inspired by, and dedicated to, Soren Kierkegaard 1. After all, no matter how the various essences configurate through time, we come back from “the hypertension of the infinite” to ourselves to realize we never went anywhere, each a solitude returning to solitude as the Moon to its bright round palace on night’s mountain or a silver fish to its throne of blue-blackness. The transcendence of paradox (most urgent fiction of mind), the leap into becoming in being always lost in the now amid the sounds of doors jumping from their hinges, the ever-misunderstood ever-created music of the heart. We step into the unknown and we are here, our roots in our tongues, our souls in our eyes, our deaths on our hands, our own Imagination’s immediate fury free in a calamitous world. 2. The world of appearances pulsates, delicate as the skin of a thief. Estrangement is objectivity, the cold death not the bright death, a denial of the many-voiced worlds around us so that no longer hearing ourselves at all we say this is what we are and waste our needs freezing the flying rivers as if the static were the real, running from the gods within and our common moon-swathed future down fire-black roads into a misshapen, shuddering night. 3. A lot has been lost behind the stars. I can barely recover one small jar of light. In the swamp at my brain’s base thick ecstatic books on salvation sleep in bottles corked with the beaks of prehistoric birds. When I bite into the Sun my teeth seethe, tablets full of prayers.