Taken Extempore (With Chai)

A cup of caffeine will do that to you. Already I feel it surging through my veins, the exhiliration -- already the liquid transforms and arcs into art. Like a waterfall, like rapid waters, like the gurgling roar of a stream; a square becomes a circle and transforms rapidly into a triangle, a diamond of piercing light. Piercing light spreading on things -- things of vision -- the blue of the sky, the white of the piercing peaks; as if it were a thread or cloth. I cannot stop; words fall into rhythm, rhythm beats with the harmony of sound, and everything comes so trippingly off the tongue, the tongue partakes of that joy that only taste or the strain of exercise on the harsh weakness of muscles engenders. Speech engenders speech, and sound flows like a river out of time to eternity in an instant, and paradise in an hour.

If I could write things meaning words that captured the instance of an experience, I would struggle at it, but everything I write is sound. So I sit and I listen and I quite admire it; I admire it to the exclusion of meaning, I admire it to the level of golden calves, or the levelling of gold to produce golden calves in the heat of the desert sun. Stern men frown -- at least one, Confucius, with a long black mustache dripping over the sides of his mouth and a scruff beard, dragon-eyes (Chinese, the one that rides at new year's) would accuse me, his wagging finger not unabetted by the wagging of another finger stetching across time, a Confuciust scholar prone to opinion and taken cum commento. Gripping with harsh, pointing painful nails (perhaps like a scarlet lady?) he would turn my head from the spit-flecked, well-flexed, torquing and combobulating, harsh and masculine declamation of some Cicero and make me see the long, tall trees, bamboo stretching upwards to Heaven.