Unsettled by lies and coated with dust, a few lost species have returned To the fire to speak of lives outside the cast of time and flow of image invested in our own sense of the visible. Though we stand in mute astonishment their language reaches us in hints and implications, translated, at times in light bands, or shifts of cold and warm, often by wind, as when a few smaller whirling leaves circle, caught in conversations of seasonal turn. This tells us something bigger approaches, not quite tornadic, a wider swath of cyclonic energy, we feel this in our heads as an intense pressure pushing outward as if to let out the false face dancers we’ve restrained in friezes of denial and the exotic comforts of technological asylum in squares and plazas, pixels and projections of hungry looking women and men who have feasted on every imaginable plate of planetary gift and resource.
The lost bird reminds us of migration, pathways of water seen from the air as guide, a magnetic compass of some sort, as best as we can understand in their attempts to explain flight, journey impulse and sign. The dead flower relates, regeneration, regulation and aspiration connected to helio force of growth nurtured in earth-spread subterranean darkness, but light seeking, carbon breathing, air exhaling, drawn from earth, from a earlier astro genesis of remagnetization in a long ago, forgotten place, renamed now, again within the limits of what we understand more as mark and sign than as vibration and heat.
The golden jackal wields another story, like a torch gesturing face to face, as words flow in some pyronic allegory, to threaten and chase the still beating heart back into a darkness of fear, some caved encryption of walls signed by image older than the narrative passages of human talk.
The woman from the glittering place stories draws air rings unleashes a story liberating clouds from gambler cachets. She sings herself away in a few moment of thickening smoke, almost the reverse of how she said all of her people came here.
At the end of the day all this deliberation leads to starlight, fireflies, whispers and shadows, a husband barking at wife, a wife screaming, one of the marrying speakers carrying original instructions, enters a four door vehicle and leaves, no goodbye, no language to acknowledge a final exit from this wisdom circle. He just took all his instructions, those old ways and left town in a dark buick.