It requires an excess of self awareness.

Self discipline.

Instant tolerance of all your parts.

Engaging sequences of inquisition;

choreograph your character.

Marry your moments.

Undress your madness with the precision of a physicist.

Capture your fire in a glass globe to

enlighten all the shadows on the sidewalks

of your routine.

Your bashful body.

Your stupid human semblance.

The craters of your dreams.

 

It requires sex but not too often.

Drugs in prudent doses.

Broken bones and exposure to closeness.

Intimacy with distance.

You must hold the Master’s brush

–brush with death–

and already know the correct combination of colors

as you dip it into his wells.

Animate vacant scapes with what you think of living.

Your nakedness repels fear.

Wake up lonely.

Build a family.

Dive off the deep end.

Your cigarette swells among a warm spring rain

and your feet begin to uncover patterns for dancing

on everything.

Get carried away.

 

Bind the textile bits of sentience

with the tethering threads of truth.

 

Weave these threads with the loom of your love.

Even though your fingers may bleed.