palimpsest. . . . .

palimpsest. . . A manuscript, typically of papyrus or parchment, that has been written on more than once, with the earlier writing incompletely erased and often legible. . .

the coast swallows itself at high tide. . . mind swallows itself as language, pulse-throb, image-vacuum; reeling masks of time passed and the nocturnal veil of memory is lifted to a Pandora-panorama. . . the loss of sacrosanct and wild rapturous angst bounds to boundless rampage; a lazy spiritual cleansing, but effective. . . purification by fire. vietnam zen monks burning in pleads, falling in flames as people watch, listen, smell. . . just fucking watching, listening, smelling. . .

psalms. . . flights of language like summer devouring spring. . . the plunge of abrupt understanding. Awakening. . . rhapsodic. rapturous. rabid. romantic. the cruel severance of dream and youth and promise and the loss of the Sacred. . . so pretentious and abstract a word. sacrosanct. perhaps a catechism of the soul? an ephemeral will to grasp, explain, define. . . a psalm is a moment of insight into a still life, a natur morte; loss of relevance yields lucid captured comprehension. . . this sounds so fucking bleak. . . perhaps a blue psalm. a blue fugue. palimpsest. . . vanilla extracted through creams, saffron through white wine and olive oil. . . the love wrestled from a desired paramour. . . dreams writhing through the dulled eyes of a solemn wanderer; the modern pilgrim. the explorer of the distant unquestioned, disquieted and alone; wanders into a brutal winter and orders a warmed cognac, swirls the liquor studying the cascade of color, feeling his palm warm under the golden tincture.

schopenhaur's cafe. . .

schoenberg's cafe. . .

stravinsky's cafe. . . syncopated yearnings leap as a flaming fawn. . . some guy reading on the chair beside me got a hard-on. an older man, say 50 or so. . . I couldn't figure that one out.

science is a "refinement of everyday thought" said einstein. a refinement of thought. . . an ascension, elucidation of God.

the fickle nature of desire; cast into doubt, the young shepherd abandons his tribe and flock and literature to bury the corpse which was forgotten in the core of his spirit. . . putrid and unforgiving, the corpse is a burden which forever grounds him. the sheep are ill with the rotten stench, the tribe dismisses his efforts and labors as lost. . . a lost shepherd, a lost flock, a lost field, a loss indescribable. . .


Papyrus made of exotic woods. . . . . . . dead ink-blood, made from a coyote-mother’s moon-tears. . . .