Monday, March 29, 2010
what if we reached out and tampered with them. twist the darkness in fingers composed of plateaus. ever so slightly detached from the body. ground holding the word who might we be to ourselves. in sleep i invented her death. Great death gives way and uprepares us. nothing imagined or imaginable. what does not change is the magic formula we are all seeking. patterns crossing and recrossing. a time without rhythm losing the taste of hands. we remain on the fringe of tongue. a cultivation of sores upon the buddha. a myriad of roads some straight some curved and narrow. invisible and in complete control you must lay down your luggage.