To see and be all things in our exploding, aging, collapsing, kaleidoscope lives – before flowers or lettuce wilt, our batteries die down, overcharged with childhood, office politics, the womb, a father’s silence, failed loves, and overdue bills.
No!
Better to make bold claims – wandering the streets of Babylon or Brooklyn, climbing tall Chinese steps carved into high hills full of glyphs (followed by hungry dogs), stealing every stone before night falls.
The goal here remains to be a roving eye, at all hours, traipsing the wondrous world where the most beautiful person ever born seen might be seen – every day – like a private angel, winking.
It is not evil to live.
And night waits, full of crazy stars – boozy dreamers – each and every one ready to be embraced like a queen. Their arms are golden, bodies’ soft and warm, eyes full of memories and wants, reflecting.
Every single one of these magical pieces – old ticket stubs, disconnected phone numbers, portraits of unknown people, letters from the dead, beloved pebbles, tears – must be found and re-found nightly. Every single one of these magical pieces must be attached to the brain, ground up, digested, smoked, snorted, injected.
But hasn’t anyone ever told you, sir? Or did you drink the wine of lies? I’ll help: just say the wedding gown fell off and the house of the bride-grown burnt down – or just say you disappeared to Brazil to learn the language of the birds because it is beautiful.
Let us…
Let us lose ourselves looking for secret rooms, forgotten windows, and abandoned stone towers standing over streams of clear water.
Let us climb the forgotten monuments to dead heroes, spying the hidden houses built atop tall buildings that no one can see.
Let us wander the woods like sacred minstrels – reading the texts of tombstones scattered over the lonely green hills.
Let us fly.
Like sails, we can unfurl ourselves – and pushed forward by the pressure of the wind, and the influence of the sun, the stars, the moon, the invisible alchemy – we fly!
Fantastica 