their want.
Hard lines invade, destroying basic health.
Vendors sell food where the boys were killed the night before.
Of all times old and new, unrecognizable to all their own better selves—stranger to their ideal hopes—when younger they all lived as if everything was simply the way that it was and not as if it was also everything before and after. How could they know the violence? How could they know their own innocence? Now those living are numb to their own notes. Now the dead are regretting their simple happiness while living.
There is a hollow pledge to drum upon. But the history is simply historical.
There are those that have found what seemed as though it were comfort—felt by the sick when believing the stories of sick storytellers. There is a need for influence to be expunged. Getting away from what seems the inevitable plateau: the dead forest of tragic arid hearts, not a wondrous landscape. There is an ardently felt possibility of vision that has turned to unfelt winding limbs, hidden away—asleep from the lulling falling leaves; the sensation is a blunted lilting confusion. There is a need to discard your safe self and relearn the smile of—to find the glossy light between the lines of separation.
If the heartbeat returns to a relaxed speed after so long, the feeling is horrific.
Pictures of your gums as a choir of cooperative genitals; feelings of needles in your embarrassed young teeth that chime melodies to you; you dig around your need your whole life, bloodying your feet with swiping pick strums; stained toes collect themselves in a small but furious revolution, playing tiny pianos.
An insular figure begins to find a tune. There is a sea and a land beyond it, and the figure knows the lyrics live there. Beneath the sea are the depths of sounds. The figure disturbs the ways of the water in the flowing sea to find the reclusive nature of.
Tastes of colors—sounds of moving lights—touching what is musical; the figure finds that the good in music touches us.
A large backyard garden once moved as an animal with each of its dozens of different plants moving as different parts of the same whole. There flew a melody through its center, and there was percussive rustling around its perimeter. It all moved in intimate rhythm and sang in shining harmony. Children played around it peacefully, and crafts were made that expressed their joy. The garden and the children sang together and at the same time whispered over their singing voices; the children were told secrets that they would forget until they were much older but were still given a permanent and inexpressible sense of awe that helped lead them until the time when they could rediscover their secrets.
Tasting dust kicked up from gravel road, turning down a small pathway lit by thin sun rays behind weathered buildings of many different once bright colors—in this quick moment of quiet, a culmination of parts become personality and devour the person, slaughtering its intimates, yet finding the love of many.
Admonish the singer, for the song is not the singer’s. The singer must walk into the garden where there is vegetation thirsting for human blood—sanguine, sanguinary.
Is it possible for us all to find sanctuary?
They tie themselves together in cooperative bondage, timing the pulled ropes so that they lock as to at once be held together where there is no more free movement—where there is finally a moment beyond moments—finally a togetherness beyond relationship. Harnessed, bodies hanging high above the ground, outside of own skin.
What I see in myself is all the kindest and the most brutal qualities.
When I heard of the death, I screamed. Then, I thought how ridiculous that kind of response was, and I was upset and angry about having responded in that way. Then, I was angry with myself for being angry. But then, I thought of the person who had died, and I realized that I had only been thinking of myself the whole time. Even my screaming was for and because of myself.
I feel a coldness and a heat that destroys enjoyment. I feel a coldness and a heat that is enjoyment and nothing else. Where, if anywhere, is the separation of my enjoyments and destructions from others?
Questions drown out the music. When do we really hear a song?
Dancing begins with ears feeling the tingle of nearly a thousand feet. Then bodies whisper movement. At once there is a flowing expression of celebration, pleasures’ contracting stretched muscles. We can touch the nuances of each individual sensuality. Flesh responds to the feeling of flesh.
Our criticisms of others true or not present themselves as violent outbursts towards us. We struggle to relearn how to start to listen when we think we know too much to let the sounds approach us.
Does it matter who these people are that play these songs? What is it that we are listening to?
Suddenly we all attack each other—ripping off skin. There is no blood. Everyone is found to have a smooth flesh of a glowing florescent color. There is no panic but rather a sense of relief. When the first person opens their mouth, there comes out the sound of another’s voice singing. Every time anyone opens their mouth, actually, each time the sound that comes out is of a different voice singing—someone else’s voice, with no boundaries of time, place, sex or language. This goes on for a very long time. And every couple months or so each person also erupts into a magnificent flashing show of lights and varying colors lasting about a week.
When their mouth is opened and singing, each person can experience fully the mind of the other person whose voice is flowing from their mouth. Gradually everyone comes to a new way of thinking and feeling in tune with their needs of understanding. All of this stopped only after each person opened their mouth enough times so that there was an experience of every single person who ever lived from everywhere there ever was.
Suddenly again, it all went back to normal. Time had not passed more than a half a breath, and each person didn’t remember what happened or that this happens all the time without anyone knowing.
But it changes things—though perhaps only slowly and not much more than slightly.
Our sharp teeth flare, and we push with our gently guided weight the abusers into submission.
We relearn our innocence and forgive the innocent for hearing only innocence.
We find our ability to hear, and we are cautious with our aging selves.
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