I hope this returns. I wanna see. I wanna see and scribe and speak it.
Like a couple of hyperliterate binary stars (astronomy def) discovering each other, their system, already hand made by them without their awareness.
I whisper things in the middle of night.
Things that used to only be explicit and carnal,
Things that used to only be explicit and carnal,
things that grew such that they could barely stand under their own weight.
Irreducible things expressed by the difference between a breath and a moan.
Aspirated.
Pallatted.
In and out.
The Words are the poetry
are the art.
The order does not even matter if you hold the proper reverential in the mind’s I.
The meter is not content.
Content is ecstatic output.
Undirected.
Scribed at the tempo by which it arrives.
And I wonder that we would-be American poets dare call it ‘meter’ at all. Hacks.
Hackneyed.
Need.
The secret that emerged from KBL was and is still regarded as cabal.
There is no secret.
Only Tao.
This is my medium for mystery.
(An open secret)
The letter is to be overwhelmed by the spirit.
This is the Tao of KBL.
This is how we transmutate letters to art.
This is why I can scribe for him.
This is what it is.
Points of reference.
They decide again and again.
WrittenCasey 