Notes of an Amazed Corpse: Paris November 1990

Excerpted from a work-in-progress

By Prentiss Moore
February 1992; page 15; Volume 3, No. 3
Polemicist

     We start here
before the beloved, looking
into that mirror where, both against
and out of its image, we claim life
and sustenance, our true inventive freedom,
a pleasure in silence that is also
the breaking of silence like the breaking
of bread among friends. Desire
is otherwise intolerable,
two animals drinking
each other's blood in those fantasies
of lovers devouring each other, mocking
the bodhisattva who gives herself
to a starving tiger that is
in effect the world.
Crucial though symmetry is
to limit and test our freedom,
it is still childish, the vapid
balancing of accounts
in an auditor's farce of sacrifice
and resentment. Such barren justice,
cannot suffer as love does
the bodily fact of injustice,
whatever horror, rage, pain, or fear
that no other can own or deny. Such justice
claims to be accepted by all but can be
trusted by no one, however impartial,
and thus servile, is its measure.
Justice that lives lives under the
gaze of love, that judgement of the flesh
from which there come no verdicts, only
vigilance and the willingness to
remain near.

               Perfection,
which only flesh knows, is never
a property of objects or acts.
It is a manner of being that finds
rest only as its test in
every activity, action itself
being perfection's eyes onto the world
it dreams in order to
find its actual hands and feet.
Perfection does not see
fragments in the detail
but where its body of energies
enters and remakes itself through that
envelope, imaginationfilled,
of the senses.