Feb. 18th, 2014

The storms have no legs
You know, I saw this in a drunken wandering, in a vision. Beneath sweat lodge sheets. Between debauchery and dogma, between gnosis and Maya. Me, playing amanuensis to silent spaces. Me, mumbling in the cold about signs and portents, rolling my eyes wildly at passersby and sundry et ceteras, stopping at street corners for long minutes staring at ice and retreating shadow waiting to see how sunlight might begin to subtly change snow texture- even before obvious melting- some indication of impending phase change.
Watching that terminator slow crawl across the World- nothing more banal, really, than unpunctuated inevitability! You know. Sisyphus had it bad but at least there was some structure for fucks sake at least that rock provided some drama.
But, hey, listen, here we are skipping stones and they just keep going. Ten, twenty, a hundred times skimming that surface tension before fading over horizon. Because
The World is curved away from you in all directions, hiding its vast majority in snake oil. Using shark toothed cold readers like bloody sock puppets to manufacture consent: to sew the arc between lust and complicity, between doubt and sublimity. To make us all recorders of silence and witnesses to nothing.

The World doesn't want you to know that silence lies.
The World doesn't want you to know that you can fill the empty spaces.
The World doesn't want you to know that it is as vulnerable as you are and twice the coward.

I howled into those silences. Frantic, incanting exegesis, eager and clumsy. I heard a reply. I walked through a door.

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