and yellow and red. The spectacle is yellow, the evening is red. Red cumulus spread about the tent. Ceiling is the unknown. Round is infinite. Flag is subtle. 1 never returns. They arise within. Center is blindness, girth A circumference.
They dangle the tent’s top with dusty wavelets of laughs. Swirling up, twirling, self- hypnotizing, (they) release wings on recondite air pocket whirls, semi-fleshed, humming aloud, semi-tensioned, but so light. So cycle.
Those lights outside come from the shadows within. Light comes from the top down. Shadows are sometimes lain, sometimes none. Shadows are zero. Sometimes, Tales weave in time, for tales are time. The stories of the times. The wisdom of the blind.
All stories ever thought or spoken will be told tonight. Before the last story dies, none will leave the tent. Before all stories are done, all will believe. Until there is an end for all happy ends.
No one knows/acknowledges sense. The whistling falls as jail’s scent. No sons and no daughters of fathers. All are mothers of mothers regardless their semi-bodies.
I peer through the cloth, between interwoven cotton strings. It is all reddish through. I through it. It is loud out there. It is loud through them. It is insanely loud inside me, here, in the center of the chest. It is a beginning and every beginning is concentrative, loud, explosive.
The tale, time has come. The cloth is moving away. I step on and heaven spins about the ring. It speeds up. Earth shakes but does not move. Air moves but does not touch. Water touches but does not hurt. Fire hurts but does not burn.
A garden among us. White, red and yellow flowers. Spinning thorns all over, in dew. Infinite.
I swallow all present mothers and kiss all my fathers. My women and men. Mothers are always mothers of all for motherhood is a condition, not a decision.
An immense round sun pushes heat upon the ground (of life). I cannot see the unbearable light. What do you see when you spot pure light?
The table. I raise the right arm for it to reach silence. The sun vanishes down the tent. A falling tower, an index conducting stillness. Twilight of reddish. Warm shades of dispersion, fogs of ease, resting utero. Where is the ring? Quietness. Nothingness. Where is the end?
Shades surround. Encompass the yellow and the red and the yellow while I dig. Until tomorrow I dig for not finding ends. And shades, many reddish mists, they sleep the audience in, in a long in….
Until i1 disposes: pre-actuality. Pre-one.
V Marin is an expanding atom. His work can be found at http://www.farolbooks.com