FL

Early Before Noon Limb, Limbs flashing, always limbs pink- bronze and young leaves almost turned with fall — seasons all late this year, and now always — the way roses crystalize, long ahead, without nothing the grass tips spurt fire, climbing one’s back and reminds as all nature, to kill and exult; the individual. Absolute and ruthless distinction — all of man’s houses hanging by rings with buzz and din. Red doors, where grandfather’s and dead loves lay. The city’s din and hum a razor when calm— still bloody, more peace than — we can laugh and burn and sit the rest relaxed and realized that before, as almost all of what’s to’s been figured, so sit and eat the new and old fineries — and drink! — and know there’s something more to do until we are all wise and beyond love.

In all the world, God has never made a more subtly unique geography than Montreal’s. Montreal, Mont-Royal, the Royal Mountain. A royal mountain royally situated and sculpted regardless of locale, but all the more so when one sees the mount in its proper place as it really is. It’s no wonder, that those who first saw it could not help but call it royal. Royal Montreal, the Paris of the West, the Paris of the North, America’s European city, why does the make of your simple earthen body move me so?

To fuck or not to fuck, that is the question. A most difficult one; and most obfuscated the further we plunge out from the vestibule of providence’s standard out into the dark and chaotic night. Our sclerotic intellect trembles over an abyss of bodies ecstatic, tangled and primordial as worms: an abyss which holds the answer to the question. What does it mean to fuck, why do we fuck, am I nothing but a fuck having come to its perfect retardant peace to fuck once more?— perhaps. Regardless, I have the answer. An answer which I have not always had, and have erred accordingly. An answer which now having, kindles in my heart a warm hatred for mankind and his absolved folly. I have an answer, a most simple answer to this most difficult question: humanity’s test.

“For the life of a creature is in the blood, and I have given it to you to make atonement for yourselves on the altar; it is the blood that makes atonement for one’s life” Leviticus 17:11

The eunuch for the kingdom of heaven “makes” himself so by holding a standard of beauty so lofty that all become beautifully unworthy. All having become beautifully unworthy, the infinitely flawed completeness of the particular is forgotten. The flaws and beauty of the particular forgotten, there is only one left to love; rather, that already loves: The formlessness of the heaven.

You are delivered of something in having forgotten it. Deliverance is forgetfulness and love delivers greatest and longest. The power of a smile, laughter-- teeth as amnesiac marble goads--, forgetting, emptiness and the peace of vessels emptied of anything except deliverance. Spokes and vases of Lao Tzu.