Root Cap

the past fall's planting

what death reveals as love is the penetration of a sun
& like every immortal, earthbound desire, the thing to come
comes—& this as the distance the dark is—the distance no death
begins & yet a beginning to all this useless everlasting

a seedling

"divine" gravity

god expects to be born because a sun can distend & rupture the dark

like a grave is this birth that as a seed be the space of eternity

springtime

Death is what assures a God that being alive is This & This God is convinced that time, space & being are—the This that makes death certain because there is nothing of the infinite that is absent This. An eternity that lives any God would admire.

How does a God know?

Behold the obscure worm (this God urges) buried in an immortal desire that Is heaven!

Let it be known: it is the absence of monument for those who die
that being anonymous is a dying a God greatly admires.

like a brain

if to be alive is the light we need to wake from sleep— a light barely half-alive across this wilderness—than such a light as life needs a night that keeps alive all who sleep because the kind of life that dreams is radiant with what, in every awakening when (& only when!) it perishes, an aroused, wild sun gets buried-in

this is not a computer

"here" there is a reason

if nothing is proof of anything
& every “thing” has substance in

excessive abundance, than freedom is what we do
without proof & without nothing what we do is eternity

cellular life (on Mars)

to be a god & free? better to be a dog
immortals drown in superfluities—hard enough
for a sun but for the divine? an absurdity!

grow old!

a sun is the life time takes to touch creation

like all desire, a sun is the touch of nothing

—what only the dark sees as love

the big bang

why stay young?

the path we take to forego the great creation that persists

leads to ruin despite the manifold that constitutes this oblivion

because in ruin even eternity lives & in eternity, life is enduring

sons & daughters

a universal path

the life of a thought may be conceived in a walk

to move in a neighborhood is to be pregnant with ought

to love, is simply, to depart

a “d-o-g”

the dark has no limit without light so without life what limits the after-life?

if life, than death is like light. if an "after-kind", than the sun is blind.

what is immortality but a time that never grows old? & what is time if not the essence of age? & therefore what has age to do with space? well, since eternity is without genitalia we have to ask what does space to do with sex? any local god will say death, death death!

in the heavens above to the naked I the oldest body of light is the great andromeda galaxy. but to an ancient eye, this is only the aging light. what
of the dark? how old are the holes wherein things like "sight" do dwell?

empedocles

(p)raise the end!

only love can wake the dead

all the others are so exhausted by the passion
that this "anti-attraction" (this fleeing so that every hole
in the ground will be ground again) need be the force
of all their slumber—yes! not even a god! who must
perforce fall to sleep—that being heaven's "gravity"

an other

when the infinite is eternal

the endless hole where no root goes flowers only when in death a seed is formed yet not because to die is to grow but to go without death is like a hole both eternal & infinite

rene thom

as it is with light, space is a dying & if not, what ruin of "here" is there?
without all these moribund stars what limbs the dark? infinite they’d be
—a nonsense of seeds & so it is with time: a hole in the dirt that counts
on the brilliance but without, is endless. a day, a month, a year—the taint
of no destiny. freedom only & for all, eternity

to a sun

what arrives by absence was once an insistence—derived of flight
like a nest, not in the egg but in the hole which every egg beholds
alone it holds up the heavens—this fleeing presence the pregnant
surrender to all the dark a uterus will form

a mother

in mortality the way to sleep
is to seek the teat for in eternity
sleep is nothing if not for the pregnant
—death is the mother who wake us