One for the Emerald Formula

You realize you're at all stages at once, that everything is symbolic, it all slams together like cymbals swallowing the air. Some seduction. The best and the clumsiest. Kisses the metal fold of itself in ignorant merriment.  I meant the rare, the Ra/the area knot, rock top/\mounted and calling your own name into the canyon to tell you, you love you--- now do you follow or do you lead and whatnot? And what not to believe is what to feel—they be telling one another secrets, the symbols for mules and horses and us riders be picking up on it and trying to play dumb alongside some chump companion/symbol for country-of-forms in a nation of formulas: lust and luck and lust and luck. Now have you ever seen a voice walking? And this particular god, he improvises on what you'll say . What are you saying?  Make it plain and unknowable like your mother's first love. The sensation of it tucked in your DNA like a promise or a doubt or both: victory. The quietest place in the universe is in the middle of the war when you really go for it again, and sing, really sing, the inverse battle hymn jubilee you bled my momma, you bled my papa, won't bleed me! and finally truly begin picturing everyone you meet like a golden million dollar baby, especially the way we paw at the air waiting for love to trust us just enough to abandon us and return as someone we hardly recognize walking out of the fog like some kinda negro cobra 8-belled Ulysses and holding you in the high note