1. “wake up, snare-setter, / in the snare / spacious, like chance” (Arkadii Dragomoshchenko)
And sometimes I do, wake up. St. Sebastian pinned as a still-life with crystal lances, a clarity. But that is catching too, and refracts. “I think that what I thought when I was thinking that, at least in thinking of it now, I am thinking that I thought it…” and so on. Crystal lances. Thoughts refracting. The occasional conviction. (Which we call certitude).
The margins within margins, windows in reflection.
Every image being an entrance through which we exit. From.
I call this “letting actually resonate.” This being, activity, thinging we do.
If I stand still, so to speak, I form a spiraling vortex, an enormous vacuum. What is: portal and Black hole every now. With.
Prepositions being ever-so-important, say “sign-ificant,” that they deserve their own sentencing.
I’ll never know what it is “to write.” If only because it questions. Every word. In.
I can think of it as a working, out, but that is far from any truth I can conceive. “the second part elusive” with each toggle of a term.
Gravity enforcing force, to fly.
I’ve never been fond of violence, but how else might we change? Or even move? On.
A recent well-organized text I perused and then ate, mentioned dialetheia as a two-way truth; or, “true contradictions,” that is, in one. Word. Split with a twin. Comparison as congenital doubling. Of difference. Equals such same.
We look toward what can be seen. Compromised and concealed by a frame. Otherwise unseen. Learn, therefore, (through your senses), in-visibility. Dialetheia.
We do (many of us) love to be astonished, after all. With.
If there are more parts to this I haven’t found them. They’re either too large or too small. I’ll have to wait. I’m unable. Nothing living waits. Patience is pretense, pretend. Waiting, is searching; patience, is longing. Loss is implicit.