who is prepared? who has concentrated, cared enough to contemplate the consequent events and act around them as they come? (yes: around, not against–it does no good to thrust your fists. destinies, they are not drums.)
we carve our names in would. we couldn’t help but err, we know, we [t]enders of the arc. our spark is spare, our hunger hard; we guard this space and hang our heads. we are the indeterminate dead. our lungs are empty of air. we grow our hair no longer. once we struggled, and were stronger. soon we’ll be gone, as pawn becomes queen and trades life in one line for license in any. we’ve seen few worlds and dreamed of many.
what we seek is buried water, and here that means what hides and flows. the crust that covers it over is what everybody knows. so: the spiral tide of blood inside a vessel caked with plaque; the sympathetic sting when knights in white take bishops black; the con[centri]catenation (called control) of conscioustreams; and most of all, the diamonds dusk and dawn design, and men mistake for dreams.
the stumbl[ung]e from sidewalk to sky to ceiling seen through sanded eye–that’s the force that pulls the fork and tells us here. st[r]uck in between the worlds, tucked in between the sheets, the sense that speaks in ripples tells us riven rock is near.