Historyless is where I come from, the sun-crotched navel, the part of me not yet born, the part of me dead to the world on its way to being born into the potholes and foothills of unimagined fictions. Fiction or fictions are suspended sentences. Suspended between what we perceive and report to be real, and what is not. Perception is the stepchild of morph.
I am, in this dank dreamless station, waiting to be born, waiting to discover, what I mean is uncover, all an uncovering and remembering, re-membering by definition is membering beyond the vagabondage back to the I-never-borning I-never-dying.
On the cosmic level, there are no tears. Dry windless worlds beaconing light to anoint the variations on selves cycling through and through, no end to selves sounding a concert, selves in a slideshow alone-feeling yet connected-teeming. This, the crisis of phenomena, daring is to be what is. The blue breath of want chastises mirrors. Nowhere as in the present moment and now-here. Language equal parts glyphic and syphilitic as it traffics sublimely in warmest belongings and hints.
I, in the dank dreamless station, native votives in blue and gray, I am waiting to be born, and the world that follows will be one of prevailing fictions, a succession of plot twists in a long dreadful line of penny-ante suspense, potboilers, pulp, red herrings, and reversals of cause.
