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December 31, 2007 | | Comments 0

Nighttime and Daytime

December 31, 2007

Nighttime and Daytime; this world is both simultaneously all the time, in this moment there is lifting light and sifting dusk, all that is planned lands and that which is not supposed to happen takes off and flies…

Whatever transpires was already deceased within its birth, though the being who implied its meaningfulness moves on, into the mouths of those whispering its legend, its extinct, yet passionate ritual within the sown together hearts of exact lovers, the quiet recognition that this pathway we clear also grows over at night while we’re asleep, dreaming of the perfection of deathless safaris and leading its livingnesses,

where one understands the ‘he’ and ‘she’ cannot go back, not for fear of turning to salt, not for fear of anything… simply for the action of standing still on a circular planetary body, one whose drama too ceases in this sort of stillness, when the space between opposing forces is given reign to the heart,

is given the deepest love ones enduring can muster together with bent sowing needles, paper thin thimbles and quivering hands so to repair god’s elbow pads; not because they need it, simply to do something underneath the fact that their on the table, silently anchoring the weight of its owners becoming, its cuppedness within both palms belonging to the arms, bequeathed to the bends in both roads called ‘elbows’.

Yes, those strings whose only final puppet master is conscience and how one follows its pausing breathing next to the inner ear mark, the dovetailed prayer hands of ones own, pointing downwards, towards what the sky’s so called ‘heaven’ is but a reflection, a borrowed palace of endeavoring wishes and wantings, far away from the settlement of the infant ‘right there’, the elderly rocking chair ‘right there’, moving, glistening looking, being,

one gripping tight the swan shaped hand rests of the rocker, as standing up is a daily exercise towards private sainthood, while the other, gripping tight its rattle, as standing up is a daily exercise towards private sainthood…

The hearts headache, whether it be as the mind says ‘inexperienced’, no mind, for what the heart dares to endure, the mind always envy’s;

the treacherous passion of realizations and the omnipotent ignorance of knowing so much about everything humans ought not to do, not to ask permission of Space itself for that sort of pause whom allows only love to exist and wisdom to flourish in the conscious permission of another’s recognition of a blessing

and the hurriedness of passing time escaping the setting suns shadows, going to the next sunrise party; round and round the melancholy-go-round spins while an early springtime wasp nest becomes dizzy with the Dance of Instability

and whoever the couple ‘is’ that’s competing to see who can spin it the most rotations is, by fairytale law, chased into a nearby pond, to explore themselves again, to go beneath the surface

and smiling at one another under there they see in a flash what it was that Adam and Eve struggled to achieve getting caught at so to have more room to play,

that love who does not respond to reward and punishment, taking and giving back, fear and enjoyment, planning and lists, enjoying the future of its possibilities rather than those of its present being of itself…

the love that nearly drowns forgetting its in a body whilst it begins to sing underwater, still trying to make love on its deathbed…

Deathless be,

Kindred clouds, the coldness of the bamboo doorway, then, the blazing smoldering belonging to the brightest green moss carpets lining nearby, unmankinded streams, veins warmed by a lightning strike, unrecorded, not seen,

only felt by a muskrats whiskers and a suspended sleeping salamanders slumping sudden awakening, its orange belly twirling towards the bottom of an unraked pond, like a broken corkscrew still stuck in an unopened bottle of wine, tossed into the ocean for the sake of not struggling so much to have a romantic time that it becomes a project, a projection of an already established dream, whose stopwatch reconciliation is set two seconds ahead of ones alarm clock…

Alive,

to find it out, to recall, to remember… the invention of the masterwork-memory and its competitiveness for the present, always unfinished painting, this now…

Snow, altitude, rain, salt deserts… a black and white lioness and lion, her rapture, his decapitation…

No trespassing signs answer the prayers of the frozen, while the twin triad, step-brothers to the Three Graces lick the iron saturated liquid from the scimitar dripping…

On the edge of everything stands waiting simply the edge and no more; it is the line that continues down the cliff side and out into the meadow… this counts , giving infinity a place to walk;

pregnancies never occur without some form of agreement, regardless of its hosts occupation or state of affairs; heaven and hell alike have duplicate keys to this planet, both began together, having started their paces face to face,

straight through one another they leapt at the ether like a chocolate lover a forest of cacao trees in full drooping bloom…

Togethernesses; eyelight to eyelight, deep smiles that start with the eyes first and the mouth last, deep laughter which moves vertically through all the organs and stays huffing and puffing up on the skin like a lizard does upon a warm boulder’s experience of an Indian Summers orgasm…

We all touch the prayer rolls, giving them a roundabout conversation surrounding the circumstances of our heart’s sudden ‘seem-so’ final weight set up on the scales belonging to the jackal, whose cackling like an old man’s dementia from fishing too long in a dried up swimming pool…

his bait, a blank sheet of paper, the intermittent breezes glancing it off and on upon thousands of upright pencils, glued all round the swimming hole’s surface, doodling with that space between regret and daydreaming…

Regardless of the ability to read, speak or comprehend the rules and regulations of this unregulated and ruleless world, the hand reaches out nonetheless and lives its bewildered duty, loves, listens and oftentimes losses itself in a snorescape of Somethingelse’s seance,

those rites of passages unlit by commonplace and commonsense, though there, stepping through humannesses, even staying overnight for free while the innkeeper naps, its pillow a thick phone book, its mattress the library of congress, its sheets and blankets, fear and elation…

Getting and having gotten,

Fortunes philanthropically bad breath, needy enough to seduce the mint-sprites to stay longer, to invest and put up with heirlooms and unfulfilled wills, waiting in strong boxes for the last hiccup, the exhale, the blinkless lover-glazed gazing forwards, the forefinger print straying from poignancy to squiggly recuperation from so much mortality,

so much that the steam is on the other side of the lover’s windowpane, not inside where it ‘should, could or would’ have been only if it had just done more with more less and less more…

Laying down at night, we are the stars who have somewhere chosen to endure having been those exact ones who were wished upon when seen descending from a ‘just the moment ago unrecognized static introduction of light’

or was it something else that fell and not a star?

What if ‘falling stars’ are not falling at all?

What if a falling star is simply one lovers airplane-love-note being tossed to another?

The mirror is breathing,

panting like a dog, it shows us ourselves by the utility of having licked a stray pane, by-in its unconditional earth-blindness it attempts to heal with silver saliva or tear it apart, as bored canines do, when the ‘framework’ does not respond expectantly;

the mirror,

falling off in an earthquake, giving birth to hundreds more You’s, breathing shards, outside the geometric, free, some facing up towards heaven, others facing down towards heaven

and Love, that elemental who allows all the others to exist as labeled and empowered, saturated with knowledge and projects, yet longing at the edge of their razor sharp wit’s end’s ability to only cut, severing The Now into two distinct theories, one of Just Then and the other of Just Wait…

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