What is it that is flooding through the circulatory system of sentience? It’s unlike the blood of history … splash art in all the wrong places … and seems more like a solid strange fire than any liquid fluency of even enchanted communication. As a psycho-geezer and veteran crosser of countless blown thresholds, it has me almost dead in my tracks. And I am not alone.
In the flash market of each disappearing moment certain avenues/arteries are clogging up with absurd symbols of old-time sensational habit. Like globs of fat meeting a fire which is also fat. Through all of which a star-flow of real connexion remains deeply eventful and unaffected.
Coming in, just now, from a snowy trek for provisions I am recalling meeting a friend … out there! … who has just set up a reality-improv group which he is calling VoyBom. I took part in the opening gig so he asked me what I thought of it. I said something along the lines of it being both like life and not like life and realized that that is, for me, the description of the whole caboodle right now. The absence or presence of likeness being a prelude to the end of simile and the realization of metaphor. And in the holy code of oneness, metaphor is only a backdrop.
Tonight my beloved and I will be at the birthday celebrations of a rare beauty on earth, dancing as little flames happy to be totally blown away. And all of this remains all of this till ‘our demonstration’s done’. No sooner or later. Or even whenever. Just a moment of rhyming in the dog poet’s last verse.
