With parents, on the phone, across how many years, how many constructions of secret space laid claim to, abandoned, on the edge of false cities of the heart, given over to weeds, faded photographs: send us one.
With the child, ready for Earth and the breast of the Mother. At the junction of thighs we speak, through that thin membrane, time.
With the past, remembering that time is a living shape, that the present sculpts past, and future, and that to be here now is to see, finally, not memory’s smudged mirror, but the truth. (Eternal vigilance, then, being the price, and the reward, the revolution is somewhere between the eye and the brain. Expectation corrupts absolutely. Observe the eye puffy with longing, veined with self-absorption, or merely asleep.)
With the dead, none of that sewage of hope — mediums, apparitions, ghosts waiting in line — but “the memory of the deceased” turned to a living geography, as life is turned to dream and the resurrection of the living to construction of the global eye; in the first place, vision.
With statesmen, our list of demands: a house without walls, uncompromising architecture for the New Age; a suit of flesh that fits snugly, around the head and in the crotch; a mind, cleaned like a window, inside and out.
