Mind Breakage II

The fox is sly. It watches. It insists without language—it, too, is a ventriloquist. Just mention of the dark cadence, spells discrediting. The long Nile of suffering, the cages compressing brains, the chains and forks and fires. To imagine, life without assistance, poles and skeletons, and strife—into forests, meadows, aside creeks and coffins. Walls filled with chatter, character assassination, in the wilds of something, compelled to act normal. The sheer loneliness, filled with passion, to happen upon a keen eye; tides held in place, a mini-nightmare, hearing, as it were, thoughts made with appeal. Inside of hallucination, rebuking it, where it doesn’t relinquish; at bark and branch and vine and grapes, at mercy, genesis, luminosity and isolation. The skill of the matter—the realization of the cliff, the leaping until it hurts. Those incidents!  The question of sunlight. The room with padding. The jacket monsters! Or just an experience—wondering about its return—living life watching, strategizing, trying to comfort matter, seeing self in a platter, rude inside, aging inside, so wise inside. To know the geometry—of soul and spirit, to converse with the fox, to ask its purpose, to receive guile. The Jesuits have seen me—the Hindus, Christians and others. It gets different. It restructures, carries pride, the fox is creative. The countenance changes. eyes dig into people. (I was with desire to tell a person, I knew.) Mental lava, oozing into society, tiptoeing a wire, drinking from a bridge. living as we do. Or removed from living. Many embarrassments. Lost connections. Obsessed on some critical point. The days are promised another matrix of mind.