Something fleshy to be turned and examined. It is the oracle of one's progress through the infinitude of sensorial possibility. Precisely accurate, and the holy luminosity of this poem. Memory is naked bodies in a battle. The war is sensuous as a little boy's penis.
Fighter planes are guns.
I am the river god in love with my dreams. Not dreams but ongoing presences spewed from the bang through a nervous system. At the edge of things but reaching way back inside. No one sees and relates as clearly the neural depths that tie us to all the universes. A theater like an eddy in the vast field of being through which the sparks of self-luminescence fly.