A CRY 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 darkened desire? And which dark longing preys more in this shrine to Apophenia—the casino where I divine a rationale to gamble only by probability, yet still wager on my ability to solve the crimson lips or anthracite eyes of a dark-skinned Uncertainty Principle who brushes and ecstatically charges my arm when she dips to serve me dissolved spirits? Not only water moves in waves. Is it my Vagus Nerve making the octaves of chocolate in her skin taste the same as a wager on gospel harmony in the music hall of my mouth? Does the wave function have imaginary units to mark the superposition of hearts or does no door except endorphins open my hunger to dervish numbers? Are Persian doors & Arabic digits mascara black or lipstick red? Do we discover these differences or invent them? If you’ve never placed a wager and lost it all, you might get why a choir means to gather, but still not hear why what it means to hymn can be more dissolution than harmony. Because what’s the difference between the part of the arc where Schrödinger’s cat appears licorice black as a clarinet strung around Rahsaan Roland Kirk’s neck and the part where I kneel on red knees to recite her ninety-nine names as a rosary?
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