AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION AS THE PULSE IN COMPULSIVE PRAYER
What’s the difference between chocolate and any other desire darkened? Or pray tell which desire moves deepest in a casino—those giant shrines to Apophenia—where I wager by probability and therefore can’t be addicted, but still encounter the Incompleteness Theorem of a woman named Rosa who dips to serve me dissolved spirits? Desire moves in waves. Is it the Vagus Nerve which makes the octaves of chocolate in her skin feel like a wager on harmony in the music hall of this mouth? If—and only if—you’ve wagered and lost it all, then you might grasp why a choir means to gather, yet still not grasp what it means to hymn. Can we still assume that the phattest asymptote is Objective Reality if Schrödinger’s Equation uses imaginary numbers to model the diffusion of hearts or if no door except endorphins opens our hunger to waving numbers? Is said number or door mascara black or lipstick red? Is this the part of the arc where Schrödinger’s cat seems black as a clarinet strung around Rahsaan Roland Kirk’s neck? Or where I only desire to kneel every night and thumb her name in red as a rosary?
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