“Don’t you goof / and be a stupid goose, son. / The day is too young / to be sleeping through.”
-Parser
At the core of the heart is the heart of the heart, and it blinks like an eye but can’t see—only feel. At the cleft of each lip is the lip of the lip, and the tip of each lip of each lip is a fire on a summit. What of the body is art?
[P.] And so yeah with that the rest tumbles into order, more or less:
What am I up to?
“The Heart is a Sledge to be hammered; Life is a hammer many sledges dread.”
What am I aiming for?
“Shoot for the moon. I love ya to the moon and back.”
What is my song about?
“My song is about the journey of night. My song is a Rock of Ages. Song of my soul..”
What of night?
“What of night is not of day; what of day nor of night.”
Excepting…?
“Excepting all they persist around. The night and the day are opposition incarnate: animated: magnified.”
How do you keep singing on your soul’s song?
“Hoes do the bee fly for so long all day?”
Hmm.
“How is the day still the day with the moon in the sky? Or the night with the day in the moon’s face? How do we know anything for sure? Impossible to know for sure. I’d rather think of all the moment’s rivulets and follow aft that either way; the stream is many places. I’d rather be the duck that floats. I’d rather be the duck on the day it slows in its suspension. Suspended on the waves. Travel downstream the stream which speaks in buoyant little burbles.. Travel on down and downstream there winds up upstream from the egress into the egress of the egress.”
Oh, yes. The heart is always wont of the other side—other life: other grass greener.
“So you see, buddy. I’m not really in to be a phoenix for the Plans Bs or Cs. / I just want to chariot beacons and crash disastrously in on myself: burn whole and be born anew from a bed of black ash. This is the hero’s dilemma. This is the stem of cherr-y maraschino tied in a perfect pretzel know by the mouth of a perfectly lit angel bop prose section incarnate beautiful a moment passes over fore she’s gone and life just goes along on. / Think I could be a sail on a light boat. / Below vessel, / I move in the updraft of a curtail to a dream. / All of my worst fears taking over: being the main character of a perfectly cast film / in which all of the actors are expert / but me, / except I’m not aware it’s an act until the last scene ./ when the curtains drop / and it’s just me on an empty stage.”
…
“Bless the open sea to tempt the strongest arms”
Alas.
“Bless the night on which the heart upon the the sea embarks it.”
Ooh-la.
“Bless your heavy-handed sentiment; I’m in no need of sorrow. Tie balloons to mine and I will follow through to open sky.”
.x.
The first one is meant to really hit you. Let the bust lip burst: slow-motion sigh of shock from the blockheaded me taking blows for no reason, sitting down on the porch for a cigarette.
Maybe commercial humanity’s truest disaster was the purchase of a soul for a lifestyle. That’s a bit judgmental, dogmatic, but I could see how its vaguenesses lend to the “profoundish air” about them.