If it all turns into numbers and sequences Of numbers and problem-solving algorithms, If the challenging mountain here or the shore, Plain as day creeping higher and higher up That mountain are turned into equations Understood by mathematical surveyors Researching the old outmoded species Whose words and other expressive vanities Are washed away in numbered syncopation, They will say they understand blue and blues Without the word Blue, only magical starts, Magical stops, a continuous colorless Morse code, They will say they understand the moon’s cast In the north, its different cast at the equator, Its cast in the southern zones not as tempers Of a mighty borrowed light but as peerless punctuations Of a Pythagorean sentence, I might still write, We might still give a go at the mathematically unattainable, At the numberless momentousness of it all.
A human being-question chasing after both God and nothingness. The internet is a disaster, but our starlessness might teach us something. I welcome our constant experimenting with ourselves with open arms, for ultimately they are attempts of life at living and growing in life. My dwelling is in Key West, while the dwellings of my loves are Indiana, New Mexico, Texas, Massachusetts and Arizona. These spaces are nothing. Love abides and love embraces.
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Love the Dust 