. perspicuous arguments magnetize sweat from the forehead, perspicacious and penetrating judgement generates truths that "knaves may twist to make a trap for fools"; no shadows of talk can trick the child who fearfully hides under the blanket, yet fear is there nonetheless.

'this is an internal dialogue between you and me. something between a cry for help and a prayer of peace.'

the skull becomes more porous at night, even more so when you clasp your hands together and bow down to think to the universe (think 'to', the preposition, yes, because we are sending thoughts there, like the french 'y penser'). drums also slow their beat - esp. the one inside you, rims need tightening in sleep so the rim shot can sparkle tomorrow; narrow time and black words are plastered by the drumbeats and rhythms, and we read the words by feeling with our breath.

a gift of productivity - I am grateful, and you should be too, each time I think to you at night. unfortunately the feeling of the black words plastered across the heart string rhythms is one-way, non polynomial time, so one of us never knows if the other has felt the tune, tasted the rhythm, tapped the beat. all the more reason to continue singing, tapping, playing, so that silk and fabric might become a garment for the porous skull that thoughts keep dripping out of.

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thinking too much of myself recently, imagining and dreaming; need to cloak my identity from my conscious, listen for the sound of brooks despite the waterfall.

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poets search for humdingers in their works, to spellbound the audience; incantation in writing is a sin, but colored truths are acceptable.

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trills and vocals
why not mark our feelings with verbs? run, fall, dash, crumble. categorize your life into the slow directory and the fast trajectory. cd .. && rm -r destroy && mkdir destroy && cd destroy && cmake .. && make && ./destroy and rinse and repeat. sharpen your tongue with dialects only written, never spoken.