I don’t regret the kingdoms but I will miss the kings

Hung in the long emptiness of some evening with the sun’s slippery tendrils pulled across 6th street in copper ribbons, I came across the headline, “Do you have to be rich to make it as an artist?” . The world is filled with plenty of pointed commentary, identifying the cracks in the infrastructure through which the carnage of machination seeps.
Maybe I got high and started to deliberate on this, punching white to black on the flat monolithic surface of my phone–but I am suddenly turned away from such rigid protestations. I don’t want to talk about this. I want to talk about a field of particle suns winking through heavy drunken eyelids at a city be-speckled with the dusky orange shade of a streetlamp army or the sound (like tiny mute bells) of new snow falling on st. Nicholas avenue early on a December morning or what it feels like to read the word moon next to the word wistlessness. I want to tell a story using only the words of divine sublimation, which when strung together grow heavy in the liquid solution of meaning and desiccate out into a figuration of the night. But this is the stuff of previous centuries and that desiccated language has become a stone, a fossil that looks a lot like a newspaper sitting on the windowsill, by the flowers.
It feels so strange to lose the sound of your own voice to the rising crescendo of testimony after two thousand years of standing in plazas by a fountain or mausoleum listening to one guy talk about how to measure the passage of the sun.
There are some words for whom the power of solicitation has been lost in the transition from this age to the next–moon. Windowsill. Streetlamp. King. These words drift uncertainly in the new dimensions of this strange, and as yet unqualified landscape of historical time. Stripped as they are now from the weight of their corresponding affects, new words ascend to prominence in the place of those expired–Interface. Memory. Triage. Imbroglio. We are deluged in a vast thicket of words. Fitful in their loneliness the words grow tactile members like long greasy fingers hoping to grab hold of something to bridge the gap between their sounds and our feelings. but the stringy appendages become crossed in all the hysteria and tied in knots around our ears and lips as they bind themselves and us in a heaving tangle of eyes, pupils spinning as they search for the fundament.