Root Cap

A Preponderance Of Affection

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.

Planets Would Vanish

If there is to be no Love & the world not do as it wills?

Mortality would lose sway & all its infinite pleasures drain away. Each egg of desire would desiccate in the wild. Every starry rudiment, wanton void, resultant spore dry up, waste into dust, just as every truth born of failure snap, twist & tear away in the wind; the ideal wind, the wind that is a perfect, a divine, an ultimate wind; a monotonous, motionless, platonic, pristine equilibrium. A cold mix of aseity that is not truly a wind, but an icy entireness—no more the vague & windy adventure, this emptiness we are at home with, whose brooding dark perpetuations buoy an island universe, but now must cease all going away. To go away the rigors of adventure. No more vague philosophies penetrating ardent contradiction. No more of the unsettled "beyond" exploited by sex & the dead--- legacies that must precipitate & every thought of a thing submit & cement into a naked Oneness.

Who would know how to know? How, with the prohibition of such as time & gravity, or death & copulation, could we learn? The satisfaction of stars that breed error in our soils could not go the way of decay. The satisfaction of a single butterfly, restrained no longer by ruin might become the everlasting, a disorder of eternity entirely bound as nothing of variety, nothing of this varying universe & nothing of the various Gods adorned with Love could ever become, never gather & forever go away.