By Nick Hranilovich
The true nature of the fabric of nature is still the truth of the nature of fabric. No cotton cloth or ugly ripped polyester falsity can ever stop the fact that steel is the height of fabrication, and that even water will wash it away to small grey sands. I would praise the beaches that showed the particles of a city wafting back and forth in the breeze, with the footprints of our children showing merriment and mercury both frolicking upon my, nee OUR apocalypse. The fabric then no longer advertised, but just breathed and known. The moment we call singular finality may be either a great bottlenecking of every sentiment or just the slow popping of each mind’s kernel as the cranial atmosphere cooks up. Could it be that every pressure bursts after eons? That if I were to live in caves waiting for my ancient nature to pour from me once more, and for my hair to flow in thin diamond so that every time the Sun hit me I would make a thousand proposals, then sooner than these gifts would hit me my heart would burst across a wall of coal? The man burrowed in the hillside is the man forgotten by his village as an oddity, remembered by his mother as a lost chunk of womb (an egg sadly un-chicken, no yellow-bellied sap, sucker, or bad lover), and derided by every toddler who doesn’t daydream as the Dead Man with moth-ridden wallet.
Testosterone vendettas produce an uncontrollable urge to sling lion manes across necks to show that we, too, flash peacock feathers of constant mating skin, but would never be caught dead with a mink that was caught dead to get thrown over something painted pink acting like the extraneous snake skin of an erudite affluent absent-everything’d daughter of the bears and bulls. Daddy’s Hampton House is burning with brotherly distrust, all lineage joined together in dry green blood that’s freshly minted so often that their family tree is caught in a constant nexus between Winter and Spring, always shedding those who find no solace in Earthly quests and those who burst up in a pile of jewels and declare that they are temporary giants until they are forgotten in the coming Wall Street Boom.
Many would release oceans in their crotches for the sake of a silver platter to eat off of. True lovers wait for stars in eyes and not commas on print-outs, surrounded by zeroes (which, believe it or not, are as hollow as they sound). When I look into one that my immediacy wishes to know in a private place that is slightly farther from here, slightly closer to eternity, then I know that the time has come to zero in on that small point in their pupil that is all light, and no black. The direct line from the front of an ocular lens right into the center of the skull, where my mind’s hand cradles whichever neurons in there are telling the truth about then, and then snake down the spine in an agape tease. Memorize the thunkings of their heart long enough to dance to it in the middle of Death Valley decades after the fact.
Whatever the opposite of death is, perhaps I’m bound for that. We’re and let’s. Us, which I call Our. When I was born, my name was made law and smothered with digits, and at least one innoculation must have had a hundred thousand small waving symbols of ramparts won in it, but my marrow forever pours essence forward to drain the burdening blood of country from me. I pray. Only we, having eaten every forbidden fruit and chased every dragon to a hole of magma in the side of the mountain to kneel before it in awe of its size while it licks its wounds and prepares to curl in a python’s maneuver across another town, would ever take advantage of cubs.
Make light never of those who rest in motionless solitude. They will burst forth a tidal wave of motion when their finger twitches on the edge of a jar, reaching for a drink. When the restful man who has reached his calm and zen stands, hands on his craning knees, eyes to the ground or still set on yours, the ceiling of the sky will rise with him. To watch the planet would be to see a bulge in the atmosphere over his slow and deliberate rising. This is the burst of power that silence makes.
Say if you have felt nights of loose and lubricated laughter have brought you the riches of the promise of miraculous pine bounty that you’ve always dreamed of (a world coated with sappy wood, sunlight, discovery, and the equality of the notion that one night, everybody went to bed, and woke up in a pleasant dream to which they never had to be any the wiser save for a sneaking suspicion that something was all to filled with potential and phantasmagoria’s images- the kaleidoscope of your life will spit you into many places at night, and all of them are communities I’d much love to wander hand in hand with many friends and any friend).
This is my dissertation.
Or so I say.
Who are these who curse their havings and holdings? Lo, I am among them.
Or so at times I think.