{render me your ear or tend to me your fears}

aaliyah wrote me a four page letter and i need a reason why not to respond....im a drift on a pond of sympathy and doubt and if i sink in the drought ill float on the sands of time surfing through the hourglass and down the bottle neck to the bottom of a bottle while the top of the bottle goes down through the bottom of my neck into the top of my liver like a quiver full of arrows shooting straight into me as i turn to the side making a thousand tunnels through my body and naughty are the thoughts inside of me as i project them onto the stars as they project their light into eternity and when we cease to be we still exist as points of light waiting to be seen light years away and fighting tears away we bite our nearest phase and slip into the stream and thus we dream of the eons that we spent growing strong inside of the primordial pool and the prehistorical schools of thought and the ancient trails that we still walk and the naked tails that weve all lost and the forests through which we were stalked and into the tourists who are unable to walk and so we see with our sights and we flee with our fancies and are altered but slightly and back into the trance we slip into the stream and underwater screams arent even heard by fish just the wishes that we kissed into the past before we relapsed into our state of restless rest where we never progress and never regress we simply exist and are dragged into the future by the wake of time and our eyes are open and our hearts are closed and we always know what passes us by in the waking mind and the sinking body submerged by the mud and the ferns and the moss that redistribute our loss into the life force of the microrganisms who migrate into the nitrous orifice and the process of decay unlocks our nutrients and water us down with the subtle taste of nuclear fission and risk it all on the contamination of our intentions disected with dissension and we never bought we rented and content meant settlement and we were too inflated with the dreams of the failures of our elders and we held on too long to the promise of the prince and the novice and the wrench and we were wrenched free from the log with the bench marked with landmarks and the sand larch was ground into saw dust and sent amongst the raw brush and the cooked combs and the rooked bishop who mistook the queen for her majesty and at last he was free and couldnt see the masks who wore him and the fasting had worn him thin enough to slip through those glass bars like air through water and light through stone and the porous pumice would pour us promises for our tommorrow is loaded with quite and noted as right and still wouldnt fight if we pushed it through a window so we grinned low and soon sowed the seeds of our revenge and watered them with the blood of our rage until we poisoned them with our past and cut them down as the strongest foods ground from the harvest and planted into the star dusted scene painted onto the prisons of our skulls on our souls.....

TWENTY-SEVEN OCTOBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE