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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=530528" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Café Brûlot</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=530528" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">It is not from the mind alone—<br>	the chemical impulses<br>	washed		by the heavy, <br>		monotonous<br>			rain of	symbolism<br>(society		and all its	mass<br>				manufactured<br>	archetypes	[infr astructure<br>			for the thought]) —<br>that I know anything, <br>but by the moral implication	that seeps<br>	forth; seeding into my judgment; <br>	rooting in my amygdalae; <br>		branching in arborescent, <br>		pinnate sensations; <br>blooming	where life<br>begins to find me.<br>			Where sound turns<br>			to color, and color<br>			turns to touch, and<br>			touch turns to an<br>			oscillating god<br>			between my fingertips, <br>I impress myself	upon the world, <br>a		laconic wash<br>		of unblue waves<br>	caressing me<br>	while we play like stars<br>	reflecting on the sea.<br>		And in that moment—<br>	where logic ceases	to apply, <br>	ceases to clamber, 	clamoring<br>		for the rising tension<br>		of a feverish pitch, <br>sounding in the abyss<br>of 	ontic time—<br>		in that moment—<br>where I am intoxicated		by<br>		the passing brush<br>		of fire on/in my skin—<br>in that moment, <br>			be my anima, <br>			I, your animus, <br>			and let us join, <br>			body syntonic, <br>tracing each self in the chasms<br>where no one else<br>dares to go.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Tim+Stensloff">Tim Stensloff</a></strong></div>