A cabinet/room of curiosities,
Kunstkammer--fringe stuffs.
Let's (said 17th century affluence) retire to a den of delicious: now-where-weren't-we.
A space of sea legs, a space to clutch a
ceiling for balance--amid the perverse liberties of imagination's selves.
A continental doubletake at reality,
magic objects from the greater world--
another world.
Bouncing off the walls, cluttered proof of the unknown--unsuccessfully watered
down by familiarity.
Objects, things that shouldn't be there--
as if they overstayed the second to be gone.
The haunts of the greediest awe, the
pacts of Faustian must-haves.
Stretched juxtapositions of
taxidermic parrots, speaking
prehistoric bones that turn into the weapons of witchdoctors.
Alchemical globes turning over Abraxas
to geographic purification periods--under
scrutinous van **** beards.
Tortoise shells emanating the wooden
knocks of a tribe's forest family.
Leatherbound books ornate as gemstones, seemingly lived-in by hermits.
A perfumer's castle of scent upon the
next cloud--a zephyr's afterimage.
Scents that were whole lives distilled of
continuum's essence.
Cabinets of curiosities, tried the
peculiarities of their cocked-brow sitters.
Quietly thinking them a peacock's dressing room compared to their changeability.
The cabinet's gestating stimulation conjured appetites fit for their creator.
These cabinets of curiosities were often
unsupressable aphrodisiacs, voluptuous
women would softly roundout sin.
Lick, **** & bite into fruits as their curves swole with feathers.
Where flesh was made & remade again,
lusting after itself in exitless release.
Those who solitarily sat in these rooms
by candlelight & glowed beyond its glow,
gained the graces of darkness.
A space where natural light aspected
exotic variety, a space where a waking
dream outdid itself.
To recoup & assess a fraction of the things
that exist in the smallest hours that region the earth.
These modest places to withdraw, wandered into what became museums.
We've always sorted these cabinets.

In the valley of candles, not only one

view is harvested.

Sea changes too bright for coordinates

flicker & throw around the smoke of

place.

A place is never truly known apart from

places--their spirit passes a cup.

A place is as precious as The Self, which it

fully identifies with thru preservation.

The Self is fixed to place, a place is fixed

to The Self--in honor.

Of fixed transcience.

Home can be a strange place, a strange

place can be home--the fare of place is

fully paid.

Go freely to become remote from where

you were, which is still where you are--

who you Are.

The spirit of place passes its cup, drink

in the view.

What do you see in the valley of candles?

Perhaps a killer taking tea.

Miraculousness without incident

garners suspicion.

As if the ordinary leaves something

out--of course it doesn't.

Nonevents are interested parties.

Which translate to cogito's media

circuis, bringing in a sleepwalker

for questioning.

Not quite with a suit jacket over their

head, but more like hapless self-escort.

The way they're put together doesn't

track, because they're not in love with

the heartache that puts it together.

A sleepwalker is only a sleepwalker if

at the end of the walk, they don't punch

the radio dial forgotten on full blast.

Which's to say all the innocuous detail

becomes a painful recap of creative

correspondence.

At every turn it's: What do you make of

it?

How not.

There where I was told not

to go alone.

I became the probity of light.

Dark spots & the gnashing

of teeth.

Smiles at a different angle.

The forefront at my back.

Absolutely lost in what I stand

to Know--I will tell all.

Starting with the first person

I See--myself.

To that which sees me for what I Am,

let me be known for what I Am.

Lest I take shade under another life.

There's no judgement worse than

contraction, I refuse to let death be a

forced expansion.

Let what cannot be hidden, be my

strength.

Rolling out of bed, will be rolling

out of bed.

It was never given me to yoke being

with covetousness.

That second doing wants to fall from me.

Desperately so.

In the call is what prepares for it--spreads

me out with it.

A prayer's rush is not knowing how it

goes.

I'm certainly not the only one.

We're going to walk out of here this time.

I followed cruelty home after it

did unto another.

I was so certain it knew it was

being followed--that I felt followed.

Conscience is to know the feeling,

how well?

I had to see what cruelty does with

itself, the psychotic breaks it

undergoes.

Not to be cruel.

It's when birds gain currency--

advancing as something pale

or other.

The thin chasm of beaks hurt

to hear, their sounds

aren't as early as spring.

They're not there.

An hour or so after a witch

undressed in front of a mirror,

piled on the floor.

Bottom lip quivering with

unwholeness.

That I elbow standing for the

toilet & face front, totally

deaf to the story arc.

For bed to remake sheet-angels,

that will never get me.