6:41

I did not know what to write first, so I thought of words and dreams, William Blake, the man in the suit walking in front of me who turned around and said:

"You are raving mad, Mr. Artaud."

There are sentences I want to give to you and sentences I want to give to him and her and those I know who encompass both. I stood naked in front of my window this morning and saw a infant male cardinal eating insects off of the side of this home; I walked in the high grass of the woods yesterday and prayed to a mushroom growing on the side of a log. I saw a white oak that was 150 years old and much larger than my body and life and perhaps more beautiful with its innumerable limbs and green-brown hair (or eyes, I do not know what trees use to see), its skin a better shade than my own. 

I love cardinals because their feathers are better than blood (synonymous with what is fundamental and of the greatest importance), holier than any ecclesiastic wearing their chemical colors of life, the mutilated and erotic body of a mystic hanging around their necks. All of god is flesh and fingers and I do not understand how Catholics can believe a human's soul is more important than that of a bird -- the stretching of the cosmos (god's subconscious) is made for all of life, which I feel is more abundant than marble statues of saints and water blessed by lonely, sick men. 




I do not know what it means to dream only of ghosts but I wake in the middle of the night saying:

"His eyes! His eyes!"

"Daniel, you should of come home."

I sleep and speak to men I have never met, Spanish noblewomen who wear the faces of goats. A woman orgasms inside of me and hands me a rosary made with bright red beads, made from stones more precious than rubies and not found on Earth. I see the water we feed to hummingbirds, as if we are giving them Christ's blood.




Green and Red are sisters, they say. Green, the color of Life; Red, the color of god.




I have finished the novel and started another, full of different words, and now I am back in the room of my own mind, speaking to a cursed animal that is a Sufi. I am writing letters through plastic and satellites to my split-heart on a different continent. I am awake in a morning where light is yellow and the sounds of water are deafening; my fingertips on my own lips feel like a hymn to the power of molecules and the sensation of touch.