Fish In the Afternoon

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Meadowlark. Old willow draped in a green dress.

The spirits never left us; the ghosts remain. Through machinery, capital de-sacralizes the land. Devouring rationality, the monstrosity at the heart of exchange, the demon of accumulation specters in from the shallow, the abstraction of the deep.

Animal heartbeats push into virtual unfeeling. The worlds beneath us, the seeds within us, the companions around us simulacra’d into electrochemical icons. The hypercosmos of capitalist modernity infects being and sublimates it into non-being, capital.

Bluesong. Weeping forest in a funeral veil.

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Softfellow. Petalvine skipping in nothing.

The spirits inhabit us; the ghosts touch. Through the land, love leaves the logic of capital. Touching feeling, the desire within desire, chaosmos of belonging in difference, the pluricosmos of fractal being breathes and welcomes us into the deep.

In the beginning was Sophia. The thought before thought that was also matter before matter. The form of the holy resonating into sonic ontologies. A principle of contradiction ferning into spiral galaxies. Pinpoint quarks wobble with fibrous consciousness in the cosmic dirt.

echo – alali – a – alali – a – alali – a – alali – a – alali – a – on and on and on

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Image: Vase of Flowers by Jan Fyt