There was enough time to
compose a poem. I could have written about my barren lifetime, my Orgone days,
my fleckless sunrises, my unknown carved stone mistress—her face a Pygmalion of
frenetic tulpas—what has happened in the span of the lion and I's torrid walk
among the desert? Or was it the water before that? I don't know when, but her
face had faded: all I remember were hazy fashionings: an uptight architecture
of bones scaffolding the face, chipped away emotions—the way she held together
bits of spirituality to make an articulation, but it all didn't make a
difference—it still failed, it didn't last longer than a carpenter's cry into
the Mohammedan Sun. That is to say, the myth we had ritualized and methodized
(Monday Tuesday Wednesday...) had come apart, fragmented into a sea of
nonsensical, stationary components that floated apart in the bygone yesteryear
of my loneliness. It's been like this before and it will be this way again—this
circle I named with a hallucinated Anima fascination: I'll carry its stutter
to my grave. I'll paint it on the marble corners that line the casket of my
spirit. I'll make new stars. And then...and then...and then...This disjunctive
synthesis completes a process of painting my ruddy and damned soul white again.
I brought the lens of my
diamond eye to bear on the approaching viscera Pisces woman of faith. She
floats on the water! But oh, she floats not close enough—the illusion was a
marred with an abstract contusion that signaled a glitch somewhere in the
periphery of that machinery I call my dreams. Eh. Close enough: the woman, she
was blind. She said Hello in a confident echo, knowing I was there, sensing it
against the relapse of inertia in the background desert.
Can you take me to the
city of Water?
Yes.
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