Blood Red Roses

Reason spots the resemblance between emptiness and the progressive rendering of an aura. For
several years now I have considered words and phrases in isolation, but have fallen short in
being able to construe what they mean. While I judge this failure a failure of skill, whatever the
character of that skill, or who should be its possessor, I move along to the next zone, lured by
chimes. Behind me, the eye and the ear form themselves into a matrix out of which time exhibits
specific modes. There are six modes in all. Three are illimitable. One is formless. Start with
that. In the pleasant light of glossy skin I view everything in hindsight. The mystery that brings
me to this moment cultivates a feeling of persistence that stretches out for examination before it
flutters away. Things that no longer exist labor to find the place where words turn into thoughts
and thoughts turn into people. Instinct counsels against talking to them. Their faces and bodies
are changing in ways I can’t follow. When I’m gone they’re still here, but they’re different,
more aggressive, more acquisitive, impatiently acquiescent in third-party efforts to fund them.
Inside daylight a false daylight waits, and they are drawn to it. They have no power to retain
their own structure, and have been advised that this is the case. They eat burnt flies’ wings and
bed down on diatoms. Overlooking their lunar otherness, I catch glimpses of sandy shapes,
walking or crawling. Beyond them, whalefish blow, and I see a cold gem ripening.