What has become of the process


Indignantly dispersed luminosity: transfixed, transpired, traversed. Words march in triumphant rhythm, lame and dumb soldiers towards expansive nothingness. Negation is movement, too. The befallen mass does not belie the natural truth, the omnipresent, prescient cogito. Sapere aude. Unnatural to those who pervert and shit upon nature with their plastic gods. Transfiguration murmurs in my dream; the poetry of the vision and movement that is mine. And yours, if you placed your ears to the air, souls to vibrated voice of all natural space.

I laid out upon the stones, sprawled and naked to bathe in silver light. I was not alone. Kate, open and free and dying, beside. June in the air, on a star, in a slithered beam. Elisabeth drowned in the distance. And so I was alone after all. God in all things. Not alone.

All washed out in black waves. Redeeming light now dim, dead. Kate and June together, alive, within. All chaos. All love. There is present another. All alone now, again. All god away in the dusk, night. Opal opaque night. Redemption drowned with Elisabeth without sound, or motion, or attempt. Alone, alone. All present; alone.

And so I wrote the words.


About grasshopperstothemoon

“Two things awe me most, the starry sky above me and the moral law within me.”
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