violent blue
“History is not finished yet.” – Hugo Chavez
says that the kingdom of Heaven was declared not to be of this earth means not that it is an afterlife but a time later on a time which has come, says it is time that this is that time and as he says it I nearly believe, believe history indeed is as Utah Phillips says, he says the past didn’t go anywhere, time is an enormous long river and you’re standing in at just as I’m standing in it and believe that may be why we dream, why time seems in minutes to pucker like ribbon so now kisses 1975 and you are seven and I am two and nothing has happened yet, we are collapsed and not yet a catastrophe in blessing’s clothing or vice versa. So forward and dream because what’s the alternative, can’t make time into sauce and freeze it for later can’t can it like tomatoes and if history is unfinished as I as we hope it is as we hope President Chavez is right in saying is right in believing, this that he says with the authority of an elected socialist with his flicker-eyed security detail with assassination a constant potential both whispered and overt – if it is unfinished as he says then we have work to do. And hope, which is the same as dreaming, the same as the kingdoms of heaven we invent, the same as our alphabet and the meanings we assign it, it is all chosen it is all invented as we are in the end, as we are in the beginning, an invention of genetics and will, being is a miracle, the miracle really. So we are and be and were, all simultaneously and miraculously and isn’t the sky a violent blue today? Something in its unmitigated cloudlessness physically literally breathtaking, a breath - taking blue, stringing the self the be - ing from the body toward something higher more expansive, the heart lurches to the left the ribs spread like fingers just looking at it and isn’t that hope. Dream of a blue sky that is not new, has been blue always lidded behind whatever we invent across it whatever crosses we lean against it however we place our and other bodies on them, dying and we pretend the resurrection is literal we fake our own rising our own belief in something after this that is not time that is not more this Chalk figures on the sidewalk. Brick edging out from the wall. Spilt tea rivering, here where we stand.
“History is not finished yet.” – Hugo Chavez
says that the kingdom of Heaven was declared not to be of this earth means not that it is an afterlife but a time later on a time which has come, says it is time that this is that time and as he says it I nearly believe, believe history indeed is as Utah Phillips says, he says the past didn’t go anywhere, time is an enormous long river and you’re standing in at just as I’m standing in it and believe that may be why we dream, why time seems in minutes to pucker like ribbon so now kisses 1975 and you are seven and I am two and nothing has happened yet, we are collapsed and not yet a catastrophe in blessing’s clothing or vice versa. So forward and dream because what’s the alternative, can’t make time into sauce and freeze it for later can’t can it like tomatoes and if history is unfinished as I as we hope it is as we hope President Chavez is right in saying is right in believing, this that he says with the authority of an elected socialist with his flicker-eyed security detail with assassination a constant potential both whispered and overt – if it is unfinished as he says then we have work to do. And hope, which is the same as dreaming, the same as the kingdoms of heaven we invent, the same as our alphabet and the meanings we assign it, it is all chosen it is all invented as we are in the end, as we are in the beginning, an invention of genetics and will, being is a miracle, the miracle really. So we are and be and were, all simultaneously and miraculously and isn’t the sky a violent blue today? Something in its unmitigated cloudlessness physically literally breathtaking, a breath - taking blue, stringing the self the be - ing from the body toward something higher more expansive, the heart lurches to the left the ribs spread like fingers just looking at it and isn’t that hope. Dream of a blue sky that is not new, has been blue always lidded behind whatever we invent across it whatever crosses we lean against it however we place our and other bodies on them, dying and we pretend the resurrection is literal we fake our own rising our own belief in something after this that is not time that is not more this Chalk figures on the sidewalk. Brick edging out from the wall. Spilt tea rivering, here where we stand.
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posted by M. at 1:46 PM
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