...at the January ocean’s ωκεανός bottom depth
nerves νεύρα that clarify almost unto their death...
Removing my face πρόσωπο from the light’s entryway, I lift the mask that hides what none can say. Light that has no source. Then there is this business of the personalities that may be adopted.
through portals of pain πόνος
that supersede speech ομηλία
…light that has no source.
Lessons of enmity teach the cloud that its warfare will someday end with its own pleasure, losing itself: the rain βροχή that ensues an amalgamation of vagueness into a force. But there is no destiny that has been written out, like a prescription, and which can ensure us this will be so. It may or may not be a choice that can be made. At any rate, for the time χρόνος being it looks like it will be like this. I feel my flesh gather hue and flavor. No specter of the presidency I cured myself of in that freezing desert έρημος will ever haunt me again. I will never suffer that false dignity - to be dubbed leader of the bodies that congregate as this body σώμα, “my body” σώμα μου - ever again. I am just a sort of cleric now, but also a person of blood αίμα and desire - the blood that has broken like shackles the information that once poisoned it. I exist only as a future made material by my own ferment of thoughts; I lead myself like a tone, or stone that floats along with the river-course. And thus I remain a school unto myself, loosened up like a shirt with the top two buttons undone, which lets the breeze catch and toss itself in the collar flaps. I smile γέλιο at the shadow I feel will one day come to stand beside my own. Roger Van Voorhees