His body is a quill hovering lightly in the exhaled zephyr of spring, releasing himself, floating above himself into the warmth of an eternal nightlight seething peace, levitating, leaving the gravitational molecular architectural sheath of his flesh, leaving the anchor of his body, his cells exploding in ricocheting whorls of jasper, willowed streaks, floating above the super sarcophagus of structured mobility, the telescope for which he experienced the hard-grandfather candy breath of his father, the loving goading of Ma, her first kiss, the way he felt as he slipped out of his own body, fumbling into the sights of her lips, into the avenues of her loins, he is leaving, he is taking no luggage he rising above past the light, the light which rose six hours earlier hitting the side of Big Ben with a wink, a glint, a promise, a dream.The dream of time collapsing in chapters, the death French kissing the prologue, genesis, the here and forever taste of light.
It is only a dream, he tells me as he is leaving, as I am drifting in my cowboy hat with Patrick and Hale vying to escape the tendrils of smoke flanked around us.
Brother it is only a dream.
*
“It’s here.” Mom says, my door half-way open like a blushed yawn. “ It is here, My mother says again.
The time has finally come.
Herein lies the end of the Interregnum portion of the novel PINTA PARADE or WHAT WE WERE BEFORE WE MADE SOMETHING OF OURSELVES.....part III to proceed...
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