FEATHERED HEART

Mass hearts in ones and twos. Coming to wrap the blanket around. Lying beside a fireplace going. Is this all you want to do today? That’s fine. We can talk about anything at all. We can talk about spacetime, and lift the cancer from the creases. We can walk outside just to feel a little warmer inside. The mass prize is a lady love, who undulates sequins of gold. What truth buys is a cheap thing. Trick to our own mind our own mind; we don’t mind. Radiate like-sense and hold. You do not have to do it alone.

Preparest.

“You do not have to do it alone.” When she holds me.

In to carest of the vehement light. Takes me whole back under assumption. To mark on the barest of dreams what the mind suffers—what the mind wants from the cold universe: love. Love you haven’t worked for. Love you haven’t earned. It is no telling now how hurt you will be. But to brace for the oncoming wholeness of white squares of suds upon the sheer falling water before plummet, leading up to the light crest of the cliff where the water waterfalls… who knows. The tablet our God marked reads “NO CONTEXT” and is bright. Incisions of lightning perfectly formed where the words are. The most beautiful trip yet to be taken is death. I know this. We all do. But the terra forma of light. Can you see behind your eyelids? There is a wily sight: a doe getting lost in the forest; a hammer of humid dew on the leaves at night; mid-morning now-heres and hares bouncing out of frame to fight the earth in their running game. Trip us up when you know you’re all alone.

Divinest lest you sees never og one. Proper way to care a fee isn’t taken. I know; I’ve been on the way, into night—into bleak night—and fallen. I have fallen for the world of May and June and July and August often. Wait in the way notes have fallen, too, down from heaven to my bleary eyes. I notice there are things I am missing in the work of things. I notice there are steps I haven’t taken. But would my older self, should he exist, bear to be bedridden at the keen of sight? Would none of this happen to exist if I weren’t open? Who would be able to tell, if you were a lobe of hair? Or a stripped-down car in the winter getting rusted. Piled with snow. Who would want to restore the driver’s seat?

I feel I sometimes say these things because in reality I don’t know. I feel sometimes I trick myself into believing that that is the case—that I don’t know. And I don’t know which is the truth is the reality. Reality. Not one of these bites in me has hurt me yet. Dwindle old while you smile. Call up an old friend and have a gab about the weather or something. We can stay in here all day. We do not have to go outside.

Blare weird canned audio into your eardrums. Let the simmering of the feudal night get so damn loud you have to put your hands over your ears. You have to somehow block it out—the boiling whistle of the moon’s apparatus. A hole in the sky through which light through which light. Pair a social sequence in which we talk together to what didn’t exist: the mirror dream in your mind where your eyes… yes, over the course of time, yes, the utterly….

In this sequence, too, appropriate the odds and test. Not even one of us has waken up yet. Not even one of us. We are all asleep clutching death flowers. Wreathed in Lagonis in and stretched.

I made up a world where—

No, stop it. No. “I don’t know.” Stop it.

—The same sort of face you made at the sickness in the eaves was made at me, with some side-eye, and I wasn’t really able to tell altogether if it was caused by the breaths or the heft of the space I was. Or something else entirely I don’t know. I don’t know. A lot lately, it seems like. I am trying to get this thing out by 11:59, and it is now 11:50. This exercise in nonsense may be taking its toll. I don’t know. I am becoming like that babbling ugh—stop it. Yes. There are brooks they would lend light. Cold-cold plunges in a slow-moving river. With snow landing atop your head as you stand there feet-only-soaked in the water. Watching the ones who decided to plunge for good luck in a new year do so, and wonder. Why, at the pain in your feet, why can, why can’t. Only this or mortal heaven’s known. Barely able to touch it back: that feeling that comes from the outside, where God must be reaching his hand in to pat you on the back. I don’t—no. There are lechers screaming my name in another language wondering where I am, in another world, about this hindsight. I am not really there; I am only sleeping; I am wondering who in the world is on the hindsight.

I am keeping time with the second-hand and staring catatonically into wild eye of the storm up above me as the winds cave in. I do not know where I’ve become what I’ve become because nothing in the feathered heart wants me to know, truly: where I am or what I’m doing. And so, lost like this code, I wander in between liminal states with a paranoia I am missing something. Wondering all the time “no,” no, “no.” There are treatments.

Can you not take even a slight second to merely appreciate—the height of the hand over the flame or lack thereof if you’d like. My feathered heart wondering what is going on and just marveling nonsense despite wayward ocean fells the upper slip down humbled fright not to wantward over the echo, go.