noedit / 1.28.24 / tongue of time

When we look back at our younger selves do we see the locust pod or the shade? When the redeemer is open and we walk upon the tongue of time do we recognize the moon? I wonder about these things I wonder about the way the sun comes in low and vanilla in the mornings and the yellow ball can be suspended in the sky and yes there is the moon while we are all sleeping. Fine by me I am cold and my hands are gloved and welcome. By the time I was nineteen I was sure that I was insane. It was a fine time and we walked by the long shells and the crabs beneath the old hedgeways that grew between our spines. This is the way the words move. This is the way we break the corpus callosum, the awesome, the woesome, the bear down there at the bottom of the garden that watches us grow eggs out of the ground. Sometimes when I am alone I walk on water. And when I come up out of the basement I am dry. This is how I know it is real. This is how I know I can grow limbs larger than locust trees that scrape the sky and gather stars from space. I am the redeemer. I am the one who understands time and how everything bends back to break upon itself in an enormous endless wave. When I am three hundred years old I will be bones. When everyone who reads this is three hundred years old they will be bones. We are smoke. I am spark. I am going over the edge of this thing and I don’t mind occasionally evaporating myself if that is what I must do. When you bet you bet big. When you bet you bet big. Only once in a few lifetimes will you find yourself flowing with the stream of something. If you do find the rhythm it is crime to leave it for others to drink. It is crime to be the deer in the garden who does not grow hooves. But what is all this but mutterance and utterance and giblet wanderings. Crimson yer movement. Crystal your watch. Be splendid if you will but be diaphanous weltering light with the crescent of a penumbra under eye. Be the black mark that fades in time. Estuaries of mysteries of glorious findings. And the split brain man does not recognize his own hand. And the split brain woman is sure that the universe is constructed only of things and puzzles and pieces that can be put together. But the right brain it knows the way everything is simply everything simply pictographic sensation that must be dissolved upon the tongue and left there until the tongue is a thing of time once more. Until the math is gone and the people who watched you move and told you never to move like that are bones in the ground as well. Until the calcium is all that we are. And the darkness is a friend like a dog that visits in the night when you are frightened. When the night is again the night itself. When the night is a cold wet nose.