Let us join in weirdness, become poets at the feet of
every infinite thing. Come, Fool me Take me
down to the brimming river, embrace the sickness,
the craziness. Shape me. Fashion me. Play your wild card.
Help me blot out my reason, to stare up at towers,
or kiss the concrete, or drink from a million empty cups,
or wield a thousand and one blunted swords.
Who cares if there's 78 names for snow? Dismiss the
obvious forms of intelligence. That which will kill us
will kill us. Wade through the silence of coughs.
Engage that dirty trick until the moment we metamorphose
into Persian cats in attendance at some midnight masquerade,
into not existing, in a subdued and yet uncontrolled ecstasy.