Flying in the actual sky—not the blue part, and not in some fuselage of heaviness—into some city fitting snug on the planet exactly in time. Think of this then when people gathered and called for civilization, the real stuff, a sure pattern where words wear. People as peoples understand that Future days such as these will be with us in the future. Now the flying continues as thought above the fierce provocation of some place and history. War has mongered on, like breeding. Titles of books burst forth to lead the way into temporal struggle vis-à-vis how sedentary temples, cathedrals, monuments, and stand out statuary make earth place of moment, however long and ago. Maybe you have watched a crow or other articulation amid expressions of each human act in perceived environment where change et cetera conforms to stasis in the large picture of few words. Your moment is monument, a close terminal. You see the march daily, across wheatfields and tidal hope. Anguish becomes another for just about anything, when you try this hard.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
Comments