The world ends, but not tomorrow

***Like I'm talking to her:
I'm moving in circles where I'm forgetting you. I am still having to re-remember everything. It's not fair to you, and it makes life unbearable to me. I fell in love late. I get to the house in shadows. I watch lights in my eyes solution things I have no business knowing...these lights fade, and salient life distorts its continuity--pitch resolving cosmos, this moment. It's salience lost in its latent collection: if there were this provenance, why am I risen with its compulsion? (...as in your LOVE) And deceived by its warrant of success? (meaning we wait, it'll have to unfurl like a long road, but lots of signs on this road, and plenty of "deceptive" trappings of identity taking one on strange rides)

***Laura H's dialogue, then me saying:
Subject: gravity & smoke; chalice & wooden horse-eyes

Mom: Were you impressed with that mall?
Laura: Seriously? R u seriously asking me that question?
Mom: Yes
Laura: I despise malls, and I hate shopping. No, I wasn't impressed.

....saying:
If anything has taught me something of true democracy = Porch Sittin' , it's just-hating walking around feeling like my head has to shed the roseate colors behind my eyelids, that were otherwise less precipitous, meaning I only know then--at the mall, running for the the recesses is what I ought to do.

Using language of the great Elias Canetti---exposing the conduct that has grabbing hands grabbing all that they can. Instinct & over-wrought moral compass denies the proffered hand what it's supposedly due!! The hand is an antechamber," toward the "seizing," then "incorporation" of mysterious propensities of outward fact in its contagion. The open hands of Musselmanners in devotion; the receiving cupped hands in Jewish women's votive prayers waving across shabbos candles, then availing her face; the taut grip upon the integrity of doctrines in fundamentalist throes to stave off threats to self-preservation...: a populist emerging from experience to union with it in physical or spiritual success.
Ok, a little of what I say above is the case. That I sorta infer "moving on" isn't the case--but I feel threatened by it, as if I can't object to alternatives to our thing.... But I do in fact reject the alternatives, and will until we are in each other's arms again. I am just venting the "pain." Which is a weird word, it's more just longing--and I have a long history of longing... And LONG I am--wait wait that doesn't sound right. Anyway, this has a ring to it like I'm talking about solely just us--but in the end this small writ is about other sorta existential things--that DO NOT threaten us... I LOVE YOU.
***I gathered the concept of my first book, without reading it. I walked past chthonian bookcase....and read the lay of the land. Called myself alliterative, but I was prone only to the last open page. Toting around things made of whispers and nuances, knowing it wasn't enough, I think until you think about words--their vanity & cheapness--one's thirst begins to martyr the point. Kill yourself when expression loses its vehicle, and then walk or dance images, deigning language to follow.
***Man may be existential toward excelsior humanities more usually in evolved intellectus than women (if I'm in this box). If I'm in this box--man's--my lens is this miasma of agonistic possibilities; I compete with objective alterior selves. A self-profession, potent with exiles--yet potency in the looming temporal university, it's fondest enumeration, is feminine spirt; the most toxic. (...performing on me in spires of self-actualizing covenants...) That victories are critical, machine-distorted, competition dims her salient respite that her goal is that dream-scape ( of the intercourse of soul passions, of paths of splendor & fates), this lightness of being, her charge of giving away what is dear...
***
Sometimes it's just one word. It stammers in the arc of a room we ambulate. Fooled is the writing on the wall, when mindful. Pull the cold-lamp letters from white-noise vibratory properties off the wall, so prohibitive, yields like an urban facade...to something populist, painted in human schema--and lost to what is beyond anthropos, his/her spectral shore: certain skies just do not appertain... Damned is the invocation that the word creates, but as vain & cheap that they are, I'm doomed to eternal symbols, vague & flashing. And identity is what a life has become, but is no symbol!!!