1. Prelude To The Prelude:
He thrives in chaos. He thrives. He thrives.
“Same old demons, hello. I’ve slain this balrug before,
I’ll slay it again.” He chimes.
The dead gardener, having said good bye to the company of the gimlet consumed,
Lets out an exasperated smile– a weary that doesn’t reach
The eyes of the unproductive dream-killers as it does their feet–
The feel of their ankles that are stone-cold like more forks in the righteous road–
Only that the roads are cunning– Only that the roads are different.
The roads are ever such revisionists. So be everything that is different here.
He thrives in heart break, and roads of honey, and rage in labor,
For labor is the only thing that ever mattered.
Labor is the only satisfactory answer.
With the pike inching, with the pike that collides,
He thrives. Looking for the answer to the Ein Sof withering,
He thrives. He thrives. He thrives.
2. The Opening of the Minute Mouth, Thriving:
Are you prepared to break your heart?
Are you prepared to sell your soul to keep the body safe?
Are you modest enough to expect nothing and accept some things
As higher works of art by a higher form of god?
The unknown god whistles, waiting to be discovered,
Waiting to be written about.
Will you write about it?
Will you declare it with your blood?
Little bloodhound away from Taguig,
I see men, but they look like trees, walking
Fruitlessly. I beg the unknown insect almighty for inspiration
Raw and real and riveting.
Taking in turns, I transform myself into a revisionist.
But I swear to you, nothing about that boy is real.
That boy has wings. That boy believes every flower is an altar.
Being-of-age sewed my soul. I can only extort so much from my heart,
But my heart, really, is what keeps me alive. Weakened hawker,
I have a pulse because you keep me beating. (Although peeping, most days.)
O’, the hubristic lip you crafted, hear it! Hear it lying, telling
Three versions of the songs praising time with the nearest thing that bloomed.
Hear it singing and collapsing. Hear it buzzing from your sides,
Matron from my make-believe nightmare. My house, my guilty house
Infused with church-sounds and works of Voltaire and various behaviorals,
Succumb. Succumb, you,
From and of pursuants, from and of their treatise and truants,
Fire-crackers and fireflies and the many other times you told me nothing of the ordinary
Will be ordinary compared to what is mine– What was built to be mine.
(But I want to build more than the sweet antidote. I want something else to taste.
I’m prepared never to sacrifice these wings. I’m prepared to work and work.)
Everybody out there, trying to entertain. Me, I am in your pocket. At night, on your lap. We are intimate.
We are the heroes we’ve read about incarnate. We are souls that have been lost but always forgiven by time.
Time has forgiven me. It’s heyday when the house does the same.
It’s in the writing that, from the house forgotten, I am to fly. So fly, I will,
Away, and away, and away.
(The Era of the god of the dogs is all but over, but here come the next: acquisitions of the best, the sibling, the sweetness and richness and calm that is known not to Kings but to kin. Say hello to the tangerine being with the barter bomber-jacket. Welcome to The Era of The True Bee-Keeper. Believe me you, he sins the new sins.)
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