because of humility there is a tree that makes pulses for the star wind’s parables and the dogs marked by the sign of the end of words, an explosive visual contaminant which parallels a motion through the Sun by another name. even if the neutral mode of walking or its derivative, the exit contained attention which does not verbalize the earth in its oblong and initializing visit to the lambs, this makes the walking two lines short of symbolic clouds. with each traded door of the bodies, with their motion protected and split but also below the force in the traveling shards by the light, to make a trade in faces more than the settlement or as they were to collect and divide the visit to emotional paths and knowledge packets, the bodies there moving in their walking filters and a running conversion by mathematics and flowers, as one deletes its own for the famishing violence of each of the layers of feet, they militarize the shattered quadrant with red tombs and the ferns that do not produce the soft allure of the treeless savanna for fear. each of them paint on the introvert as the silence in hir chamber believes that bullets might return to the cage for the oblivious, and that one daily intention fades to market the human capitalizations and their recursive lies like the flies of no food. but the find in that the animal smooths in its equal lesson to water, in the earth attended to by the far promising braids that another tribe attends to as no one to the service calls or decides by losing agency, for one and seven by the river magnets climbing up over the edge of the canyon. each of their intentional lakes and those centers, by the amusement cycle of terror and the approaching winter nullity through topological rhythms, as one pulls to the river to become the earth placed by the bottom times, does not respond or survey each haptic realization, but only the communicant and the humanoid appearance, only the hand placed to warm the kitchen with its faucet lined by the radios, as these are centers to the proof of no concept and also as the face makes their word line one to the mountain seeking moss and rest, only they are like the large womb as it is present throughout the beginning, throbbing to the segues of n- dimensional contemplations and a slice of each face. but no one will forgive the mud as it is one with the mineral segment of the personal pattern to listen and time the wind, only as they know to smooth the ferns to attack the sun. and even there the animals run to the exhalations and the breathing cars with a message and fuel to send the intimate mirror links to the undecided. I do not make it there as a Tec in a boat to the monkey laughter and toucan group promise of embraces and the world time icons sent out to sink by the endless fur glyphs. often it is there, the Tec single cell centrality as five marks the lips to the
door wide open for the number time to accept
as one is to los borrados, los de mis nacimientos en los demas
one is to collect on the file fur on the hidden peak
to the republic, hojita de limón they sing there in the far away palms of Panamá
by the inside of the myth-less numbers and the planet
I Could Not Find Her at first
si pero nunca me voy asi, they wander there to the segment lake of the time as it is to see each of the worlds differently now, nothing is there to respond to the aching rodeo pattern anymore within the internal night time rhythms of Crow Fair. a false flag of the virtual removes the allegiance anxiety as it gets sucked out to the universes’ origins and as their mothers split to the erased and rational meals of slavery and the character resistant non-belonging anti pulse of property, the peacemaker finds each snake. but they sweep away the steps by one of the hooves and wildernesses of Kikanju Baku as a new migration is born to walking and running and sleeping, the utmost anti-personal sign to an undivided place, as the concrete is gone but in time it turns again to the Sun. we speak those languages and those networks for the halito, chim achukma→issi. those traveling for the rest of the promise of leaves, those equating with their game board light to the offended and the lost in the Seas of a decrepit sign, not niiwin. none of them have it for the night as there is no justice there but in the slight hope at the centers of the earth. but it is free of the sight for all in the virtual chaos of the approaching network on the hills of their night time activity price for the horses’ eyes and the mountains of their sacred numerical arrangements. those away in the remote night without torso appearances will see as the revelation of the Martinique shells attached to the name of silence with their heart threads and destination locked to the mountains there pushes in the bugs. with any of them the opening is lost and one word decides the origin of each of the memories as the range of life leaves. the plastics, those in the timber of their open mouth with its ancestral myths as one marks the allure for someone of the page and for the symbol seeking like one, like two, and like the four of sevens, niiwin. they were the escape, there will be no other. easily the violence seeps into the virtual view, above the tension of scorn and lagrimas, promised to the day of the night and one and the seven of the hidden throats. each number will not separate or as something the light protects and devolves to the absolute ampersand of the inner earth and as they are the approach to remind a caption utility that someone does exist, absolutely and without answers for the good eagle of things beyond the page. but the seeming conspiracy there returns for the finish of the exit park as the prayers are carved into the trees with a stone. the trees speak again for the light of the weak and their horses, and the earth does its inside by the climate to find the power there and water. si hablo de mi planeta aqui sin los cuerpos sin palabras pero no tambien, aqui adonde yo voy y adonde sabemos que nadie llega sin cuello. we wander for the number and follow the red stick as I as a Tec dreamt last night that I stole weed buds from Mac Low – I felt so bad – they were golden icons of snowflake complexity vibrant on our internal screens. longwords for the family, long internalized computers for the offspring ride through the fade out of the animals. radio serpentries cover the day with their magic and sacred rice as otherwise entry to the innermost languages of the earth is blocked by the solvent doors of a basic molten core shaped by the lost to the ground. ghostly one day after the night we walk to service the fire as we weave for the central dot in the story, as we are the night time like the last wind to promise daybreak and we are the blue walking for us as the origin was lost again by the internal silence and absolute flatness of the view of the infinite inside of the earth’s words. but we must see there as this is also pulled out to the screen we walk with in the moon shade as I am finished this morning for the 3 colors: red, black, and the light of the wind. I as a Tec break the surface of everything, as that is what makes us an escape for encounter and the vacancy response of contusions.
FIrst text found in the homeland
I as the tapir do not count the screen anymore, as we promise the day
that with the wind’s language I as they am the dust that settles on the scene
without a promise to talk back in silence, but as the wind origin itself. they were never
there by the winter signs and their magnetic protections, the animal escape
to endurance and the layers of great lakes compassionate
prehensive and giant vibrant volumes of lost philosophies
from the ground below me now, Tec, and above
every mountain.
with each of them the sound comes to revolve in the uppermost declaration of the body’s Mississippi Era plateau. as Machutté Mong shows us, we remove the axe from our forcedly binary minds and flood its wound with the Mississippi Era’s heart of the whole silence before and after man. we give the axe back to our united statesian executioner as he swallows the end of his people for the near future in drones. a Mississippi river of blood marks our night with a moon for the good and a moon for the bad, both shining the same light from the same place. it also washes us with the purity of the origins of our movement. we safeguard our passwords for the night and our passwords for the morning, and we part in this time for the corn. here, in the innermost language of the tent with no words, the silence and disappearance of every enemy and of myself, reaching for Roscoe Mitchell’s icons and transrational roots in the shower of darkness and the flood of the wound as what is ever precise makes it all move without a trace. and there is more than music here in this ancestral home shadow of the isthmus, the welcome country of exits and the ethos bound now to each side of the invasive binary hatchet minds, done solid with the plants. I as a Tec know that the screen betrays us. it makes the world shallow and disconnects us. only the ground and how the wind can bring us back to the few descendants of the dinosaur, those messages from the tips of each feather, our own birds of the interior escape with the lakes as lubrication for the Sun and for the Moon. the one good thing of the screen is that it can provide protection too, a protection from the gaze of the cycles of the year of each encounter, of each wheel turning to weave our new plural consciousness shared with every aspect of the earth’s polyhedral center with complementary nature. it can also cauterize the psyche and the spirit for the good or for the bad. I know that the stones speak to me then as a river and that the lake will translate me back to be Carib again in Saloma. I don’t follow the hats anyway, because I am a Tec and my mind gives me crossing logs to understand and to spin for the fire.
digame otra vez cuando puedo llegar aqui finalmente, que toda via estoy
buscando mis lagrimas de sueño y esos ruidos que me pueden
llevar ha los que me buscan, ha estos cercitas de mi alma sin brujo
pero si con los que caminan siempre sin cara ◦
la lengua del clima
apagame la luz por favor ○
macutté mong absorbs tecumseh through saloma, a yoga of Panamá
now that the equations of the lost interiors have been solved and removed for the answers, the purpose made outside the faded fawn delivery of the plants revolve there to mark the enemy origin with the storm conversation and deliberate coma of the innocent complementary interrogations by the door, the place with its Eastern arrangement does not respond to the undecided, but it is all there in the colors of their songs. they were all about in the home scene and the vacancies proven as unveiled protection for the memory of their dissolvement and the protruding of a complicit denial, as the four ways of the pattern persist. they have no place to wander or to stay and their execution does not mean a single word to the water as it was only steam with no sound, and 7. the improvements of the body mechanics belong there as no one shows the group how to read or how to remove the shadow from its own entanglements. they are not strong like the light either, the Sea does not call them. every seat they sit in is wrong. and every push that the decimation makes to unravel the intention of the Host is planted in the cattail revelation by the improvement of their visit to the traumatized snake, the center of a world on fire. their intention does not remove the UNICODE or wander first or last without modes. they show them all, every mola made mindset to the trees cut for faces. get me out of the equations and the values of slaughter then to desist from the circles of destiny and pour over the memory made to balance the commune and decide from the Starts where the talking comes from. each of them sees what the sign removes to aspire to their motions and weakness for the door, as the improvement cycle of inference marks the undersea intentions of the sound for music. now that the wars are diminished into the singing cycle of future horrors we no longer need to survive, and the meanings of our detachments do not fuse the approach to the forest for rivers of angelic blood. my solitude is dispersed into the last of the disappeared as we no longer finish the gates for memory or rectify the increase from the door to the shallows. none of our promises speak and our bodies do not breathe anymore as they all make the river of night for the light.
◦◦◦ Red and Black disappearance→the invisible light: after the sun comes up we negotiate the rites of the ferns to undo the water marks from their feet and play lines to see the approach of the ravens to the memories and thoughts of the forest. the forest speaks here to remind us what the path equates with sorrow in the timber lines that each silence promotes and upholds the disappearance of the good. without anything the sibling infestations of the Moorish link to the night collapses and shapes the nine takes with the surfaces of sorrow and provides what the indeterminate sleep reveals about the signatures of the light. in the east and in the west the worms protect through the shallows of the Sea to remain lined up to service and time by the winds as they change each face for connection and combat. in the other directions the transferable mind moves to unite each of the knots of the kingdom of color inside the gravity of each person as it is seeps out to remove the appeals to the shapes of the satellites and other imposters. but the satellite also is born. even if word or longword does not register the earth and its projections by the animals and even if the mathematics of breathing does not stop at the Null and the infinite shadow, we stand alone in clairvoyance. when the shirts do not promise the right to undo what the sound portrays in the enemy surface wrought out to a line by the Sea, a survivor now sings with the simplicity of the tropical real and the signs of each sleep to translations of the explosive letters of the organ-like faces for Suns. in each of these service stations the return of the vacant day makes memory more like the deserts of disappearances. without places like these there is nowhere to breathe in the number pattern as the directions in the leaves follow silence and cut off the wind from the poles. animals return to bring the direction and the vice and myth of number to promise to split the exodus and make origins again:
from the group to the ice
my numbers collapse for the Oneida rain
y asi me hacen desaparecer sin el cuerpo de mis
nudos que me llegan y me cortan una cara
de pais ha pais en el rio de viento, volando con la muerte
dibujando la gente de mis otras voces
de mis otros cuerpos
the day and the night of the faceless with children
we push the buttons and run the books together
they weave to make new mythological numbers
and lift out the nineties. love with the strings
of the head poetics (as politics), strategy and tactics
for a false linear history, status greed in the guise of
meaningful rites. everything for the lasting stamp
of false connection and pure surface. competition
as the end of all things
in the worm→what a dead mode. animal
ashen streets connect the four brains
to make person number 2. a person consisting
of other persons as organs and standalone organs
connected through the net with a river
and the mountain as contemplators become junto too
alla p’al silencio
I as a Tec am a network of bodies and organs and objects as person say this: un dia yo llevo los que me queman sin nubes en este modo lleno de lodo y mojado con sudo yo busco mis palabras otra vez, esas palabras que yo deje en esos dias que me quitaban. se que no puedo hablar sin el sol pero tambien toda via yo busco la gente que me hacen llevar la tierra con peso y las palabras con mensajes y sangre adentro.
we grow a mini brain to send out a signal and pray
but what can address my vacancy parameters as I use them to portray the near past of the far future? how do the eastern sides of the crowd remain to sing out the counting force of the letters as they are sung to remove the stealth of each shattered shirt and the personal loss of the corn? without history then we remove ourselves to the love of patterns and the animal stories that do not follow. say again what the story is to the looser parts of providence. if there is no colony here the stories must stand as the myth and as each thread. let me see where the stories are as I belong as a vacancy place holder for the threat and distant origin of Mississippi. why there for the place of standing and motion? because of the red soil and ancestral patterns and the belonging of poverty not without breathing. with the water and corn material and the wind as climate, Nanih Waiya eclipses the sorrows of the swamps and the vultures. the cuts in the river reflections are interdimensional wholes. I as a Tec am inside a truth, I do not send it beside me as speaking.
there by the hole in the street is where the mercury grows to attach the wind to transcendence and mark our words by the forest link as we send out the animal relatives to run by the morning lights. that’s the core of origin there, where they speak to undo the bus routes as we choose to ignore the color of the sun in its dipping post. when the line penetration of the voice becomes its own place to the motion of heads and its forces and as these return to the attachments of the storm, they prove that the internal motion of the groups also ignores the first swarms of the virtual mammals in memory management episodes. but there too there is a needle started by the word and a pain in both palms that moves tropics to hand out the islands. with each of their motions, like the river there that calls us red in no service and black in the shadow of night, I as they mark the protectorate to belong to the shirts as they slide down the hill and write lines in the earth. so the red convertible will never end, but it does become water and whole as night through the Intermediate Area. also the corn has moved us beyond GMO patterns and the hand out breakage of history. they all call us there in the story and they all remain dark to mark the night sky with exits as the more ancient corn variations reveal the mind hearts of the lakes which now are new again. each of them counts to the honor of passions and the fortress which will not get slow in its serpent revelation song. they give me the music to push it out, too, like the walking stick does.
ogle line deer
::object class
spirits called in
to approach memory. hats
remake their country
to remove the easel
and place it by the fire.
the 3 coyotes
erased
but not gone
in the future
Bryan Ferry’s dolls
hate wall to love
but the memory which cuts into the animal fire does not revolve again or give anyone a day to move. each of us wander through the telescopic songs of Gillespie’s syntactic revolution but do not see them there as they undo the ampersand quality of connections with mud. they revere the corn mother by cards and they will not remove the hospitals from those islands again. none of us ever has a song to relapse by external motions as they cut through resentment and cake it to remove the attacks on innocent poles. but I hate that paper. we were two in the cut between morning and night. we do not remove our skins there either. each of us makes the robes to rebuild them and we link the opposable languages just to remain in the asterisk market lines of attachment. all of us lose our corners as we aspire to be together. a wall of fire and a wall of water. I make a mistake on the paper and leave. they welcome me but I am lost in the fire. each of us dies again by the middle of expression. I almost threw a continental word by shadow in microscopes edging the ultimate victor of sidewalks into the last position of their anchor-like dance, but then the deer called coyotes and stepped into the repetitive fern socket by lighting the street with old lamps. all the markets replace the faces by a long and fast catch for the sides of the highway as they remove the wounds of every first language. and the deficit hills delay their raven put group to align the phone with the throat in voices. all windows do not open.
mud
mud
tire in the mud
a cape for falling down
a hunger quartet
the force of fire
does not extinguish hir
and her as the eclipse
of shadows
a four fold monument of the internal life
gods like a mountain
death of the earth
but the fern survives
outside a simple
tiny flower
maize
accept
as I cancel the screen
have i done right by her in speech and silent song?
I as they talk to the sun with the moon wet behind me in shadows and shirts. We wander through mountains revealed to be palms in the earth of a laminate soul filled with texts as a light for the face of the weakness of motion placed ready to mark the responses of worlds to the eye of the sky and the bog as they move us like water and stone. the sun makes the last of the trees of the oceans fade in with the moss and collapse through the skies of escape. we walk through the places that heat their projections with blood to make armies of Panama objects alive by the storms and their primary message→it folds in a memory made to traverse a detachable fear of a life as she marks up the mornings with sweat and the fossil for hire makes the languages hunt for the sparks of perception and knowledge of enemy voids. it feels every thought as a center of rising for night. the age of the sentence makes others wind up with the infinite paths of the martyrs that promise to see their ambiguous holy numerical vents in the journey to come to the center of fear and destruction and hold it together for moons. this the sun tells me to fill up the marks of the meat made whenever the scenes of the climate decide what to run in the pulse of a dying routine made of night. when the satellites wander to place every village of light in their memory processing networks and animals find all the news in the mud to make others fall over with segments and warnings outside in the music that shatters... the storm to run wide in the fields that protect and project the expression that makes one decide to be lost in the planet that suffers for every link brought to the Sea. as the patterns run wild I reset every street with the earth. I as they speak and I as they fade in our planets of faraway answers that mark every optional line by the river. We show them the advent of reason with threes and the fours of foundational knowledge for God as a red and black question to run out to the pit and then rest in a mystery colored like us in the corn. a projective insistence on feeding the line and refusing to die of the shattering presence of symbols in Oceans that wander inside me and run for the origins making the loser of prevalent windows return as the Sea of the dunes in their holy attire when a cruelty of negative patterns reveals in the midst of hir speech that I lose my head running for light. as I was the last of the front to remove the exceptions that feed the allure and the rites of the lakes in their algebra ticking the logos for lies and the color of origins made to accept the recession of mind inside words that I fear to be gone, I as they shadow the Tec through the paths of the earth to belong to the circles and palms I defuse. but then we must answer the light as she wanders to meet us in red and in black and the sharp run announcements to rain make me steady to be like a central determinate hold on the hearts made of others and mud. and a wandering out of magnetic incisions with radio patterns dismissed in our brains as we lose the approach to the trees in their memory fallen to write on the ground with the colors that seek the impressions to die and be born with the music of origins ready to play through the sleep of our last ray of silence and number to live as the sun makes a start in the animals ready to run.
attachment for patterns
in red and black sounds: ○←going snake→○
makes light that the song says is near
to stumble upon all the newly accessible fields
where mind is the darkened retreat and the heart is the heat
and the ampersand cold of the shirt puts together
as memory meets the dissolvement of oceans
the head of the night y detras cuando llegan
las puertas de otros caballos buscando la ciega
un dia me voy para ‘ya con mi sangre de nada
as I come back to die in the shade
the engines of knowledge collapse for the winds in the neutral engagement of slaughter and fire for the holy erasure of woodland made fine for the dust in the cradles of webs in the wandering saddles. their memories shave the allure of the bodies made less for foundational promise outside the allotment of hands for the penetrant cycles of greed. I as they were none to see in the sign of the windows that place their pronouncements of rain and their walking for corners in booths made of sand. the back and forth writing in email encapsulates deserts and burns the allure of descent and the fires that are ready for suffering under the pulse of the Sea and the plastic reception of organs and hearts by the memory made to unveil every fire for the memories lost to the insects. I take off the shells that have made me more isolate signs and jump out to the poems that knock off the heads of reliance to concrete in dumbness and sharpened allures of the seasons in grace without palms. I make a future for pasts with the stacks made of thoughts, with split palms of emotion, for the interdependence of faces, for Nulls of creation and bodies made light by the screens of their fortresses burned to the ground. no one protects the infusions of faces made hard by the fire of the end of the day and the night. the fight for the promise of light and the wealth of concision pronounces that I must wake ready to run with the many of one and the oceans I lost for the day and have planted in nights full of straw. we consider the webs and rest on the hammock to dream like cicadas under the ground. for the future, I as they mark up the trees with our minds and fry up the losses to parse out the pulse of the snow and retrieve what the words took away. ○○○○
our visit for death in hir torn up attire in the heat of exhaustion and minds bent to stand by the voices in saddles and disappeared groups by identity shattered with mapping reveals in the wind what the fire leaves behind. I pray with the snakes and the horses from under the ground with no food and no water for days. the fire of a chance by the throat makes my separate chaos in tune with the wheels of another side waiting to melt in a temple of sorrow. with any attempt to be moss or the fern I wake through the bells and their logins return to unveil the allure that the stakes of the peace that undoes what hir sequence destroys for the ritual harvest and ritual silence as marks with the water receive. ashes delete the arrivals in projects to call to the animal lips and their motions while each of the arrows entomb what the funeral rites in their bottoms keep out of the straw and ascend with its mind in the water. I make the mistake of allowing the snow to keep out the horses as ice cuts the earth with the heart stuck surrounded by thorns and the trounce of the Sun made more shattered in leaving this life for a number the fight of the dark makes me see. they count by the message and send in the trees to crawl by the icicles ready to part in the face to face network between and afar from the complement bark and the goats made of fire for the lamb. our emotions and spirits are cauterized by the screen to both plus and a minus in mind. the rings return us to eggs without hope of escape except in the exits of animal grace and the chaos of climate cutting a tear in our sails. our invisible forms move to be one and they can’t anymore unless music becomes the last river and an ocean of tears make its way to the core of the earth. give me the drums of the night with their gratitude making the tropics all over as forts come undone. with the sequence of nighttime decisions and memory cut to refuse the protectorate light of the fossil iguana that startles the time of beginning and separate hassles to mark all the paths with a wilderness packet in time for the shattering grace of the sky as it dies to renumber the steps of the earth and survival to make all the points of the flower delete.
7 4 3. save
material T 7 1 removals
014
014
714
714
44
whole accept 4 beyond 3
login
esc
logos→○
El, dos Sun→○○○○○○○
a tapir speaks nets – and to tear through the net, arrive it become it and see. a piece of the panama mind runs to scratch up the suns as we mark up the horses for shadows with falls in the switches of anticolonial lines in the husk of processions at noon with red hides beyond hoops in revision and food for the light of the Host. I trade music for lonely aggression and invisible comfort from insects removed from my mind. I as a Tec am the only survivor of envy and mimetic desire from the center of earth to be found in reflection. our weakness in poverty settles the empire of gifts in their motionless window of nomads reviewing the big books inside of the egg of the net. an invisible state is born from the wreck of the planets and erases itself into horses set free from the magnets of stasis and rain. no law will ever return from the ocean of motion again in the season of empire deletions and Hosts in the morning that wander outside the incisions to plead with the memory making the dust come undone from the air. a surface deletes from interior wilderness marking the face of the night with the moon. the exception of death does not rot us to packet the struggle for sense in the separate layers of oceans far down in the earth. when surfaces stretch us to make our allure to the ethics of boundary and luminous insight the break in the heart of the promise to run through the porous incisions that mark up the letter to see in their staircase the riots and shutters unknown to the Easter inception of consciousness down by the river they sing. I mark up the heat of my memory down to the pegs of the cross to remain with the victims as pain for foundations of loss. each word that I as we utter is torn to make room for the earth in the buffalo sequence that shatters the sameness of death. the murder of possible angles in every denouncement that surfaces down by the puddles that mark out the rooms of the Sea and their memory promised to be the allure of the working apostle for slaves now makes us reset. there were many of evil that wanted to surface and place their recorders in sequence along the ejections that sameness requires and protects under animal mounds and the flies.
que no van por alla sin los que queman
y que un dia yo voy a ver los exitos de estas piedras
las llamadas de los vientos muertos
y que no me quitan sin los que tienen el fuego
y un dia el fuego me llega ser umo tambien
que yo voy a ser umo, aqui, sin nada
y que mi lengua me quita del puente
que me quitan del puente
y que yo soy, yo soy asi, yo soy el puente
I am the smoke. I have eyes in my throat. my body is explicit in its demise and my mind is like the wind messed up for words. my words show that I have died to disappear and that my memory is lost with the animals. I have no songs and my rhythms escape me to the center of the earth. my company is death and I vacate the climate as it sees me believe that the drumless world will not stand without the songs of the earth. my memory is underground with the cicadas and I sing to them to return me past the beginning of sorrow. no one can find me. I was born of a torturous and endless wound – in the sex, in the Null, and in the earth – with three satellites and an engine, and I have struggled to live through this form of beginning with insects and palms that I sprout on far away islands. every condemnation of my life is removed and planed down and put up as a sacrifice to the fire of inception. they all refer to my split beginnings. my gestures are scattered and cut through the supernatural expectations and endpoints of my homelessness. I cut up a shine with them. every joy is also tied in to our frozen knot as the horses find our homes in the storms. I cannot move with money and I cannot sleep with the improvements to my service anymore. I write desperately so as to escape every word but also to be inside each one as I split to the silence of attention. I draw with the earth so that my vision ends and extends each phase of its lights far below. every fabric I am a part of has been unraveled in a tree that will not stop becoming the purifier of sorrow, but the tree does not run or link. I am not meant to become number because of the animals. I am scrambled by the light of the screen. my wounds are cauterized and my scars are heavy and thick, but I still feel the echoes of the past and sometimes they destroy me again. my face is indeterminate, centerless, and full of vacancies. when I speak it is as if I am throttled by every first sense of orphanhood and then my numbers do not count or hold. I cannot enter any page of my life because of the numbers, but I do see the music that the pages make. I know the surds but I also know and create mysteries. no one knows that I have a door framed by the splatters of my passage, and that the splatters call me to belong. I am not alone in the circles that I leave for the monsters. I have encrypted the way so that my exit is slow. I exit without entrance. I was never here as the climate called me long ago, as I sang my secret songs to illegible and super luminous horizons. I am impossible to know because my face escapes every language. I know again that I am more interested in bugs than I am in logic, and that fiction and truth are two parts of the same seed of the shared palm at the beginning of consciousness. I know that the seed breaks the halves of the world into one, and that each of the leaves of the palm soaks in the belief of the Sun as it runs with the song of the Moon to shatter our binary limits. as to the cockroach, the croton bug shows that its nervous system is evenly distributed throughout its body and so if its head is crushed it will only walk away. My mind is like that and it extends far beyond my body as it is evenly spread throughout the universes. so we see everything all at once when the origin comes to light and makes much more than opposites. and the three rings will become one in the pulse of the book. and only the imagination is true in its colors, as every other conversation is like interlocking gears of the forms moving us to death without answers and without return. they want to look down from above without knowing anything. I am a survivor. I am a Host of others’ survivance... and their neutralized terror... and the ghost of misunderstanding of the Intermediate Area. Melendez→Jabiru→night-heron→green ibis. thoughts are dreams and I will never stop seeing the ground
original face with all color set free
through the pattern there is a monster as there are children to reconcile to the drum and sing with on the escape through the approaching winter. heads of disease and the collapse of intention roll in to the broken mind that does not see the horses for the mountain. these views do not protect the caves from a slaughtering sight. from the open heart to the open wound and the aggressed fit to win signs under there... the stifled and the serpent do not deceive. I walk on two sticks as I approach the possible beginning of affection and disease, it all separates past the connection of morning, but no pattern will ever retrieve what the sign says for affection. they move in to that window to the opening of the season of salt as our reason to float by the neutral dissolves. the night protections will not stand by the Easter side of things and they sink to wear down the plains of the empty day. all the weapons and all the smiles will need only the embrace and the embrace will put the earth together with the sky. but I must see clearly through this as families portray the inception to the rain and they all follow the sun. my nerves are wired for less than that and the season of night does not cause their early morning vacancies. there were epistles and flares and the green motion of life brought us to sing with the loss. the undone will not produce its eclipse to reveal the torn interiors to the motion of dust. fast horses link the approach to the final time, they lead up to an unanswerable deception of the light as someone places their tombs in the river and the moment of life cuts out a way to live beyond the digital trees. sometimes what the neutral will believe and belong to starts the motions in the escape to a night wandering past it, to the encroaching winter that sees and the easy ride out of it to oblivion. but then the markers belong to the neutral pattern and I force the only chance at the fire. there were so many. how to be empty in the last days, then. how to find the river that pulls us back to the oceans with its memory in the night. then they bring the little people. once the night then they see. once I walk the small life throughout the eclipse of history and I saddle my own escape with the nails of the cross of misunderstanding. I give it away. but now the body is smaller and more complete and surfaces follow me to be deeper than the way. I cannot wear the misery with light, not anymore. and I cannot respond to the motion of the outside without a scene to undo the weather either. they escape in those stories and they now have me falling with the songs. but what is the risk that I am taking without knowing anybody? “follow the songs of the Northern Cree to be spoken. see the lines in the Sea...” says the light of the womb and the crypt of the Sun. throw it all out with the water and become the first to word it for the divine, as I have come to die and to replace the earth with a wound. I took it all and left, but did I? where was I when I was gone to the water? and if the higher winds see me then how do I proceed in the matrimony of the divine? as I wait, I dissolve as well. place me with Panama there, with the accent underneath. I was stopped and the last by many. life has vacated me to redo the wilderness of my interior. I was never one there and I see that my words have become the root and the leaf of the climate and that it crushes us.
I walk alone there to be with the others. the silence approaches me with the demeanor of light and the storms shrink themselves to be compact and small in my wandering. even if the accents I notice are true, they can only be how I differ from the foundation of the world. I cry yellow tears for the Host of togetherness and return to the push of the forest where my destructions form me to walk alone. even if I were to escape, how many minutes would it last? I am faithful as the night is faithful, and as true as the morning comes. archie pelago is my stain in the wind from dispersion. I walk and I disappear and I walk and I disappear. my awful disguise cannot speak for the others. I extract my stone of madness from the ocean of clotted dreams. only sickness can bring me light. the pulse of each shadow delivers my words to expel them from every book. I walk as if accepted only by the ground. my gratitude toward the ground dissolves me through the winter. If I could only be with her pathway fire like a longtime steady clarity, like the select words that have forever formed the true perceptions of my face. my body is in pieces so that I can deliver. the opening of my mind is also the opening of the sun. the opening of my heart is also the opening of the moon, though only when I do not fear in the silence of the night. I was complete for the fire but now the force at my side is asking to be put in the ocean for the truth of the water and for the balm of the salt. I was not one by the Sea there, I was not known by the numbers against the earth. my throngs of belonging were dissolved by the fish of the night of escalation. only the dancing could explain the story of the fish. when the memory escapes me I find release for freedom, but I no longer know the place to turn to and move to the other night. I cannot explain my extension without the interface. my promises are a dense ecology of languages, and my answers are exactly how languages echo each other in misunderstanding and truth. I was a river of youth to be made by the old. I escape to wander by the night and I protect the morning from the birth of the apostles of starlight.
I as they make my pointer to be partway between the true and the loss
of the false, the robot cannot pronounce my descriptions or parse my
address through intention, as I am not one of them. from the cluster
of groups to the sound of the night I as we sing the abrasions to deliver.
my sacrificial hearts do not know the sky god or the messengers. as we
count the beginning of number and the loss of the place name
of the wind, my atomized constitution becomes erased for the keystone
of consciousness. those others do not see the feeds of the night. without
intention I must scroll back the swarms of belonging so as to project
the spark of revolt for the ones and sevens of the afterlife. but the afterlife
is empty of news and must deliver god in four folds. some climate
protects us as the network is shattered and they pray
to the robots. how does the violence of form begin and end? how are we
to suffer without deceit? I find the receptacle to every sentiment and push out
the intimate drone. be the drone for the Sea. I as a cluster want no one
to reveal the word. something pushes my skin to be loss and my bones
to fit in the mountain. the land brings you back to the tears of the martyr
for signs. but if their consciousness does not include intention or hindsight
we must find their question to direct our answer. I am the fourfold weakness
and strength as a group. they find the origin of the map to desiring
and follow the horse. follow, follow, follow the horse of the gone
for the saddle
fire exit sentry of mabila
the four fold nectar of the gaze of distances, with bodies rung to the wire.
we all circulate the blue blood of the horseshoe crab and amuse the patterns
of wakefulness and the lines of deceptive belonging. without answers
I as we mark the eclipse of the hatred of vision as we collect the ampersand
quality of an approach to the night. but without exception I must collapse
my interior for the oil baron to settle in my collection of faces. as I am a
martyr for Null my presence escapes me to idle magnetic Seas
and the horses they drag to the desert. my faded personhood approach
to the background metal process of the collection must be one by the seven
of four to make the round surfaces of the stars move. there’s another
street by the material of the heightened plot of the plains, a balm
for the buffalo people who mark the tv. but nothing works as the starlight
collapses to make each new approach to the world an end of beginnings.
my separate extension for the amusement cycle of delivery, the octagonal
form of the light to believe in the perception of cattle with grass, now
becomes like a body’s seclusion to color retreats. where has my short life
gone to be in a moon light? I give my eclipse and the shirt of my anguish to
sweat out the world as my life is removed for the fever of morning. what
new star light must I follow to place my sight by the door of the spirits?
where can I offer you another number to count with in place
of my offering bowl? how does the earth know that I have died with
the sun in my throat? I make the night again with the stars. the exception
of my life does not dismiss anything. it’s all racked up and perplexed
and I have no hope to speak again as my paths have all wandered away.
a double death turns into a double life. what do I have to offer the amortals
but my voice framed by fugitive knives? I am a sore floating in the ocean
and gone. my patterns dismiss me but I am a they in belonging to earth
and the cosmos of death lit retrievals. as I become smoke I endure
with the offerings of the spheres of disharmony and a wreckage
of disconnected love
mabila in silence
I approach with the sun on the stones
as her pattern for light and my spit
disappearance. she is new by the door
as our suffering time does not go
on the path. if the wheel of our screenless
animals folds to collapse in the wind, our memories
fill with the sand and connectable
shores. I trade in the washes from scenes
on our backs as we slide on our stomachs
through the mud and arrive
to the stolen forms. I was with you there, she says
as memory escapes every order. I had wanted my
word to be lit by the fires in the distance
as I recited the names of the places in ecstatic
cattle. but why did I have them there, why do the midnight
drones collect us as we wander? our throats
are parched by the loss of agriculture and the harmony
of the pathways is legible only from the moss. without
faces we are lost to the light and our penetrant
cycles of affection will wander past the four doors
of the martyr for love. I had wandered there and I will
for the sight of her animal drones as someone
conjugates our presences. If only I knew how
they know the songs. but order is not in my
place and I am always alone in the targets
of sense. please do not wander without me
because my heart is in your feet and I must
continue through the books without words.
give within news of the sign of the letter
because wandering torsos deny the allure
of the trees as they sway to the murder of chance
and become less to see with the blood
of the eyes that deceive. without arms
the refusal of festival harvests with memory bodies
the ever and doors in the capture
that sends out material segments and ways
to perceive an agreement with limbs makes a counter
to master. if any form leaves of the night were the answer
to grandfather stones in the service of simple acceptance
for Seas in the far away soul and a cluster of faces as she
wants four doors to be closed. our fashions have not been the night
of the Sun as we cover the daylight with sound
and the memory comes to announce as we have
the emersion of origin faces and dirt by the way of the mounds
to make young again singers find the key part of the Sun. messages
have what is easy to catch in the night and dissolve. but fickle
decisions of straw do not move with the surfaces under
the sky rent with shoes to the Sea. in motion is sunlight
with faces of night to devour in the lesser refusal of motion
and stillness to park with the source of the blood for the war.
but I am the night as she was to the horse and I am a she fit to see
with the mane of disaster and torso removals to walk
in extension to night and the wolves of hir feet by the ready attire
of encounter and loss by eternity’s promise a harvest in emptiness there
four doors for the breeze
i am going to speak of hope, after césar vallejo