AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION AS THE PULSE OF COMPULSIVE PRAYER
(¿Voy buscando una muerte de luz que me consuma?)
What’s the rift between dark chocolate longing and any other desire darkened? And which bars of clarinet longing prey harder in this shrine to Apophenia—this casino—where I wager only by probability, yet still risk it all for the crimson lips & kohl eyes of a dark-skinned sybil who brushes my arm while dipping to serve me dissolved spirits? Not only water peaks in waves. Could my Vagus Nerve make the taste of her chocolate octaves weigh the same as a wager on gospel in the mahogany hall of her mouth? Could the wave function mark a superposition of hearts? Could any door except endorphins swerve open our hunger to dervish numbers? These Persian doors & Arabic digits seem shaded by licorice or red lipstick. If you’ve never placed a wager and lost it all, you might not hear why a choir means to gather, but might still hear what it means to hymn seems equal parts mahogany and harmony. You may even seek to determine how deftly her cat’s paw plays with the dissonance—if there is any—between my belief in faith & faith in belief. To which must I submit to divine between the darkness where Schrödinger’s cat is blackened by Roland Kirk’s clarinet & the darkness where my knees are scarlet from reciting her ninety-nine names as a rosary?
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