Spring

A Hood Is Like an Ancient Chalice

73 A Hood Is Like an Ancient Chalice A hood is like an ancient chalice Ālled with another time, a time before I was born, a quiet time in which my head can sleep, eyes sinking back into the black cavity, eyes setting further and further beneath the horizon, below the rim of manmade lights, cool, untethered from their stems A hood is like a pristine puddle in which my head can loosen its stripped bolts, and the water around my loosened head seeps in through the cranial plates and meanders through the crevices of my brain, prying in its course the dirty matter from the coils. All the dirt in my brain floats way up, away, to the surface of the puddle, and the dense matter sinks, my skull, and the intelligent matter is like electricity. When I think, my brain electrocutes itself inside the puddle of my hood A hood is like a maroon canoe and the head inside it like a body lying long in the canoe—the body in the hull, 74 and around the hull, the water, and around the hull, the lull, so the body cradled in the timeless hem of water, the body sewn underwater in a pocket opening upwards, and breathing from that pocket— And the sky too pours out from the pocket, erupts in blue, as if the body from its ticking chest was gashed and from the Āssure, ribbons flew, blue ribbons streaming out like daylight kites to merge and blur— The descending eye glimpses from its rocking casket, just observation, no recognition, no memory of sky, but a pure witnessing of satin rupture from the painless heart of some more objective self, some assemblage of matter, floating matter of undetermined density equivalent to the water it displaced ...