AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION AS A PULSE OF COMPULSIVE PRAYER
(¿Voy buscando una muerte de luz que me consuma?)
What’s the difference between chocolate and any other dark desire? And which dark longing preys more in a casino—those shrines to Apophenia—where I wager by probability and therefore can’t be addicted, yet still crave the crimson lips, anthracite eyes or static charge of a dark-skinned waitress who averts her eyes when she dips to serve me dissolved spirits? Not only water moves in waves. Does the Vagus Nerve make the octaves of chocolate in her skin taste the same as a wager on a major scale in the clarinet of my mouth? The wheel spins. Is Objective Reality the phattest asymptote if the wave function has imaginary units to mark the superposition of hearts or if no door except endorphins opens my hunger to dervish numbers? The wheel spins again. Do Persian doors & Arabic digits feel mascara black or lipstick red? Have I discovered these differences or invented them? The wheel spins again and again. Even if you’ve never wagered your life and lost, you might get why a choir means to gather, but still not hear why what it means dissolves into psalm. Beloved, let this be the part of the arc where Schrödinger’s cat becomes a black clarinet strung around Rahsaan Roland Kirk’s neck Or where my knees at least kiss the carpet five times a day so my fingers can feel all 99 of her names in red as a rosary.
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