Within the cave Platonic shadows of the ancient brain that was en-webbed with more than one kind of human cortex, different emerging strains of consciousness. Were they dancing yet around the flames, on the brink of discovering shadow art and making sacrifices to the shadow demon? Six hundred generations preceding Wallace Stevens carrying the strain straight to the hand between the candle and the wall/grows large against the wall.
The magic of no knowledge seeking the tree of life which in that moment was the seal who’s blood dripped on the charcoal and became part of the painting, the seal in death, quick grace in her element, the flight of the sea alive in me, the seal as provider, dripping out part of itself like Pollack drunk and cut by glass passing out on the platform above the cave of his canvass, which receives the broken glass, the blood, the wine. Blood and fat in every line with the fallen trees of the holy fire.
An ancient stain holds a mysterious secret that here in the time of the Helix Seal we may not have enough earth soul left to ask the right question. For here we walk in a world that is covered in a crust of bone dust and powdered stars. Paint on. Let life live anew in other eyes through what we leave on this our stone.
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