El Egg

Queen of quonset consciousness for a day, for ages. Foragers after consciousness, episodic and plangent in new iconic spoors, spurred on by what could only be seen at a squint. A rectangular lope. An eggshell-colored full moon, down with the setting sun, conscious of being unconscious, all night in a daze. A prose haze unstuck from dreaming the world away returns like the phoneme "mem" in memory. Or what remains of "fluent" in the fluorescent, undersea gems of light's differential equations in whose stead knowing alights on the dark as if imprinting a sound pattern, or demythologizing the legend on a magnetic map. As if words were myopic. Veiled to show the farsighted links. Hyperbolas stung by the hypodermic as if to inoculate the concrete with abstraction. And you wake up in other heart closets. Only project. Seconds tick away like memories' indexicals. Not seen in night's chosen awareness. A choice between neglect and oblivion. Once more into the clonic brokenness of beginning. Itch to its own einfall. The exhaustively rehearsed. In other words, how to outlast inwardness. "On Knocking at the Sleep Gates in Macbeth." Each word is a complete sentence. If you rearrange them enough, letters seem to conjugate on command and steal their own unique cornices from the dislodged capitals. Old bit sanctuaries. So all but the ears are veiled. First demythologize, then dematerialize.