An Endless Walk That Spans The Length Of Time

An endless walk that spans the length of time. The number of fog covered mountain passes defies the measurement of mathematicians. They are also invisible within the vast void of my imagination. They sprinkle their theories and equations, erupting in sums, moving though suns, embedded within orange planets of amber. I sit on a chaise lounge in Miami, sipping cool tea and contemplating the cause of my condensation. Pastel buildings surround me and brown asses jiggle past my hands every three seconds. Iridescent beads drip towards my belly, finding solace within the deep hole of my belly button. Quickly, you come and suck them out, the last bit of water that sits upon my surface. The endless desert stretches taught on this pale sand. Mirages are liberally dosed within all my crevasses, and there are many. Explorers have mapped the contours of a an armpit, but only you have discovered the valley of date trees. Barefooted men have found their way to these fields, a spectacle of tall trees, geometric in their planted patterns. Row after row, each springs forth from the land at 36 inch intervals. Down to the millimeter, the measure is exact, the desire of a lost king. Shedding their names and memories, the bald headed men, each uniformly dressed in red shirts and white slacks, they cling to the bark with their overdeveloped leg muscles. It is their thighs alone that keep them upright, that keep them from plunging head first into the cracked silver earth. A machete in their mouths, they move like a battalion of hungry military men, in search of the fruits that will shed them with endless wealth.
Move you fools, higher still!
The branches sag, the boughs not easily giving up their seeds. Their meaty flesh. The hunger within pushes them beyond any limit. The limit of words or biological strength. The sounds of high ringing can be heard even clearer at this height. Ring inside, the clanging pushes this energy even further past the doorway of eternal glimpses.
Let me shine with the glory of a thousand lifetimes, a thousand deaths that defy the meaning of logic, the meaning of these words, bound in a leather bound dictionary and carried by a little Asian schoolgirl in her backpack. You can use it for the test, but the memory will soon be forgotten.
It’s not enough to remember, you must learn.
You must learn to do.
Must learn how to do.
There is this…or the other.
Not doing.
Checking out. To swim in a vast pool of misery and human dread. The endless search for nothing. Can you find something in an illusion? Can you project your own lifetime and its own conclusion?
The death of my ancestors. The death of me comes closer each day. I only hope that it happens in the bed of my lover. May I have my brains freshly tasted and be buried beneath the sage. Burn my leaves. Smell me before the invocation.
If I have learned to do before then, perhaps I will enter, perhaps I will dance inside of you.
Perhaps I will move with all the atmospheric movement you shall circulate within the earthly confines of a café full of curiously scared wide-eyed fools.
When you reach for me, I will be the same as I am now.
The same as it ever was.