(Even) Kings Give Breathless Speeches

Running, he cannot keep pace with the ponytailed girls who whiz past him on the bank of the nervous river, but that does not bother him, he's in it to be exceeded

My new sublime tonight, is you, accepting yourself, he rehearses a conversation no one is equipped to have between him and his confession

It's as if there are sensors in the word sublime, and in the feeling, the hot blue mend of it, that guarantee its limits within the unlimited paths to admission I chose as-fast-as-you-can

And whatever you may be, you are not an animal, you are not a body, because these are verbal labels, vertical ones. Forged singularities. (Dear wind up bird, did someone forget to wind your Spring)The is of identity always carries the assignment of permanent condition.To keep that way, or even belong that way to the exclusion of all others. All naming presupposes the 'is' of identity, the possession. 'In a hieroglyphic language this is unnecessary and often omitted. No need to say the sun is in the sky, sun in sky suffices.' I can see it.

So you must be prepared to prove at all times that you are what you are not. Otherwise you're good at being looked at, rather than being seen

The sky is at the sun--seeing

high, yellow. I-am-the-black-gold-of-the-sun...affirmations that language holds us captive (in that we all know there will never be peace, pieces of air in the epic, contestants in the running not-so-fast pageant against visibility

And inevitably... 'what is this revolution about, end game, new games? There are no new games from here to eternity'

And inevitably... new songs in the old forms, old songs in the new forms, blank songs in the blank forms, I let no song go out of my heart, not one song is gone from existing because you stopped playing it

Censorship is the root of mutations. Freedom from freedom. That which can't happen will become what can and not through change or chances you are my chances are, the dice under his running, feet at a slant, 'my heart forms tiny confidential dots' in the place we stop stepping-in these make a rhythm. Sun, sun, sun, sun, sun, sun, sun, one sky with no title but to rise