The Zhuangzi woodwinds
of the earth are practicing tonight.
Whatever sounds
appearing in tonight’s Fantasia aren’t in any way my doing.
This, that, these, and
those are not demonstratively dissimilar.
The sorcerer’s
apprentice is following this low and powerful intent.
This is always that—but
that is never this—although if truth be spoken—this is only that because that.
The wind cries holy Mary
mother of that absolute unknown and blessed is one among the universe and
blessed is the fruit of your imagination!
In the beginning is the
butterfly and everything to come is shaped by special effects.
In the name of love the
tongue of sky is kissing this holy country of nameless depths,
Martians and werewolves
and lovers oh my!
Out of its angelic silence, the wind is whispering in a
still great voice—the unknown is, the unknown is, the unknown is—and I am that.
At this age, I have to be told what to write although I only
listen to my self.
Orange green and black or white the sky is blue the sun is
red in violets growing royal flush i love you—love you—love love love!
If division, love. If one, three. Eastern white pines in a
northwest gale.
Four. Love the unbelievable and the universe is yours!
Jesus Mary and Joseph, how many hurricanes and earthquakes
or lifelong heartbreaks do i have to say the way is love stop—love death—love
stop
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