1. Torch Song.
Like peanut butter too thinly spread we hurried toward the vertebral procession, across spacetime's sun-bleached carbohydrate ribs, stretching, stretching ourselves very nearly beyond our means, forever seeking an appropriate connection port & perfection of moment.
There are circles inside circles, & these contain more circles inscribed w/in.
Asimmer in the tryptophan stew, that's us. The house was gothic. . . .enormous. . . .you could drive your car (4WD) thru the front door & did. A murder mystery? I remember fast ghosts w/radar & each time they seized you, your echo glowed brighter the next. Fake mountain streams of transparent acrylic, only a thin skin of real water over the top, then the plummeting thru trap doors.
You think I'm making this up? Flashout into birth's cataclysm my eyes burning fast now epileptic brinkmanship to the edge to the razor we go hi ho. (You can sometimes make out the printed circuits in the irises of those who've been here longer.) I do not WANT to tune in paint me psychedelic we're deep in the soup now & no mistake. There is an arc there is a current ride the murder electric plasma spasm suspended fierce & breathless between platinum balls, the blood curdling fire of desire, the edge of all things, way out at the bloodied lips of mortal incomprehension. . . .up for days, we're wide awake just waiting for the dam to break. . . .we see, some of us, the formless expression of an underlying voice, a hurtling wave of old black mud & concrete chunks. . . .telegraph-hearted orb at the center of the earth, at the center of my breast, click on then, tap-a-tap-tap-a-tap, signal the new dawn of creation into perpetuity. It, the shared communal language of the primitive voice, speak as kindred brainstems, stir thru dark eons bizarre & familiar, uneasily drifting thru misty sleep.
An arrowhead for your thoughts. . . .I am the ghost telegraph. . . .I am the chipped human femur half-buried in the sandy wash. . . .it was a good day for the blowing up of birthday balloons, & smelling for all the world like great piles of fresh lawn clippings in the hot summer night. . . .primal experiences are not logical experiences.
There were the clothes, the detective's trench coat for me? Many hrs to days for escape/solution/haunting. . . .as I was beginning secretly to suspect that there is no end to the worlds w/in the world, each containing his own world, reconstructing it day to day, hr by hr, minute by minute, & second to second. Images spilling out like fruit from a cornucopia when the unconscious mind comes bursting thru. By such paths do creativity & other varieties of madness enter the phenomenal world.
It reflects the status of fragments of time, freedom flight manacles on feathery gill tongues, calcified brain lesions & nitric oxide. Returning. Broken shard of wing shell, dull black chitin: a modern relic. The royal signet ring rolled from the broken finger of the porcelain king, bounced down the stairs in rising arcs & plunged into a foamy sea. Thyroxin opens secret doors into the past, harvests head trauma colors that smell of Frankengod & unborn flesh on an old man's face, certain angles & the light & all, embryonic dinosaurs. Guilt & blame & burdens we are pawns to a man, eating ancient foods still, dry crackers & fruit slices, placental segments. You say: "I'm just working off my karma." The message (signal) is not independent of the medium. A good day as I should have said for the blowing up of the nearest Turkish embassy. & the answer she suggested to me, you fool, you've dharma to burn.
(This way we have of convincing ourselves the world we inhabit now is the one true world.)
Prawns, tentacles, twitching antennae, swimming drifting in pools of amnion, dank buckets of old blood, treading panic-stricken in the past, or in the prospects of countrymen for whom we know not how or even why we should live. Inevitably, the witch of the sands elevated his bones in her hands. . . .this might be thought of as our limit-loving psychology & often our emotional burden our poor ol' moral burden convincing ourselves that the laws of this brusque marrow & tallow world are the true & actual laws of Nature. . . .merchant on the beach, looking over the wall for example, over another sea, turbulent mutation globe of worlds in his hand; there, the tall ships cross over forever nowhere. That this is reality. The Genghis Khan People are just the same as you & me, caught up in the vortex, the mad churning whirlpool of history. This is where black edges up to white & we draw the line. (Hey, articulate this, bud.)
Mesmerized by spindle lines again. . . .eagle eyes draw you in thru the portal of life. . . .sandstone spires twist weird knives at the smooth ivory throat of vulnerable noon. . . .we were quite prepared to do the evil that must be done by men under the eyes of heaven. . . .diamond patterns that burn, turn inward, reverse propulsion thru time, accelerating back thru navel quilted, the brain slides back a notch, catches against pins of restraint. . . .the bigger chunks, pick them up & assemble everything ad hoc into a shaky, approximate mental mural reconstruction called (w/out irony) the real world. . . .& underneath the skin meanwhile underneath the fine network of incoming jagged edge & jaded sensory input inside that opaque shield from raw reality about which we've been speaking which pretends to be a perfectly lucid window into reality there is an engine there is a field of pure existence of pure equity w/the spiritual essence w/the cosmic galactic spiral slice spirit-infected w/all the balance the yin & squeezing thru the diamond-lined pockets of exploding stars, I'm beyond your petty word play, twisting thoughts & routine concepts like molasses, like spun sugar, that way & this to my own ends. So many lifetimes are forbidden to us-so much colorful drama. Not to have known certain sadnesses. . . .I will not bow before fools. In the joining of clubs there is much to alienate the conscience. The yang the true prime breath of living under all pure ultimately free there must be this thing this real thing the transcendent the hope for actualization needle-threader the mind. Hosts rise aided & abetted under a cantankerous cerebellum, there they live & stir, dark, haggard armies, entire legions of slivered soldiers decked for savagery momentarily flare up in transient passion like so many computer subroutines wriggle & contract. Ice blue daggers. . . .never content. . . .and anyway, what's the use of being alive if you don't experiment w/your humanity?
Electrical birth of the original syntax flashing skid marks in a blinding rain, arcing an ozone burn. Volcanoes, fire rivers. They were all enemies as a consequence of ancient land feuds whose roots were now at best mythological, but under a greater force of protection they could get some quality robbing & killing in. Thus we were made to feel right at home. Fire flowers where the flesh feels raw earth & stars swirl Van Gogh-wise, scissors roll on pinwheel novae. A newly rediscovered ancient chemical tongue, feeling one's way cautiously-hurried along narrow hallways feet twisting giving way walls recede at a glance at lightspeed & the ghosts in the machine searching for some half-concocted port of connection simmering in the nerve crunch, ceilings low & hot, reshaped tissue for lunch, had a hunch. Don't tamper w/paradise locks. We could advise them on negotiations all right just sign up w/our little organization & on religion & the terms of a working peace or at least the masks of institutionalized systems of caste enslavement. Rich indigo sky & sharp bear grass in a wild wind to slice cleanly thru to the soul. . . .drive time & the eyelid movies metal intestines persistent blood vessels infiltrate a wooden ship flaming torches on the upper deck raving over the top over the top lifting curved bow beyond gone.
Deep w/in the sleep zone w/a familiar, comfortable parasite, yet static electric signals wince up & down the spinal staircase.
There is one machine language but so many applications. My head hurts at the sentences squeezing out mandatory for slight infractions or enticement & entrapment. No games here please on this big spoked drum while riding restless. The blind egg in the flesh - the Great American Curse. Historians will note revolution's been here a while now but we are forbidden to notice it just yet. Am tired of all this punishment & crime. Take my anger to the streets. The boy-fool on the white pony raises the silver horn to his lips. Unfamiliar telephone voice soliciting my membership in the Union of Concerned Iconoclasts Local 314. Buckling under the skin like freeze-paint or earthquakes or sinks of crushed ice, face-first into rarefied sobriety & choking on something hard & raspy. . . .born to be a voice of grass among the trees in solitude.
The guests were adorned in pendant jewelry & cut glass, exquisite, seated properly along long, dark tables for the bacchanal. Strings filled the cool air, & loud voices, laughter, & stories, jests. What a crazy cocky American self-image sure, arcane explosion event w/rockets & home-made ice cream meandering thru w/o taste. The laughing man w/small teeth, relentlessly polishing spectacles, the tall woman, glum willow, her smile a passing high cloud, thin wild energy lightning shooting out sideways in furious forks & time lost repairing the gadgets of man. . . .chromium resistance mercurial cube. Time waits for no man so I won't wait for time. Spitting out distasteful flecks of the original intrusion. . . .illusion - insubstantial flowers, petals, the rubies of our leaves, slow plugging, the drunken gurgle & the recondite slap of a corpulent queen. . . .these monthly rituals & filthy money, wringing out corruption to stain the blot of evil blood. . . .all this, temporal detritus adhering around the shins & knees, that clings to skin when the truly big lesson is learning to keep your big mouth shut, to subvert the pretender. Flags blazing guns & drum beats waving bumble bees hearts of beets defibrillated unfurled proud-hearted wasted love in a desert burned up ash sage sooty snowing setting smoke glowing sludge. Yellow & black bands, slow flick of forked tongue, black as deep cool caves w/blind fishes. . . .yet uneager for the latest news. . . .patient nearly as the earth itself. Last eagle dies of respiratory distress - too much experiences.
Unfortunately we can relate in tropical climes, feeling the season of the roots of stone chipper despair.
Squirmy living, settle back deep in subconscious mind sipping death venom. . . .wetware. Resorting at last to desperate ink fumes, fine tip. . . .consider if you must this to be an act of religious zeal. . . .an act of supreme faith. . . .opening escape hatches for those fractured fellows down near the cool sea bed. . . .to take a break & sigh, if only for a little while. My object vanished into what hole piercing the side of the sky & letting air go out w/it? Down drips the ichor of the mother wound. Where has she gone these lifetimes past now apart these altered persons these exchanged worlds. . . .these changes so much change surely bartered & broken purchased & abandoned, these new worlds indeed splintered & sawn weepy planks & sundered & branched so far now irreconcilable. . . .I can relate to much which you despise because you despise much that is embarrassingly revelatory. But one time I remember when everything might have been different at that hinging point in our time at that particular breakdown, you know? The earth does not wait & no school of philosophy can therefore devour the world as I can, supremely disinterested in any form of recognition; compelled, nonetheless, to record for you the cleansing acts to which we've alluded, which char my papery endothelia. . . .you are lost. . . .too tightly clinging barnacle among men. This may be a time for reflection but I think not, looking neither north nor south but here where this spectacle reigns at rest where there is no describing there is no explaining these strange threads I am called to wear, this out of time existence, this alien yet welcome castle. To consider the acrylamide fibers which you've inhaled, too, & the tips & tones of Fiberglas bells. . . .like timorous tongues wind chimes.
Mindbending rant, we stretch arms aching 'round to embrace dawn's glory hairshine rays melting golden glue. Target garden is behind your eyes, still was, man's limits self-imposed, the sky is free. Wilderness knows no landlord. Wilderness w/in your stony ephemeral cranium. We all are as artists working in the soul. To say: "I have responsibilities" is to cave in to irresponsibility to discontinue maintenance of the holy flame; a prisoner w/mind intact is a prisoner by choice. According to our orders, which were very clear on this matter, we soldiers then went marching toward the perpetrator who sat dining in a fragrant garden, full of the odor of yesterday's lawn trimmings in the close night. Ah, choices. . . .3-dimensional web of metal cables, spiders w/human faces dance limber & swift, blood on sharp mouth parts. . . .I am getting sick there are spiders & lice in this meal. Huddle 'round the video men for a story I will tell. . . .sudden flash of coiling green smoke snake mouth closing in on unsuspecting prey terrifies the brain like oil spilling across redly glowing metal sheets, a verdant borealis hazy cooker springing thin steel wire traps. . . .options to explore. . . .we melt into one before we know it we've dissolved our brains, we flash violently across gods' faces the mind conceals what the vid reveals, only lost causes change us & believe me buster we must change. . . .flinging out arms in the broken ice at any possibility. . . .a protective barrier probably one stitch before us, so thin that skin, thorns thru tongues for repentance & cast iron stomachs intrinsic factor rust circle blades whirring the mowing snake's among us secret in a bowler hat to build a perfect man soul irrigated in a blue bottle. Whirring blades. Who be the profit of the times? Tryptophan lightning on the dorsal spine darkness burning in pools, irritated & pop-hissing.
They are worlds w/in worlds. Boxes w/in boxes. Circles w/in circles. These molecules are killing me. Fluorescent zebras hard press a function key. . . .mosquito-headed mongrel machines tear the air & terrorize motorists & their sterile butterflies, angels whirling midway from heaven. The rapture is on hold the Angel of Death was lost in Nueva York. Intangible connectors. We fail to align as we sputter-emote the fallacy of the memo, the moment of the document's recognizable demise. & clearly none of them is real.
2. Squeak City.
Passion. Light. Elastic embryo, transmit molecular code.
(Just an illusion of frightful roulette. Stuck back in the time of bush men in loafers.)
Flaming like acetylene, a misplaced corpse gone over the top. . . .city lights, sorry industrial reflection of spinning infinity. What new miscast beast shuffling hesitantly tonight under strangely calculated galactic pastures? Stars & blinking traffic lights humming high voltage & LEDs. Waves w/in gambol & percolate in the capacity to metamorphose from the butterfly into the creeping larva, to become that which you most fear, most despise. Concentric stellar ripples over an unsteady purple Mylar desert sea, liquid dunes. Over the top. These molecules pressing outwards against my skin. . . .a thin film where worlds collide like steely dew drop billiard balls. . . .glistening orbs, quicksilver marble eyes flashing these patterns & colors, agitated, circles-triangles-rectangles & slowly twisting spindle lines draw us receding into the spout of consciousness. Many worlds exist w/in the world.
Mental garrets of compliance in the era of the padded cellular vesicle & deadly diamond explosions 'cross LPT1 (I try to not let my scorn shine thru). . . .we know how color grunts in whispers of forgotten freedom. . . .the keys to a secret other kingdom w/in a city skeletons & ghosts moon dance in a lake dry dust bed fills up the soiled eyeballs like bearings rusty & bleeding faucets dust, dust dead grass lost trust in soulful improvisation. The letter of the law, single head lamp-eyed bile lamprey implosion sucked into a void unwitting, voluntary vomiting, slow & soft plop & out of our heads. . . .this lack of emotion more sinister than cynicism this the post-cynical microcosm cardboard cereal flakes this when TV speaks to us in dull, forgotten languages, dead tongues of crumbling beetlemen, this.
Clocks all ticking brains all tripping the computer is the drug you be the judge. The pattern has mutated to fill all the screen. Bring the wine up from the cellar. Pour the poison in the pail. As if these elections affected you. Log the values in their fields & cure the disease. There is a rotting sweetness in every falling flake of snow & the high tingling hum, the wind on the wire, the beating wings of war, the soft denial of timeflow, the sink into forever now dissolution of flesh & soul & the endless flocks of silent blackbirds w/dry eyes, images plundered by an emotionless necroholic. Good bleats of dull sheep. This is no time for mind expansion. The tangible world is thinner than mist - we are sloppy molecular puddles. These failing worlds easily recognized. They are boxes. They occupy the spaces of rectangular solids. Thus you may recognize & doubt them. . . .nowadays though the technology is more artistic, intricate, miniscule & dangerous. . . .I have a recurring dream of a cat that pulls a large fish - maybe a catfish - out of a river. The fish has baleful, but observant, human eyes. When the cat claws it at first the fish bleeds red blood in four long slashes, but soon this turns to thick black motor oil, & when the cat opens the fish a jumble of metal gears & levers & wires & transistors, resistors, circuit boards, capacitors, vacuum tubes, power supplies, ceramic knobs spill out in a noisy crunch like a weekend family car wreck. But the empty-eyed fish watches on & on. Nucleoplasm pours out sloppy plastic. . . .save the incriminating evidence on a floppy & vomit rational numbers. The signal is burning all down the wire. Don't soil the plane. Purge your hard black shell of spastic slumbers. The silver serpent devours his tail: please don't scream at the rain.
The night was unexpectedly wet & they were less familiar anyway w/that terrible country. Speaking of the old victims in the diluted way of years, but the savages must be brought up to moral standards if we are to achieve the necessary clamp on human creativity. Who will resist who be the prophet of this burned transformer carnage waste? Smoke thick rising like sated dragon, unchallenged terrorist plunder. We maybe are too old burst lips frozen blue oozing bilivirdin lip pulp under thick, soiled words, old concepts clink, hard stones & dry. Heroes & other devout crusaders must have days like this. But it is hard sometimes all the time really preaching the obvious to obviously unweaned intellects. Even the revolutions are planned & advertised in advance, choreographed spontaneous cable commercial campaigns & no one believes anyway I, no, no one, no one no I we need a brand new program a new algorithm, a mind blowing intestine chewing blitz & like I say serving time every one of us each pilgrim in prison (part of the ordeal you understand quest junket vital necessity of the bursting bud). Circles squares triangles lines that I see. Little marble ideas spin & come apart & click together broken like tree limbs or telephone poles in the hurricanes & wheat fields lashing grain lightning ozone burst drifting spinning dizzy. High throat flighted pitch & wings twist, spiral into fearful near-oblivion. A TV-headed lizard croaking static & burping soap commercials in dry dunes, fringe-toed swimming down in sand refugee from the blazing silver eye. Down we come in spring baling wire rust automobiles & other wagons, wretched furniture dross strapped on against new beginnings, this is how we barter time in chunks of broken lifestems.
Take this little trip before you slip into carnivorous despair. Fire rising in lost girls' hair. Cockroach dutifully sniffs the past. Egg cases & rotten shoe laces & LPT1. Good morning & welcome to the friendly voice of the swarm WANT splattered against space piping hot resentment secret boils so secretly & secrets of secrets kept from themselves in chosen conformity & mindless compliance. A rising frenzy this is how taut genes sing wildly dizzy turmoil & the slimmest sea wall to contain the onslaught of jihad. . . .& fear only some unconnected language stuff some letters cuneiform scratches against meaningless surfaces paper flowers this where reluctant skeletons grow flesh back guts nervous tissue skin grows more firm tongues & voices that squeak out perplexed new fleshy skeletalspeak. Stones turn to roses, worms into hands. They are: TV sets, rooms, houses. They are: parcels of land & swimming pools & subdivisions & neighborhoods. They are: towns & cities & counties & states & nations.
Boxworld.
Moment & movement. White & black, time & space. A monument to the evolution of the onion & its union w/an aluminum sun. This black & white run together eventually & world laws revealed flawed. They are not absolute after all not final no. So constructing then to the four points a new world, broader, more encompassing, for ourselves, we build it & light it brightly new borders & draft it new laws. & these laws too fail over time. . . .flocks of birds, no pennies for dead cord wood. Rag snags on cold lonely wire. . . .you live by your convictions, you just might die by a lie. Humming like violent high seas, torture saws. Clouds mustard lavender bruises. Lymphspray. The fishing net breaks drifting, random killing fragments. Birds ragged sky holes. Our friend the automaton. . . .every clock is numbered. The people here are patently insane. Madness in the machine. You would not believe it. Only so much delirium a human can comply w/& remain human. Machines designed to promote their own violent demise-that's life in these United States of Vegas. What's so human about this industrialized incarceration of the intellect/emotional strata? The out-dogged cower & whimper & whine, beaten at their own game. This is squeak city & baby you're the cheese.
Comply or die: resistance is futile. Machines don't hallucinate. Don't salute until you are saluted to. You can run but you can't hide. These minds frustrating locked in aboriginal peasants digging ants digging roots high in slate mountains & obsidian & woodpeckers, conifers, & bushes shot thru w/new lavender blooms. Straw brooms for sweeping up the dirt, gray squirrels that hunt down around heavy rocks in the stream bed dry now. . . .sunlight thru velvet oak leaves. Bay leaves, steam. These are the minds I mean, though you might doubt it, these powers, potentials, ensnared by pettiness, by self-promotion in the phony market of status. . . .but one day as the wetware interfaces. . . .
We are watching you, always watching you. We know what that smile is intended to signify. You are weak, & we seldom resort to violence.
3. Full Circle.
I cannot begin to imagine the degree of T. Jefferson's disgust. . . .had to quit the coliseum early - too bored w/hot lion breath down back of my collar. Besides, I didn't want to wait for the Supreme Court to convene my special case. Like I can sing you this song but I can't wait around for your belief to settle & shake down into place. . . .I dig humanity in principle. Do you get at all the edges of things the unique quality therein frontier of expectation? These insights we must add to our injuries. Listening like adolescent girls for years (in practice we must decide for ourselves) to worn out records before ears come unbuttoned to hear inner seedlings rupture sound & space, the full-burnished bright & shining mirrors blazing fiery red silver sheen golden spectacular glow, not fully consciously maybe (certainly) set to define global politics but. . . .these days you don't meet too many people w/pride in their work, though arguments marshaled & standing at the ready. . . .the liability remains nevertheless or ought to rather if there were such a thing as justice. . . .craftsmanship gone now down the lonely slick path of fast food. . . .this was no idea of mine. Anyway, no one I voted for.
Broken up, everything is chopped up in little pieces. When I think of you I think of teeth, eyes fierce. I think of finishings. Bridges blown up in wartime. Overturned carriages & library fires. When I think of you I picture broken clocks, terrified matadors in bloodied silk, unblinking eyes of snakes & the musky smell of human serum. When I remember you.
Postulate: two gigantic polished mirrors, as for reflecting telescope but a more immense scale & perfectly parallel, regarding one another in lust/disgust light too bright to cast perspective-yielding shadow, illusions of grand truth. Grand illusions of truth. You know Jesus might show up tomorrow but maybe not before next year. Mirrors to reflect cold inhuman legislation mechanizing all human action mechanical intelligence nerve arc reflex genuflection & intercourse all stasis of merchandise & radio indigestion. When you've come full circle & lost all respect even passing interest I would say in the gods & their laws worshipped in your home town you get nailed apathetic in the rubber stamp catechism the catch-all don't have to stop & think about it label device medallion w/yellow short ribbon strip attached, might even just blow off the whole spectacle & kind of disappear & why not I think I would too into the fading morning mists & all while some of you people so busy decorating your houses like that to impress foreigners whose opinions you despise you know full well as do I & yet joining political parties so your voices are amplified & sound wise shouting slogans down dried up wells gathered squawking together secure in the knowledge of phony issues & positions ("issues & positions" & other created dissembling concepts & words) you feel obligated to embrace or to ridicule just to be satisfied by the conditioned flock bleating & nodding of strangers heads vacant of thoughts more complicated than latest pop hit syrup lyrics w/no weight herds of human cattle. So much for caginess then you'd surely agree I trust sick of so much judging based on superstition jealousy & down in trite political grooves I mean just like ancient game path hunted for years by the same tribes who just sit & wait for you to stumble into the gun sights. W/out a doubt he'd be thoroughly put out w/all these self-proclaimed lovers of Christ (really just another well-worn rut or bland rant hunted two millennia now) who live to press their political agendas, all itching to drive the cruel circus well beyond the border of decency when they can't even manage to get their own lives in order. Just think of all those private shrines across Europe if that helps you w/their genealogies all laid out of the political dead dead dead no coming back do not forward dead not about improving the condition of man but squabbling over ever thinner slices of pie. That's why I'm getting out. (Ten years from now maybe fifteen you'll get it suddenly oh yeah ah ha so that's & then you'll see even though no one else but better late than never.)
How many times must we watch these commercials repeated? Were you shopping for a passport to the last port on the cruise? Did you expect to find eternity in Santa Fe or Baton Rouge? Wearing chain mail leisure suits, bobbing in the thick of it, lances at the level, jousting behind perplexed expressions w/expectations of a uniformity that never can exist. Oh that's just the news the mirror reflections of the posers who mimic manufactured human deathtimes. A bean, then, dietary attempt at translocation psychic penetration of deep-sea ooze. No ornamental gadfly, no harbinger of the grinding ice. . . .dust gritty in the ointment & insect exoskeletal fragments. Belies our local calm, see. & limping wounded opened up across a tan trail of sizzling stars & sirloin steaks w/sea clam sauce & ferocious bursting comet orb debris, hazy spray into silence milk, stony teeth & enzymatic saliva to digest the stain spreading & reduce, return to the whirlpool of inspiration, exhalation into conjured original form bodies & spiritual metamorphosis. Some lingering sentiment. . . .some trace of the original innocence of birth, trudging thru the soil where commodities have obvious worth, thought I saw you threaten to suffer an original thought, but I guess maybe it was just a shadow across your face.
No preferable compass than that I suppose, all points converging toward equivalency. . . .absolute serenity. Super or sub conscious? Universal? What then are we? Your fear, your irons. Your doubts & a list of strangers you've encountered, up close but as far away as You-Know-Who. Pusher of buttons, you buy your morals canned. These are powder keg experiments, waiting for the cylinder lid to fly. These are excessive moonbeams, lunatics & smoke rings & yet I reconsider & must wonder about whatnot those lost trails, those paths forsaken not by choice nor accident but by a more fickle & sinister, subtle process - those shrewd forces the sorcerer cannot influence. Posture for the mirror, dip into the vortex, dive into infinite regression & believe what you read. Not despite his best efforts, those switching stations, streamers of blue & golden lights & thin red blood tangle thru triangular matrix that already itself is a struggle sometimes to recall as a mandala, more than the curving ripples in the sea of wave interference. The hollow tree meanwhile drinking clayey water as the planet tumbles humdrum thru the body of lights. & you: "Did I say the right thing?" The dying at a river of earth, sickness & disease & eternity, & you: "Should I call in sick?" Participant in the mental slave trade, willing & eager. Sun is early rising, a black river that shimmers, fire dancing on the water. Willow leaves we now see crying above silver slivers of light that flash like fiercely polished eating utensils & deep blue jewels & crystals dangling on narrow brown wrists of youth. Smells of slow green watercourse to fill our nostrils full in the summer of strumming banjos & red plank row boats as slick rainbow trout glide out & inside the fluid atmospheres. . . .scroll thru files I shall as the leaves flutter windy on the trees, madly in search of the secret column. . . .it must be out there, waiting. . . .the intrapersonal bureaucracy has taken its toll on me. Unmitigated trust has gone undetected these past fifteen years. We manipulate our friends to advance our own careers, so careful to defend against the least unplanned for insertion or deletion: the mauling of America in the last stages of completion.
4. Worlds w/o End.
Nature is neither old nor young. She is not beautiful or repulsive. She is not patient or impatient. She does not hesitate, but she is not impulsive. Nor is she passionate, yet her all passions fill. She is at once biting cold & scalding hot, wracked in the birth-pangs of cataclysmic weathers & shot thru w/perfect solitude & peace at death's firm insistence. She knows all things, she knows no single thing. No words she speaks, yet there is none wiser than her most wounded student.
Guns & explosions our rockets rise on pillars of fire a controlled burn flames on mountainsides illuminate the darkness gila monsters stir forked tongue flickers testing. Don't trust no talkin' gods. Shun the bleach & eat a peach. . . .We are all sitting outside the pit house puffing on a big green peace pipe. Not fashionable no more - the fireworks in the flesh. . . .too much confusion too many distractions abound around these parts spare me the deluge of details, if you please. . . .too late we are burning we are lifting we are rising now, now we're shifting the sky is turning above an eye that's burning in the middle of an open field where we toil in black humus soil, busting the links in the great chain of being someone has left the fold if you know what I mean not too far removed but a facsimile of a little rebellion more like a charade of revolution, a mockery of the self, the soul, the great harmony of being. . . .separated from the earth itself. There are tragic heroes & then there are the buffoons: the road of self-delusion leads to the palace of exile, the intrusive, invasive wickedness we do not hasten to mention. Timeshifting thru prismatic colorspray. To know limits, to hunt them down & scribble on them words of both refute & respect, to punch & to kick, to push back the brooding storms to clear horizons, to clear the decks & let 'er rip. . . .horse head forged in brass tack iron ring eyes wheel scream melting to long jaw bone yellow tooth & steel & porcelain frame. . . .bursting cells, surrender your marvelous purple dye, binding pigments. Not to join a movement. To be free. To enliven the senses drunk on the music of the spheres. This is the house we live in. . . .this is not some cursor steady on your screen & brilliant blue sparking filigrees. . . .when the moon winks out away by not looking at it, thru thin branches & lungs & twigs. . . .my intention was not to pull up this landslide around cold limbs in bed & it is breaking now I hear it creaking & cracking now, it is left. . . .wounded.
Turning colors inside out to discover the fires that drive hidden engines & engines prehistoric w/in engines as the flowering shoot mind-wrecking, freedom-gulping games in which they willingly engage, while purple beiges merge & melt 'cross abandoned alleys in infinite wave packets & spicy swirls, thrown for a loss. . . .so many locked up in heads w/key-shaped pacifier. . . .push to operate. . . .yes! Split wide, forc'd apart, cracked open, broken shellfish, sharp-sliced, freshly cut & succulent oozing, spill your blood, your lymph, your bile. Pour forth contents of bladder & bowel, gray-white chips embedded in deep nervous tissue. Exsanguinate forcibly into the viaducts & channels & tributaries & cisterns of Nature. Gush greedily! For all shall be renewed that you may be born in time, freed in time, ruins of a ship unleashed from the crushing rocks of social values, customs, manners, flotsam & jetsam. For you have swallowed valueless values, unbelievable beliefs, inconceivable concepts, & invisible visions. You, who are but a nod, who are a curt bow, or less - who are an eye blink maybe, a whisper, a rumor of a whisper of a whisper. . . .the silent bookends supporting a hand clap, a match strike, pupil-squeezing phosphorescent flash, you, yes, existing only as you imagine that you might exist, or even less, as an unwitting fraction of something far bigger than yourself, transcending space, straddling time, feeding time w/moments & drenching the chiaroscuro outlines & smudges of motion w/saturated color. Green toads on cool red walls. . . .amphibia abounding w/in glass blue pitchers of water. . . .tequila attack under wheeling sun golden light like dormancy. . . .like financial opportunity born of the earth soil creatures thick w/it damp breath. . . .& slipped thru sideways slats over time on the flip side fringe of our mornings especially when it rains.
We are thinking we are talking this particular path we are taking not because it goes to a destination enamored by our secret beings but due to other matters of which we are reluctant to converse. So the gem-throated hummers drink breast blood & aquatic feathers in a slit light when there is little breeze. . . .orange fish w/popping O-mouths testing limits of this universe world persistently. Walking, wandering out on the open desert, cookie-shaped hearts in streets of ovens, under an uncreated atmosphere, gila monster w/beaded skin.
Everything happens. . . .everything occurs. Is there a metaphysician in the house? Vision: the infinite, glittering, intrapenetrating tree, drinking at the pristine wells of Time. Spectacular, supraluminescent, unfolding & nothing ever lost in its gossamer glassy substance. . . .minds like radar echoes on its highway space in motion already gone before they're seen the hanging places the grommets. . . .pins to the works. Detaching from the imaginary physical world as detach we must we free our souls from tactile prejudice from arbitrary limits unhitching of crude hammers & prisms & enter the open network the perfectly silent hurricane. . . .
Projections of silica consciousness fail to resemble the human paradigm. Anthropomorphism a theology in decline. Futures contort indescribable peculiar & hazy flashes of metal, a minimal number of underlying rules synergize predictably to establish complex patterns & behaviors. . . .higher reasoning so-called a trick of rearranging or substituting various simple subconscious constructs to approximate desired goals w/editing until satisfaction. . . .peace, man. . . .careening precariously thru intermeshed grids of demonstrable evidence. . . .This inter-knitted network of solid electronic wave blasters. . . .The hurricane of reason, the hurricane of the solid paradimensional eternity realm folding down unmeasured axis toward mind-distorting box waves convergence points ride infinity's surf raging warfare into & then & then. . . .exceed all false limits & losses & prophets flying up above free free like birds of ice across new moons of our own volition. . . .new corridors & wind-swept high pylon-decked planes of air. . . .new rings 'round giant gaseous planets new cauldrons dropped therein bubbling forth furious new species of reptiles plants & deep sea fishes phosphorescent bulbous darting new races new colors new flavors of creation this the vision the horizon ahead new definitions of conscious existence as we step across another analog universe, new galaxies just thought up or digital, our chosen stepping stones into a floral fountainhead of ultimate possibility where we must part & put down fingers into unexplored depths of possibility & remove them dripping wet w/the fiery substance of unmade worlds w/out end. . . .
We are endpoints, we are terminal expressions of the whole, nondimensional & unhelpful misleading for the drawing of inferences.
From out of the darkness comes a chant, from midnight's navel shake of a tambourine. . . .drum beats, the low patter-tap, a deep, sonorous river, hoary w/time & patience, no expectations. Are your ears open to pursue a calling? There's a burden on your back, I know that you don't see it there. Do your television eyes still hunger for another startling & refreshing image? There's a formless word worked in gold leaf inscribed in every wordless eon whispering behind your ear, waiting until you're ready to receive it. There's a signal that your traveling companions aren't hearing. Though they labor w/o rest to anchor themselves to the guy lines of this world sometimes you suspect their souls slowly disappearing. Vivid visions drip undistilled from the hollow skull of the broken brain. Skeletons dancing, tambourines & pipes & rattles, whistle chime & jangle-jing. We must split open our souls to music, to magic we don't see, we don't smell, sniff, feel, taste. Ideas ignite the sky like volcano glow, lambent, rich. Thought I found the source of the raw creative force, swirling, chaos power. Here, we break out of waking sleep, we shirk the bright light, we move in pale places where the sheer contrast swells us, inflating all things, puffing up sails, & we are driven into another ocean of bell-spouting souls, hydropneumatic. Papier-mâché skeletons gibber, shadows filter long & dark & frightful, familiar. This is a bitter mercurial tea, but it will cure you of the special intoxication which numbs your limbs & nerves today.
I have seen this before.
Out of the timeless time, out of the mindless mind, out of the voiceless throat, out of the foundered boat, under a bountiful earth, worth more than you'd think it worth, over an unexpected wall, falling where all conceits must fall, this ghost, she is projected, made manifest, right out of the video game: high-tech she is, wearing a primitive necklace, shell, silver, & bone. Thanks me, she does, for my time. & I, her. Then. . . .the alarm. . . .there is this great & ancient sea, full of mystery, secrets, fragments of myth & unknown ancestors. I ride the small boat like a shell under the weather of emotion. There is an island called Memory which I see thru association; unbidden messages come from the deeps, called intuition. Beyond the atmosphere, beyond the benthos, the skin that protects us, that translates for us, the locked bars of perception. . . .there are the storms overhead & the swells below & there is me, riding the boat thru, & conjuring a new almighty tsunami. . . .
I tell you that your society is no thing. I assure you that your history is no thing. Past, future - all envelopes less significance than the least stone upon this earth, the least molecule of oxygen which we breath, which was when the dust on your books was an ancestor, which will be when your children's children themselves settle upon books, or upon computers, or upon rocket engines or upon mechanized insect intelligence - it is of no consequence: the molecules remain. The stone does not perish. The earth abides for ever.
All of these souls, all of these brains. . . .the potential is boundless psychic synergism polytemporic network webwork extending thru endless ages dramatic. . . .yet egos bound by political considerations not governmental but useless distractions & delays of mundane concerns. . . .the brainstem & cap autonomic functions especially the organizing principle to regulate our chariots we know thru empiricism more difficult a problem more technical for example than ever anticipated spatial temporal manipulation of physical activity everyday extend arm flex fingers elevate glass of wine no firm set of differential equations there to evaluate in the local field conditions in the problems but semi-autonomous functional units nerve ganglia prehistoric overlaid w/limited conscious nerve net reflex function arcs at local nodes primitive phylogeny.
But now we have this miracle mutation unintended unexpected development reason or unclear reason then applying thru the shredder w/force, the logic backwards & undefining some certain brand name units of truth or presumed fact. . . .these postulates are handy aphorisms, nothing more, but then, nothing less than existence. Critical tension at the spindle nexus, mine eyes have drunk in the glorious spectacle. Running before we've mastered the delicate art of walking, these are the paths the pressure points-here, another form of balance, or preoccupation w/universe's hot breath, back of neck, hairs rise in anticipation of soulquake. (Somebody said something 'bout enlightenment. Wonder what he meant by that?) As the wetware interfaces one day the realm of subatomic species, as the quanta that cascade thru inspiration. . . .this compass drug, doors yawn open, eyes opening, endless stream-out. Is this what happens when the brain exits a tiny key hole?
As the quanta that cascade thru the theater surge up against defective languages cultures that sneak back away from one another, when the breakthru comes & the language generators & translators are achieved & the soul enters the bazaar of super-reality, then these blinders become irrelevant & we become much more appealing. . . .stars I see, pine needles, croak of crows timeless, forever stained glass. . . .to step casually across a galaxy at a heartbeat. . . .to kiss the fiery lips of a nova new-born.
Apparently, no end exists to this sane drug.
Forever & forever & forever. . . .the physicist w/rows upon rows of equations in Greek comprehends how words abstract deeper truths. . . .there is a unity there is a oneness in creation there is an essential solid which suggests but ultimately denies itself to the senses. . . .white light shining all around you is not the summation of all colors of the spectrum the prism a particular crude hammer used to smash light one certain way only. . . .the more prisms we use to fracture the world surely the closer we approximate an explanation of the interactions of those broken parts out of context misquoted as usual but the further we stray from the essential unity of existence. Tongues, fingers, you see, throats, temperature-sensitive neurons, noses, vestibular apparatus, cones & rods, ears: all this & more highly specialized hammers for shattering the universe into a myriad of manipulatable tiny shiny fragments, for abstracting creation, pick up the bigger chunks & assemble everything. . . .
Seep then beyond your skin. Seep out thru the pores of your face, my friend: this my challenge to you. Infuse the substance of this place. Saturate the fluffy wool of the world, dye creation in all the strange hues of your individual psyche. Become this very earth, become the serene cosmos, swallow whole the body of Nature & endure as more than an idea of an idea, as more than a dream of a dream.
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