How Does Fire Weave a Carpet?

Sometimes we write to watch a fly die. We draw circles with our minds while imagining that time and space die and are reborn every time the body of a fly falls to the ground. Gravity. Sometimes we braid threads, hair, ropes, untangle, and reweave the skeins of wool and cotton into new figures; this is how we converse among ourselves—humans and sheep—and whisper our secrets to the navel of the earth. Fractals. We release intuitions onto the fabric like small fish of fiber and fleece, with a biomathematical writing made of guts and stars.

Every morning in the world, I wish with the light of a candle. I wish for the urge to remember that in this dimension we are broken and in a complex search for reintegration. Spirals. I invoke art. I call to the spirits of fire, warming their flesh: beeswax-flesh and human paraffin-flesh. Every night in the world, I invoke with the light of a candle because nights were given to us to fly. I invoke art to escape the covers of polyester, nylon, and silk, and swim in whirlpools towards the mountain, just as revolution invokes theater to give us new clothes, and as morality invokes stories of talking animals to change the dances of our tongues. With my hands and porous guts, I light a candle. I rest my knees on the ground and, with the grease of my skin, alter the temperature of the environment, rising like Sufi verses or cumbias sampuesanas:

darkness wax paraffin cotton fire mind spirit flesh grease wool figures sheep earth light

Every morning in the world, I wish with the light of a candle. I remember that I am broken, and at the same time, I feel how I reintegrate in spirals; I am a long braid of threads, hairs, and ropes that sound, that dream. Harmonies. And sometimes we die to learn how a fly writes, to understand gravity, fractals, spirals, harmonies, or to learn how fire weaves a carpet.