NON-LINEAR EQUATION (SURFS-UP)
T.. you must have been hiding under the paradise/equation…tried to call and the discovery that I would have to go between an army of ants/ no response/no message// near is a mirror and far into the silver / floating on the screen as I listen to Canto Velosa …film track and tracking my mind (Talk to Her) is
that correct + is it possible… talk to her…talk through her… talk in her…it is all mirror in phrased fragments…there is no hope…no volume…no discord…no memory…plant a herb.. plant an equation…we are on this earth to evaporate / become
Zen and the art of nothingness…lovers love between the cloud white sheets / you can fly anywhere for an imaginary pearl in the Japanese sea of reef…the water is a turquoise message..
the architect cuts the glass / the artist discovers the pieces / the writer works as an anthropologist / one has to apologize for telling the truth…there is no beginning and most sure no middle…the wave sucks all lust into the surfers feet…breaking a wave is a summer wish…a tent pitched on the sand…a tit on the grain…a bubble and drowning…to surf(ace) and know that to be alive is more than any equation / painting / music / writing…we are so seduced and there 4 continue…suck my brains out he screams in the condom of the mind…she going for pregnancy and the rape of a genesis…the myth of glory and the felled soldier of any war…the mothers tears are the flood of Noah…an animal here and an animal there…i once went searching for the mountain…found an english .adventurer.. recovered myself into the fire of the night ..the only light in
the village…played flute, hallucinating , the flute played me…and recorded all in my journal. I just remembered that no one robbed me…the most holy experience I have been anointed with. I floated on a sand storm…the mountain vanished and something else appeared…that must be the Way…the Truth…there is no moral /meta 4 her…a norwegian non-sequence…”beg my pardon” the hill man from Kentucky spit…’there is a pardon and there is
a Parton” …I am motionless…she is screaming for pleasure, 4 knowledge 4 you. That is why they invented . Com…come again and again…he is now screaming, bleeding , the hemorrhage of the heArt…touch of dust……..awake screams the light, the tree,
the morning bird that reminds me of a bread crumb. or is it me that reminds myself that I did not feed the crumb to the bird that knows no flower. It is really all song…i contribute in my own way ..that is how we get along in ignorance…the bird thought my saxophone was a peacock…a white peacock…a blind peacock.. a deaf peacock.. a lark…i called myself to insure myself that I am myself…i thought
of sand dunes in Tripoli…Sahara sand castles on the Mediterranean, sand castles of the ant catcher…Invisible cone shaped architecture in the grains in front of me…i waited for ten minutes for something to appear…it was more clever than I …I disappeared before the curtain went up…this is the story of my life, the impatient art of being…of desire of burning…how and in what choreography should one await the invisible ant eater…the preying mantis. You write about it, so
I demand an answer, you demand an action…a Truth…and we await.. the truth is the Truth spelled any way you can imagineeee..
Rnaylor 03