a soul is like a hole being that holes are what fill the absence
that surrenders the presence of young roots that leave seeds
to seek what will be their endeavoring: generous stars (holes in fulfillment!)
surrounded by the soul’s overwhelming effort
common dirt
Like the river’s way in want of rain, we go. We come, nascent as fire in the
fuel-heavy height. Thrown into a valley of wind as inflamed mud. A brown fire
of flood that burns to a sea. Only to go, we in a hot wind the dying tree sucks in.
We, who will come for a century of buried seed. Who go from deep canyons
of elder wood only to come preeminently as radiant things. On a mountaintop. Shrouded in a thunder gust. Spent & combustible, the sapless that suck
at tinder light. Endlessly rocking, those that nurse from teats of cloud
to come, to go like the withdrawn, old sea across dry grass.
Water
fragrance empties a nest, not florets of ovaries
its dust & sugar, not what eggs are pregnant with
ecstasies of pinnate & spiral (not the revealed hole)
conceal each vessel of seed---a soul’s entirety
Erigeron pinnatisectus
A "laboratory" cannot culture appetite, nor will the experiment that instructs the learned how best to survive the failing of prior hypotheses ever survive an oospore’s desire, to say nothing of the ignorance that thrives by fly & spider. Though the "wits" of such laborious circumstance are themselves ignorant & like a sporophyte endeavoring, sometimes the beneficiaries of truth as error, yet let them make dirt in a Petri dish!
Unlike the unthought thing that cannot conceive till thought itself & of things passing be perpetuated, these contrivances pressed against earth, will they ever accumulate? Be the entailment of Araneidae's genesis? Be as instars through decay, or as increase that excites those who wait?
Our "models" of water mold, of Muscidae & of post-docs are of great interest when love is evoked & the expectations are vague—than at least may the student feel a little, the Unknown—that which is the inevitable accompaniment of disease & eclosion, of starlight & weather, of resting states & generation, of time & emptiness.
The constellations of stars are as apt as any scientist. But when in doubt, leave it to an orb weaver to elaborate appetite.
The Mummy of Muscidae
Desire is anticipation of flux even if the change appears “blind”, “random” or “ignorant”. Without it the varying is aimless—amid the clamor & rout, no omission, no importance & therefore no selection (no appetite, no phagocytes). Seeking the satisfaction of change (the adventure of endosymbiosis), this precursor of Love is a cell’s esse—that is, no eternal abstract or impress of fate authors propagation, imagines a Garden of Innocence, a Reason of Perfection. Want makes pregnant the lightless, the unknown & all equilibria. On the Tendency of Varieties to depart indefinitely from the Original Type Alfred Russel Wallace urges the concerned to consider that sexual excess & its ecstasy of remembrance is the “tending” of all species for it. Whatever is fixed by God, whatever supreme idea of the permanent, whatever true form staid by divine intent (most of Aristotle’s essentia) is now a larva’s chorion; a brushfoot’s meconium. Eclosed are the variations constrained by Adamic permanence; liberated from the mortal afflictions endeavoring with little effect, the perfection of the Platonic. All ancestral forms are contingent upon the desires of prior ancestral forms, their copulatory exuberance & their indefinite, varied circumstances of an environment ceaselessly elaborated for the Cell to the good effect of the latter succeeding adversity, leaving behind progeny charged with a fierce sense to populate, pursue survival with obsessive self-interest & be lucky enough to have a planet (the "aim" of natural selection) set apart as sacred this varying of a very old appetite.
Selective pressure is largely the error of those pressured, who in profound ignorance enlighten the aim of those that copulate in profound indifference.
Death is like sex in that what is offered creates the variability worth remembering.
Jerusalem Cricket
There is something twisted about “planting” a tree: like debating a Trappist on the virtue of silence, raising mice to feed a cat, pumping ground water to fill a river, or gathering fat pericarps to scatter beneath the munificence of Quercus fecundus.
In a thermodynamically adroit world where the sun is never lifted from Strata, nor dropped from the Enola Gay, trees plant themselves.
Yet no "sapient" can afford to ignore the imperative PLANT A TREE! Nor what that imperative portends, though it now seems
too late for even our deep-rooted friends?
Leaves are the emphasis of sunlight just as rivers are the emphasis of a sea. They mark the importance of the ungovernable & the generous—each incited by the excess they receive. Yet a leaf & a stream are themselves large societies, built-up by cloying entities such as the excess of green cambium or extravagance of turbulent flows. We can relieve either, their obligation to the emphatic & allow both the mark of importance by distinguishing the endeavors of the meristematic that crowd in ecstasy against the rough bark of a branch, or the spontaneities of the diffuse that inspire molecular water to dance the frenzy of stochasticity. Root & rivulet, river & tree, sun & sea urge us to contemplate the important mark of indefinite entireties. For in part, our vagueness is the intensity of so much unaccounted complexity. In part, it is the vigor of all this disorder into solidarity.
We value clarity. Honesty is clear. Arithmetic & road maps are clear. Our love for children is clear. To be injured & need help is clear. To be generous is clear. To fear the warrior is clear. To be at war is vague.
We are vague when we feel celestial heaven. Vague when we touch terrestrial dirt. Vague when we love & vague when we sleep. Vague before birth. Vague before death.
Hope is vague, to care for the old is clear. To want a butterfly is vague. To know its Latin name is clear.
