The impossibility of resurrection has my ego instead seeking the echoes of cut glass mirrors and memories of the tingling reflections of my life. I find drifting clouds and fog falling like autumn leaves and abandoned kisses into ancient flower beds, the neon orange sky as bright as the eye of a serpent.
Serpents, they say, are already on their way to becoming angels, working for the gods, doing what no one else will, containing the cosmic lines of flowing rivers and the supernatural force of scales which have refused to turn into feathers, wings which refuse to sprout, muscles which refuse to turn into dragons and fly.
Remember, everything is here to eat everything else. Remember, everything is watching, watching, always watching. Me and you and the snake. I mention the snake only because of the magnitude of my dreams and the nervous system of the planet, the distance of the zodiac, the intentions of flowers which produce no fruits. I am also in tune with the electric impulses of the earth and the moisture of the mud.
Seeking the temperature of survival and the strength of constriction, I cannot say what the serpent was thinking, for even in dreams the reptilian mind exists, unlike my mind, unlike your mind, unlike the mind of birds, completely below the concept of words. No language to intercept and interpret emotions, only the expression of rattles and hisses, slithers between the grasses, petrified breath, geometric patterns, a forked tongue tasting the colors of the air, listening only to himself, belly against the ground, so close there is no space for a shadow, marks in the dust. Patience. Self-sufficient, with no interest in others, in right or wrong, in the complications of truth and falsehood, in understanding, in satisfaction, in the predictions of falling stars and comets, without obedience, without submission, without the benefits of love, just survival, sustenance and the ability to do what needs to be done. The reptilian eye, orange as the sky, staring right at you, is revealing nothing. Taking nothing. Giving nothing. Judging nothing. Going to the same place I am going.
Straight as an arrow, limber as a serpent, I am trapped inside of myself. No way to escape, to shed my skin, to break out of my limitations and constrictions, only to whisper warnings to myself to avoid the songs of sirens and to ignore the invitations of the Bolon Tiku, not to wrap myself in a soft, green, silk cocoon and sleep while the world crumbles and falls apart or begins anew. Carnival is as close as the Day of the Dead. The solstice is as far off as the equinox. This is today. It is all we have.
January 14, 2017