Stars charm bud break, venerate the ambivalent rain, adore the ruin of loam, show reverence to the decay of feather & bone. They make idols of pollution, celebrate the engendered rot, exalt the living dead. They visit upon the stricken, the devoured & those drowned in soil what the dark animates. Every molecular cloud, every fragment of dust anxious of this emptiness, sanctifies mortality. Each death in life a great fetish of these ancestral lights.
And is not bud break & the weather that wakes our force of growth but the artifice & elaboration of some star’s fierce convictions? Why not after-life charged with conception & stiffs who penetrate the flush of genesis? A carcass teeming with cryptozoans is like a ravished anther which is like a river in summer which is like the public root & congress of leaves that is like the unlit film & humid void that waits for our chitin & cellulose, our phosphorous & carbon, for our aim just as it does our putrescence; waits in emptiness for the conjuring & perpetuation that provokes the high regard among all these celestial enthusiasts.
Why not the dead? They spill constituency & make earth munificent. They endeavor generosity & make charity the habit of creation. They wait out decay & make ruin nourish the love among atoms. They despair neither the rigors of adventure nor the taste for penetration. They empty out immortality so the animate become divine & the alive infinite. The stiffs of genesis resurrect from finite being the death in life that gives life everlasting. This spoil of fertility is the enchantment of stars & their great ambition. A reason why matter swells & shines. Why one small bird is what light means to become.
