The Paradoxical Game of Night

La noche es la quema de agua...

When you dare most, in revealing and unrevealing the veil of irritation and the substance of being at the unavoidable point of disruption, the sniper’s cherished gaze moving in all directions, lighter than air, or fire pawing at the glimpse of having been there before––where here you unfold as a maze... and the solution of being seen, where distance is only an unruly means of access, as others pass through you, changing direction forever, in the middle of nowhere... You become a vessel of magical potions... A group portrait.... A mystery....

   You remember only the projection of her visitation, yet the sense of her gathering storm brightens the earthly milkweed pods of an intimate ravishing, bursting and scattering sirens outwards in a wheel of lightning strikes, signaling the reverse of impending precautions. The archive of owls captures every nuance of biological emanations in the secretive fables of each peculiar shuddering of bricks and mortar, pistil and stamen, and those oddly colored Dutch flasks that appear like lighthouses howling in the wings.

   Out of your elegant debris you make a descending reflection, then an upward spinning shadow and then a dream-covered glance, to which again is added your reflection emerging out of the forest around it, and you have the entrance to the other side of the landscape, where the vision grinders come in the late afternoon to lose their proportions. Thus, the secret is revealed, and the pieces of the puzzle are set to unwind the babbling of the apes in the glimmer of enchantment...