I prefer the audience prays after the perforomance. Like me.
None of us know zip about what is about to happen. Though in all fairness, I’m not certain there is an us. It doesn’t matter. I may not go out there. In truth, I’ve already been out there. The show is over. Now my Perforomance is about to begin.
It always will be. And simply has many Moons ago. On my Birth Moon.
Folly is the name of the game.
We set out in the World. Do a fine jig. Sing a fancy song. Make hay of the Masses. Every atom is a stage. Beams of Sun Light switch on the boundaries. We bound away. We Bounders. We cutlets Cutlets on a crystal cube. Sizzling until the Moon makes her entrance and starts crowding the room. Her spotlight is the star of the show. We attend it with some form of Madness. Funny. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
We are Radiance is what we speak what we do what we Radiant People do who Perforomance or even just lush around the scenery. We bully the scenery. Chew it up into mincemeat pie. Our lift and rise fluffs up some whipped cream, though in Truth, the cream does the whipping for us. The cream is an assault on all that betrays us. All that disappints us. All that has hurt us — Is hurting us which includes seeing you hurt, seeing your madness, seeing your making-due and bleak improvisation without the Radiance, more like — Around the Radiance.
And this is our Dance around or under the Moon. Our Courtship Dance.
We are married under the Moon. We are married to the Moon too.
Our Radiance.
We are all gathering here, the Audience who is brazen, who is wizen’d and eho have brought Meaning in to this particular threshhold to thrash about — To Muck About. And laff about Meaning. Feel Fancy and Free. To capture the Stars with our shirtsleeves, which we roll up when we stick our hands in the soil, in the Mud. To remind our Selves, to remake our Selves — We Remuck! our Selves in the Mud. In the Mud of frolic & freelarking, Daylarking our Selves into soily existence —
In Play
With Hope
With a dopey morse code typing into the Mud, and I Quote, Quote —
I Am Here
Tis a Spring Day Every Day! duncha know?
Well certainly you do!
There is not a Day that goes by that does Knot Spring, it does Spring forth
manacle monocle barnacles vestibules vested investments inquisitive forgiveness more forgoing missed business of Earth n Seed n Mud in Deed and Worm n curd n saddle n wax n blood of our Baker’s means n whey n funny sayings n doings and our Undoings
As we saddle and sally forth on a Day — That is Spring!
And we are in the Mud, cuz We Are The Mud and
We are flying
Not just laying there
We are flying up our sleeves
To court then release
The Stars
We keep there
Your melancholia is subtle poison.