Shimmering in motion

Shimmering. Beamed of light, composed of sun, like rainbow glow on
everything. Especially rolls and curves of shining cars, painted red
gold blue dark engines inside, growling, humming, busting iron guts to
loosen up carbon atoms or frightening reactions and all for the sake of
motion.
Pleasantly tree-span road-bridge or railway cutting giving shade to
stone, or me as I sit, &; life to birds &; nests in branch aloft
where all can hear singing bringing love to sleep - melancholies, where
frightened kids run from squawk of black-winged crow spreading beaky
words. Though's all the same for tree by curb or great green hill, much
like Big Tree Coming but without the groans.
Now see leering station where I sit now bleeding inky blots to
whitening pages peering sleepy commuter troubles in shade of darkening
rush trains. Solicit quietly for information about comings and goings,
coffeestain.
And hear three billion screams of the Chinese race sucking rice for
life after water gave it birth growth death, and wonder why so many of
us drown, green eyes up murked in cold as death spreads fingers in
sodden lungs, an end to all this shit. Pray. Quietly or furtively as
chopsticks make the world oriental rhythm strains in our hands; no, not
heartbeat.
Plagues of motion in Cincinnati where it's at. Streams'a machines
building cars &; buildings, are built bigger faster sharper meaner
than all before in one fourteenth of the time and only twelve silly
robot carcasses lay dead beneath its roots, that's progress you see,
that's testament. Gold like cold hard steel for its bones, arched and
marked of concrete, grey girders weathering, all the complete works of
man, plagues of motion in Cincinnati, shimmering.
So one million radio sets all across the world vibrate frantically
with volume for no one, sound sweet to your ear? As aching nightly
messages are creased into waves for sleek transmission across the
plains - marked for resentment by those in the know. Terrified. Not one
ghost is made of electricity so where's the life in that? Christianity
can't stand on its own two feet.
Big life lived in rooms or through with glow on glow of glow of bulbs
suspended in air, inches beneath, tired of waiting. Celibate, secular,
what morality to bear in the one rhythm timeless in that second of pure
perfect humming meaningful cosmological phantasmagorical recollection.
Potted plants in the light of the sun. In rooms to compose the one true
dialogue, the spinning reeling play of words, pages in total like one
half million words - so ghost away that chant with fingers glued to
screens and the complete depravity of the loss, the animal instinct
left to pace in its cage eyeing through bars.
Sinister gentleman walking behind me, grimly. Hear the music of all
the footsteps, then for the second really hear all the footsteps of
past, present, future, shimmering. The utter confounded thought of the
motion of all the sensible parts. Energy is everywhere.
Glowering, towering, menacing bridges made from the love of the hands
of man.
Deserts wetted once a year and no flower to show its vegetable
soul.
Oceans driven frantic, reckless.
Mark no time.
Tic-toc, tic-toc, tic-toc.
Fantastic marches of history, edified in all great works and tomes, no
man can take that away. Raging savage armies raping their way to a
single paragraph to read of the conquest. Nailing heretics. Burning the
few. Cleansing of nations, religious confusions. The wrong Holy Gospel
or misplaced God. Events all in ladder-like-stages, steps to the place
where I sit now and write all words that come to mind and what to think
of that fact? Everything blindingly, heedlessly marching its determined
steps to stop right now for this here tiny second, the pinnacle - and
then it's passed and again - no, now again it's here, now passed and
gone. Nothing to stop it and to die is just the same - you're gonna
live longest in your grave.
Man as the second, as the instant. The saint in his seat, enthroned;
farmer smoking slow blue pipe to the wind; single thought of existence.
Man as the second, the instant. Top and bottom side to side the golden
Holy eternal iota of sanctity in that timeless fragment when it's not
past or future but man in the real - to go again and passed, nothing to
grasp, lost.
All for future. All for tomorrow. Nothing to take. Each thing as
unreal as the last. Only to remember. Harmless. And clock still ticks,
toc-tic-toc, thoughtless notion in one hand higher than the other,
doesn't matter, out of time. Shimmering in motion.