A Seed of Increase
If the newborn of oak
seeks the teat of soil
is not Love the aim
of issue?
Comet Dust (of insensible vitality)
The Dark Cede
A life-time of ignorance & no one to blame for even the Sun is blind, yielding to woodlice the ambition of light.
The More to Give the More to Have
Love flowers.
Let those of us who cede, ravish its deep interior; lay with the ground; spend our hard shell of desire; invaginate the dank, bacterial swell; intercourse with hyphae sporiferous in rot; hear roots shriek with pleasure as they copulate in the musky putrescence; touch the fetal absence as waste seeds to wild emptiness; taste decay's ejaculate in the voids of dark that germinate; see starvation of light as cause for ecstasy; this vanishing the frenzy of suns; their "holes" of after-life an embryo's appetite; this excessive yielding the contamination of increase; this fatal paradise, how Love is able to rise.
Verbascum blattaria
Where A Star Goes When It Dies & Until Then Why It Shines
Let the propagation of light persist long enough & it will become sex. Let sex propagate long enough & it will become a sun. The generation is not born of water or fire, of omnipotence or willfulness, of synthesis or dialectic, of selection or variety. To breed light requires emptiness. To populate what is lit requires death. Ruin is upon its back & open-thighed; the living, erect & ready to penetrate. The world grows round with phyletic wombs. Increase of a dark universe is Love's radiance. 
The More We Know The More We Roam
There is great fatness in those who speculate. Much fatness fixed by admired contemplation. Fecund, these excesses, like the citizen-ecstasy that clings to us as we, this solidarity of intent, make cellular our way through trees that sprawl into being. Much admired fatness in us who consider ontologies as forests fraught with death. That their hushed dark be of an absence decay sanctifies. That every "ending" of root cap & meristem penetrate the sprawl of emptiness. That the "thought" of Q. fecundus sustain the thing itself at rest yet restless within the acorn's munificence.
Much admired, those who speculate increase as the satisfaction of energy & this generation the ineffable satisfaction of the empty. To say the fatness of creation companions voids that engender the spoil of stars. This sprawl of light, its ruin to give rise to the speculation of ferment, of filaments alive in this hushed dark; learning to thrive in this absence decay has discovered—a reason why the dead sink; why gas, dust & intelligence drift into solum. The charity of a tree or a sun that makes for a sun or a tree fat with speculation.
And of course, the reason for acorns.
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.
All Is Small
There is no MANY that is not the ONE of another many; each the tendency of union in some other, whose tenuous concordance makes vivid the one: our universe & its expanding emptiness; our endeavoring ecology & its fuse of a sun; our hands & their congress of cells; our atoms & their trembling molecules of river water; our elements of hydrogen & their ensemble of animated matter; our quarks & gluons & their milky way of neutrons & protons.
And than we must not forget our strings & loops & resonances twixt degrees of freedom; our orders chanced upon by chaos: our compenetration of the virtual into determined spacetime. Beyond that, the pristine energy we touch as we go down the black rabbit hole of the vanishingly small that drop us into the ineffably small that cohere the all-is-silence into this familiar charity of the dead evident in the first burst of new starlight! There is no ONE that is not the MANY of some other. Such is companionship. Just look at how stupendous nebulae conspire to solidarity in the small, striding Gerridae.
The Illumination of Love
Old stars lean into the dark with fierce ambitions. What are their dreams? To perish & become what a butterfly is. Give up the light & with the help of a wind, change into whatever intimation of beauty the ferment can bare.
To behold our Sister is to delight in the spontaneity of gas & dust that gather in the interest of love. Such is the freedom that enjoys the living form. Certain is being alive the satisfaction of a sun. Thus liberty where propensities thrive?
Every manifestation of beauty is in anticipation of a perishing star. The ambitions of the dead are intimated in the small who create from an understanding of what each of us are. Alive today, my ways will influence what is born from stellar decay.
Adelpha bredowii
Why an Aim Must Have an Edge
Should the universe have a center, like a seed its tree & all these stars its shimmering leaves & all this dark the "earth" of its nebular grip & source of obscure nourishment, than would the universe have an edge: seed loose from this seed's tree to ravish the wind!
Were it not for all this Light, we would join in the Aim & celebrate! As it is, we have lost our place & now live in popular ignorance. H. sapien (beneath the heavens)
California Sister
The universe has no center. The universe has no edge.
We are not allowed to imagine a place where it advances else give up the well-worn to trembling antcipation; forbidden that aim & what it understands, yet still to fancy it alive, to have an age, behold its increase, cherish its conception: to press upon those blind to the night sky, the beauty of so many stars—a troubled beauty, itself without eyes because of the sapient light of so many cities.
Hopeful, the beauty we behold in you, our Sister—this awkward path of stardust having stumbled upon, what seems to us, a satisfaction of love.
There is, in everyone alive, the wherewithal to collaborate with stars.
Adelpha bredowii
