It
bellowed
an empty heaviness
against a night
as cold,
dark,
and empty
as the beginning of the Universe.
A rumbling in Its chest
burbled out as anger
against a cosmos devoid of stars and light
and It exploded into seven thousand stars
settling down
to begin
the long, slow process
of becoming.
We are but fuel
for the creating
roaring full tilt boogie
great nature engine in
the Universe
Quivering on the edge of God
it comes in screaming,
ranging in from the stars.
I feel the hunger.
I feel the hunger
ranging in from the stars
speaking of love.
It's all in the way
you move through space.
Cutting narrowly through
the haze;
Cutting through haze
at thin the white place
thin, like death.
Cutting through haze at
narrow the place.
Nothing follows; not even
the sound of your passing.
Figure-skating
on the face
of the very great deep.
Scribing letters
that cut its fabric,
and change dark to light.
Letters
clad in white
they float in silence.
Eyes that burn
like fire on a mirrored lake
swathed in dark.
Hate crackles through
like heat lightning.
Love soars within
like the phoenix.
"Polish the mirror"
is the only sound.
Some of us
love so deeply
that we become ill
and forget ourselves.
Being ill
and having forgotten
we wander
like the dead.
In grief,
and pain,
and loneliness
we have cried.
When we have given all
we have and are for love
and found nothing
in the tinsel,
glitter,
and plain ribbon.
Hate
dresses well
to please
a buyer.
This world
a hotbed of illusion.
Rife
with masters of collusion.
Political schemers
oppressive dreamers.
Where pilgrims burst
into time and space
born of a man and wife
they enter the human race.
They all look like ghosts-transparent to the need.
Like the jellyfish
in the sea of consciousness.
As if the brightness of
February could somehow fit,
all at once,
into my head-for just one instant;
I see emotions,
branching like their nervous system;
and ask "where does it begin?"
That's how hard it is.
That's how clear it is.
That's how short it is. Like many others,
in this stupid existential age;
I sometimes sit for
hours and wonder what I've lost.
It's a vague feeling,
Like I am supposed to
be somewhere I'm not.
I sit, and I stare, and I try
to remember where it is.
Boys and Girls
who manipulate
their gods and goddesses
never grow up.
Tall, blond, and godlike;
their baser metals
melt to nothing,
and drain away.
I feel my soul coming home
to its roost. It feels good
settling down around
my hips.
How much residue in us remains
of the billion year-old stellar explosion
that led us to this place?
Perhaps none at all;
only the place of awareness we call our hearts,
where we put things we love and know.
Far-Away Rain
Time concatenates into lenses
when I sit looking, here in the rain.
Then I can see clearly
across the Universe
and do not want
to stay here at all.
I sit looking, wondering:
do the harmonics of
neutrino clouds
bring showers to a globe
we do not see,
one circling the invisible sun;
and are their resonances
merely the sound
of falling rain?
Deja Vu
Pointing out things in the light-
There is the dharma vase; It is blueness.
There is a group of dharma bodies.
There is the mirror:
perfectly still;
undisturbed
by any reflection.
A shadow of truth here;
a glimmer there,
and objects in my brain
delimit and denote
spacetime.
Naming things
in the light.
Floorness, chairness: a door
into a hallway.
Pointing out things in the light.
Accustoming my mind
to its sensations,
its objects,
and their impressions on it.
Standing
in still water
Looking
for the perfect reflection.
Clearing
blue water.
Impaled on the light,
writhing beneath the weight
of excruciating awareness;
As if suffocated
by an impatient lover.
Floating, twisting slowly
filled with an
unutterable language;
Bursting with music-less song.
It gurgles out, and escapes
this captive space;
Vanishing. It sounds
like nonsense; as if a moron
babbles spittle into his beard.
Embarassed, people turn away;
the song is broken, and has no
ring of truth;
only the sound of breaking glass.
What writhing is this?
From what do I twist,
as if impaled?
Only the knowledge
that there is no distance
between the stars;
And the awareness
of an ebbing infancy,
and the onset of adulthood
with its permanent
ecstatic mystical virtue.
Let go of everything
and turn slowly, as in a dance,
on the light within.
According to what constellation
should one arrange the mirrors
in one's labyrinth?
But wait: First let us each
in our own way
and own time
Learn to grasp our mirrors
and define their shape.
Let us look deeply into the
dark pool, and talk aloud
before others, who listen in
silence, unafraid.
It is like an infinite crystalline regress
curling away
down through my heart,
vanishing into the white light
of the place from which I came.
Try as I might,
I cannot descend
quickly enough.
Yet I must pick
my way cautiously
lest I slip.
Dreamless I wander
through a dark
weight, free from visions
in an empty landscape.
There is numb tingling
as the substance gently
pierces my body,
Like some disembodied alien lover;
an incubus, perhaps,
the bringer of nightmares;
but no, because I wander
dreamless through
a dark weight
pitching forward and up
seen by the spectator-as-actor.
Then I sleep, within this dream-
a twice-deep sleep.
Lucifer
At the approach
of any light
the pushing beyond
any boundary,
people
in these caves
are screaming.
I shake in my limbs.
The bones in the skin
of my fingers vibrate,
they tremble, they flicker, they twitch,
as if the ends of my being
seek to branch into as many
of the infinite paths
as possible.
Neurons, deep in my brain,
kiss
and explode in flashes;
like a string of firecrackers
going off in every possible direction.
But it's as if god drew
the border of my being,
ripping my bodies full-blown
shape into spacetime,
freeing and trapping
me at once.
Where are we trying to go?
From seed, we slowly explode.
Reaching out and up,
we stop at some invisible interior border
and rot at the edges; stop growing,
and fall back, collapsing in on ourselves:
as if afraid
to make that final transcendent jump
in front of a noisy, fearful,
& disapproving crowd.
Focus
Narrow one's mind
to fit, thin and near light speed,
on the razor between
sanity and insanity.
The tension of discontent:
the passion near
schizophrenia:
the terror of nearly drowning
in the Sea of Mystics.
How many times
can one subdivide
a human being?
First, the Platonic
separation
from what we
remember
as our soul-mate.
Second, the left half
of our brain from
the right
on the razor
between sanity
and insanity.
Touch Lightly the Universe
I would look at this woman-
she would disappear;
melt into this field of stars
shimmering in the cold.
I'd see the concept "finger"
touch lightly the Universe and
watch it ripple.
As quickly as this ends
I was back
a cold cup of coffee on the table
and this: "Are you alright?" Perching in the valley
on the peak of orgasm.
Only practiced Lovers
can do this. Your eyes are the color of a fluid dragon,
carved in white,
so sad and winding.
Through your grim face
comes flashing
your shining spirit.
Let's treat one another
as if we will be friends
one billion years from now. Touch me
with the intensity
of the sun.
Glance at me;
Flicker your eyes at me; then
Gaze at me,
Your eyes lit
with the cold hard brightness
of a blue February sky. Awash in a glow of light
seeing only your laughing face.
Suddenly consumed in
moist heat; to emerge
into a landscape of silver warmth
a world unto myself,
knowing only ourself.
It is frightening to be alive
and feel one's hand, lifted involuntary,
touch the dark face of Eros; and feel one's
eyes look deeply into his.
Eros is no baby,
winged and chubby;
tossing darts at a woman's heart.
Speaking of love,
the feelings are cut and
the masculine hand of the night is warm,
my body cool as marble,
and strong as the sun.
To hold tight the hand of night, nourished
by its warm moistness; then turn to stare
into the face of the sun
and feel it melt, then shred
away, one's body.
She comes
her hair
a million strands of beauty.
Our spirits' passionate love
for our bodies
fuses us
to the clay they are.
So we become
indistinguishable.
Our eyes become jewels;
our bodies marble;
cool and smooth as sunlight.
Speaking of love
the masculine hand of night
is warm
my body cool as marble
and strong as the sun.
The passion fuses us
so that we are
our eyes
and our bodies
cool
speaking of love
warm
and strong as the sun.
Being and Becoming
Androgyny Solitaire
I'm chasing away shadows
calling you on the phone
"Let's go out."
Sit.
Face the night.
Scream out
against myself closing in.
Fear
and trembling
close in like the bowl of night
concealing the hunter coming home.
Like a hurried lover,
the weight presses in-
I can't breathe;
then
little death.
Play
This very fine and wonderful thing,
the feeling of reality beyond form
how the shrug of a shoulder sends
one's heart into an expansive sky.
To know that one is capable
of such profound and subtle birth
a body, broken with desire
a heart that feels all of a small, hot, white star.
To see truth in a casual acquaintance,
a barely known friend.
To see, behind a friend who doesn't know
I see it, a deity
dabbling and playing in the Universe.
There is no end to this feeling for me
because like any human being
I hold to a form
so I'll just go with this ecstasy.
The wonderful thing is that it
becomes more and more I
and less and less you.
And it will just keep going that way
this very fine and wonderful feeling.
Sometimes I can't face it.
Sometimes the things I say, & see,
scare the hell out of me.
I'm as close
to the next dimension
as my skin.
As if I am in
an animated Chinese puzzle box:
A magic box, with a magic door;
if I could just push it in the right way
at the right place it would open for me
& I could walk back and forth,
in and out.
My consciousness will hold together.
My body will spread out,
expand into the night,
rippling into a cosmos of stars,
and nebulae of dust and salt, of ice and fire;
rain and planets; of water in rivers, rocks in a desert,
of birds and deer.
A denouement into Light;
a segue into the bliss of eternal knowing.
My consciousness will hold together
and spread out, like ripples
in a bowl of milk.
Me and my rainbow dick
The long and short of it is
Thank God it's long
and not short.
All lovers orbit
the invisible sun.
Their dicks wildly joyous
in its pull;
their pussies drink up sunshine.
They trade flowers,
blossoms and stems,
in their kisses.
The Universe shimmers gleefully
at her touch.
I saw this woman;
and felt heavy,
mystical water
flow down
in my head
then fill my body.
A star-bitten ecstasy.
God, how she shimmers
In her cold beauty-
her finger dips
down like a cat's paw
into a bowl of milk.
8/22
A slow glissade
down the side of a life.
Glacial; so cold
that even sound is frozen.
The ice captures sunlight
and holds it fast; then slowly;
completely; illuminates
even the darkest night.
Deep in the fastness
beneath the ice,
where the warmth
is held close,
The stars are brighter
spots of whiteness.
Their paths, etched patterns
followed for millenia
by slow-watching eyes.
Stretched to their limits
like a smear of puddle
beneath the sun
in the moment
before misting skyward:
Your boundaries obliterated
by the pressure.
Melt your edges,
loose your moisture;
accept mine.
If you're out some night,
sailing among the stars,
and you see a sun
that reminds you of my face;
wake me up, so that I can see it, too.
Movement
Calculus;
the analysis of finite difference
from along the infinite arc's inward curve.
The finite differences now,
so profound later in life;
where are they etched,
along what helix
do their notations drift and swirl?
There are stars
brighter than our invisible sun.
Hence its shadow in our cave
on this backlit journey down.
You have no idea;
this is better than a drug,
and much harder to obtain.
Sooner, or later,
we have to face it;
or it will bleed out our ears.
The body has its own agenda
it drags you along for years, maybe
it is exuberant, almost mad
in its headlong rush into
life, the sensual world.
Breathless, Breathless, Breathless
Sure of acceptance by
whatever is out there.
Blind to stumbling blocks,
thresholds, and chaotic quantum space
Learning to walk
in the light
without tripping
over the furniture
much less one's own internal structure.
Something
in the body knows;
something unerring,
familiar with its detail;
how things fit together.
It remembers things never taught.
How wings fit the air;
how thought is supposed to go.
And from the only thing
it has ever known,
sleep, it rises perfectly
toward the only constellation
it has ever known.
There is a painful reaching,
the slow crawl of something interior.
A burgeoning in the heart,
a slow inching in the veins,
it moves at the level of detail.
Blood flows south,
and doesn't flow again north.
These tenuous links are palpable,
their pulling away, a popping sound,
still painful.
In whole, the body
falls in on itself;
and does not rise again.
Its mirror is below, not the sky above.
And whether the world
is turned right, or not; is an appeal
to experience, none else.
SOURCES
God
I am the dreamer at the core
of my identities on many worlds.
In my infinite wisdom,
to improve my chances,
I seed the galaxy with
my lives of love and hope.
But I am the dreamer at the core.
Come away on a deeper journey
standing still, skim across the surface of boundaries,
whip around their gentle corners.
Shoot down the path away from even the
tenuous links, arcing away across the geography of soul,
the karmic waste, the terrain of loss, in this interior
romance, this inward journey.
This new pattern, forming like a headache,
minute by minute, is every finger pointing,
every hand pulling, every eye looking
at one thing, one way, one direction.
Somewhere, somehow, someway
this species has gone
horribly awry.
I like agony;
neurotic self-abasement, or necessary
it has a purpose, a necessity;
an expression & acceptance of agony?
This sickness unto death is useful.
There is this wound
that opens like an eye
onto a world that awaits
our consent.
This agony/has a purpose.
How many eyes open/when one eye opens?
No one wants to talk
of the chasms of awareness
self-reflecting,/infinite,/they are to deep
to precipitous, to sudden,/and eternal.
Too scary.
When one eye opens,/how many pairs awake;/accepting the flood of awareness.
This tsunami of light/that threatens us:
to carry us away,/to overwhelm us
to love us with a passion/beyond all human passion.
Something so profound,
so encompassing and all-caring,
that it would carry and sweep you
through several lives
in one breath.
This eye opens
like a wound onto your world.
9/2 This like Borges' Minotaur story The Cave Again
Sitting quite still/in the labyrinth.
It is dark./There is noise, from somewhere;/voices, sounds, etc.,/but quiet noise.
The air is funny - /neither hot nor cold;/stale nor fresh;/dry nor moist;/just
funny. This is a very foetid air, stale: humming is an adjective akin to fetid
Nothing seems to be moving.
Falsehood./Its starts and paths./I don't believe anymore -/I seem too tired to care
about following the/beetle mazes/that go nowhere.
I have not found/any thought/worth thinking;no thought/without limits./I have
thrown myself,/clawing at their walls/time and again.
I have no fingernails./Just bloody digits;/stumps, really, - /like the stumps/of a
tree./I suppose I knew/somewhere in my/brain, or mind,/somewhere;
that I/was graceless, a/savage,/even an/impotent monster./But I had such/vision - so
beautiful,/so tranquil, so healthy.
At the time, of course,/thought I was seeking truth./But if there is spiritual
correctness, I must see/now that I was, and am,/somehow deficient.
There is a limit to my being, you see. Not just my skin. A limit to me./Perhaps
I am used to flitting, incorporeal, across the plains, the forests of/the Universe;
that does not work here.
I have gone/as deep/and/as high/and/as far as these limits allow./I can do no more
but sit quite still, now. Have I failed?/Do you despise me -/shun me; turn
away,/as if I were a leper?/Worse, a lost -/and afflicted - soul?/I could
enumerate your criticisms./What else, this quiet noise?/What else brings
this funny air?/I know it is here, you see./I know it is just in the/next
dimension, hidden./So I sit very still,/you see; as all this/drifts by.
What/were once significant/ways, trains of thought,/are now just
beetle-tracks,/going nowhere./This noise on this paper?/Random
fluctuations/of a neural net/called my brain./Even you/are not really here./You
aren't even there. Even these words, individually, collectively, and
concomitantly,/go no where./This may be genuine despair;/or it may not./It
may be, simply,/an acknowledgement/of limits, of my poverty;/an awareness
of my illusions./I will probably/die here, where I sit in this/labyrinth.
Then what?/Running down paths/through doors, marked/"No Exit";
Warning:/obnoxious substances/& foul air ahead; Danger:/really bad
experiences/and vibes accrue on/this path./So now/I'm warped./Bent, mutated.
Wrestling with ghosts,
An old man's pastime.
Walking over, pointing at,
and grappling with a
fierce-faced demon-clown harlequin
Picking a fight in an endogenous circus,
tongue wagging, teeth bared,
weird, blood-curdling
shrieks and noises
screeching out its mouth.
He's tired now. This old man,
his dream-laden potency
waned; shot, it seems;
tired, tired, tired.
Forgive us our bodies, O Lord;
they do swell under the moon,
and suffer, shrink, and
gasp under the sun. They
exhaust us with their
wild passion/so it seems we carry
around a weight. Maybe/this was really your
crucifixion: arms out/to your sides in frustration
and exasperation having lived/a true and passionate life,
you were left with the
weight of a tired, old body
at the age of thirty-three. Then
when you were weak the disapproving
crowd turned on you for
inspiring them so, and not
carrying them over the
threshold. Would any of
them dare believe that God would
do like so many men, and
not finish what he started?
Even you uttered 'why have you
forsaken me?'
Forgive us our crazy bodies, Lord;
their passion is mis-aimed, and
too sensitive to initial conditions.
Gothic Chaos series
1
This black buzzing of words;
this numb haziness:
shadow of the invisible sun.
There is a bitterness here,
that collective bitterness
of the soul.
Where we drink the soul's wormwood tea.
Mental bitterness
dripping into my gut
thrumming just beneath awareness
this dark living pool.
2
Time has no beat,
no drummer is out there.
Only the hollowness
of your footfall, like some
kind of endogenous radar,
some remnant of bat behavior.
Only the steady rhythm of chaos,
which is no rhythm at all,
but an unceasing symmetry
bubbling up from light years away.
Your ghosts are made of chaos.
The detailed intimacies
of our bodies
and emotional boundaries
their infinite regresses
their curlings
and joinings
their departures
into infinity
singly and in unison.
These are the concentric rings
of my being.
Their detail, their filigree,
this carbon sheen
over the Universe.
This motionless joy
breathing
the delicacy of being. First, the easy things:
inhaling a constellation of stellar atoms.
Then, like a fire breather,
a constellation of words exhaled whole.
What happens after the decay of intellect,
The last screen against the light?
Is this what they call insanity-life in light
in a world that knows no light?
What happens when one's language fails;
when words emerge jumbled,
tenses forgotten, cases misplaced-when the structure of grammar washes away?
Is it pretension's dissolution?
What happens if, or when, or after,
life cools to absolute zero,
and the only consciousness left
is a literate emotional pain?
What happens when boundaries melt,
and emotions bleed into chaos?
What laughter is this packet of light?
What word is this particle?
Of what language are they a part?
Singing the song of my death emergent
from the chaotic swirls
of willfully ignorant consciousness:
The corporate carbon-unit
in the Brook's Brothers suit;
the patriarchal malevolence,
military-industrial carbon-unit,
projecting its wounded boundaries
toward national borders;
the intellectual hard-on,
mad scientist carbon-unit;
all this, the masculine devoid of feminine.
The bitterness of these ashes;
plenty of ashes to roll in.
Plenty for the young ash-eaters,
for years and years of sleepy hibernation,
mad after the meal of the world poison,
left by their fathers...and mothers.
Our bones, like memories, will lie discarded
on the bare mountains
because the flora of the soul
was plundered for firewood;
all that was lush is gone,
and life cannot be sucked from the rock.
Springing suddenly out of the light
an immense dark-this is the feminine,
this monstrous oneness, this immense unity.
The eternal cry:
The experience of my soul!
The slow, galactic awakening from dreamtime:
You sleepy-eyed humans,
remembering a history
that was never.
There are no poetic experiences for me;
just an empty easy floating on a starlit night.
There is no poetic feeling for me anymore
just a noetic floating beneath a starry sky.
I am a curious process
a blend of reversal and progress.
One hundred faces merging to consciousness.
Chaos' brilliant turbid waters
Go to places in my soul I didn't know
Go play in my soul, all these brains
that travel into one brain.
The sun rattles by
under the floorboards;
the Baal Shem Tov
climbs the prayer ladder
taking calls to marriage parties.
In and out he runs all night,
off he roars to cosmic unions.
He comes home, roaring drunk with love;
the phone rings, up the ladder again, then out
the door and off he goes again as the sun rattles
by, flashing beneath the floorboards.
I felt as if I were dying,
but I could not stop breathing.
My thoughts flew ahead
in time alone;
my body, glued to space
like a stone.
The Cosmic Kiss
Speaking in the foreign tongue
about the only thing that has ever
mattered to me.
Speaking below the level of language.
I want to face the stellar wind
as it strips away all but
the essential, the necessary.
The words, full of brusque libido,
brush by on their way
to someone who understands
and can speak them.
I, or the sunlight, have torn up
the tracks of my mind
looking for the ground that used to lie there;
where the old paths were.
The sunlight, I swear, it talks to me
and it tells me things I never want to hear
and not hear.
I cannot speak these things.
These secret, hidden things.
This world's fabric, this air intangible,
cannot stand it.
I cannot speak these words without failing.
So it all goes without saying;
the words just stumble out anyway.
This portable mode of being
No brief, palatable, glimpses
into insanity here; no moderated passion.
Just the ordinary, everyday reality:
truth goes right by, wordlessly.
The sunward sky, at night/in your eyes/it's like an
eclipse of the sun/the moon, your pupil/swelling under the gaze of her sun,
the lover.
Why are our eyes/their pupils/and irises/like a solar eclipse/are we all
lunatics/ruled by the full moon/that queen of our emotions/ swelling under the
gaze/of the sun? Why is the iris/like the chromosphere/the photosphere/seen
only when covered/by the moon/as it shows its' dark side? Why do the stars
hide in your eyes? Why are our eyes like irises/instead of the stars they are?
Why are your eyes like stars/blotted out by the moon/as she breathes in and
out the gaze of her lover/the sun? In the stars dark eye/there you
lie/on the bright side of the moon/gazing inward/toward the deep/solar
labyrinth. Why are you eyes/like the sun behind the moon? Flailing over ground I don't understand
as if on some kind of petard gagged and blinded;
the ground was beneath my feet just seconds ago,
and now I cannot stretch my leg far enough
to pull back, nor find purchase on this endogenous terra incognito
as vague white splotches, like stars, fill my visual field.
Walking cold across a winter field
the crunching bowed tufts of grass
lit with foxfire.
It's frigid
sound thickens as it
roils across the field
and falls, heavy and cold, through the earth.
I face southeast and watch the Milky Way light up
I swear that my hair just brushes it
as the earth flings itself east, toward the rising sun
I feel, faintly perceptible, my hair lift as my feet
for a split second leave the earth
This sunlight I know streams through the earth;
Why do my not feet sink as I step across this field?
Why do I understand this earth? How do I understand this earth?
The slow reconstruction of the gazelle
Rote: line after line
we learn slowly-year after year.
Whence arise these forms?
Like school, a wearisome bother, until it sinks in, lasts.
Then, when no longer useful, it is stripped, peeled away.
We are left standing naked in light.
That is exactly what happened:
our eye was burned out,
that holy receptacle of light;
that prism of perception.
Personal Demons
The time has come
for the edges of the wound.
I don't cry anymore.
I used to cry the tears of a saint;
before the throne of an ersatz god,
the apotheosis of mourning.
Through this, to the feminine;
an intoxicant more deadly
than any cliched substance.
Through this, to the masculine;
another totem pole in the humanity trail.
Down the spiral, now;
into the mythological gothic chaos.
The waiting; the eternal waiting.
A precious, guarded pain;
a twisted soul, source of creativity.
Life as a dark, killing joke;
a gothic necessity, the unity of style
over a patchwork substance.
When this split is healed,
life is an unfamiliar newness
in the wake.
It hands you rewards,
and you're left wondering -
"This passionless existence my reward?"
There is a reflexive quality to
the pursuit of suffering-
which, after all is said and done,
is only just another sensation;
no matter how expensive.
(Covert endogenous masochism)
In the interest of spiritual correctness
please note the following.
I have a body. It is a boundary.
I have emotions and feelings.
These, too, are a boundary.
Those who are artful and sensitive
merge and slide across these boundaries;
Their touch, tender and aware;
Their glance, gently piercing;
Their breath and their lips;
These gently lead their soul
across that wide gap, through the looking glass
into me.
Their voice sings gently
and I follow their thoughts
with unseen eyes and unseen ears
I see and catch minute nuances
in the air, pushings and compressions
a pulling away and an expansion
I breathe in, and their words
tumble down my ears and throat
the light from their gaze fills my mind.
Into the mythological
where concatenated hyperspheres
swim in invisible dimensions
next door to imaginations' creatures
roaming karmic fields
of allergen apple trees,
the Medusan cliches
no longer relevant to humanity.
Who will write the new myths
and sound the new depths
of Jungian Quantum space?
The psychonauts, that's who.
There are no Jasons on board;
just the crew members
who forgot, and missed the first,
or second, or nth millionth debarkation at
Nirvana, or Valhalla, or wherever.
A bunch of failures,
all disabled bodied seamen,
Heading out across the Mystic Sea.
The only staircase down into your life,
and beyond, is your memories.
A bodiless head, gliding by asleep;
tiny white wings where ears should be.
Then suddenly, inexplicably, no movement:
a profound stillness, a drowning,
then more waiting.
There is a cave, a cavern;
where water loudly plops from stalactites
in moist half-light, half-dark;
flows slowly, quietly,
stained deeply with tannic acid
from beneath a cleft talus.
Sometimes, the cave is full of water.
Diving into it, past the gloom
and the tombstone; toward the dark,
quiet pressure.
An incomprehensible feeling
of depth-of darkness deeper than thought,
below feeling light vanish.
But light streams, and pools,
somewhere.
How tenuous are the palpable links
to the path in one's own body.
How one slipsaround within,
setting foot down the wrong way;
and flies through an inward sky
missing the flow,
catching the wrong mirror's light,
then gazing too long
Into the mythological
there is chaos popping bright, a sibilance beneath your feet
murmuring clear, susurrus movement
to rapid to pin down
vanishing in the blink of an eye that opens to a topographical bolt
(topographical wave?)
(illuminating the karmic waste;
the geography of soul)
Put your foot down.
The colors might be dull, but there is a
flashing. Chaos is all around,
lights up the dirt
It is like an infinite crystalline regress
curling down through my heart,
vanishing into the white light
of the place from where I came.
Try as I might, I cannot descend quickly enough.
Yet I must pick my way cautiously
lest I slip. Maybe it doesn't matter anymore
how gracefully I descend,
but that I descend, and quickly bungle into the truth.
The lattice-walled glass heart
murmurs sayings
filled with complex metaphysical and mystical beauty.
Filled with complex metaphysical and mystical beauty,
the lattice-walled glass heart
murmurs.
It's all a shimmering idea
a light on the path up
and I don't know
what staircase I ascend.
Ares etched deep in the DNA
this aggressive solar packet
transmuted to angry words
lover's spats and war.
This natural flowing construction of the soul
I never could believe.
This, then, is my approach
at the edge of detail where we meet.
The reverence for a symbol of gothic death
The worship of an arcane instrument of torture.
The reverence for this black gothic buzzing.
Going out into the full moon
feeling the sunlight swell my emotions
like a blood-engorged member
I burn/like water
I'm nerves/into the Universe
The world finds you where you lay
follows you like a hound, like an insistent lover
refusing to leave your door like the curs that chased you to your last death
it thrusts upon you all its wonderful teeming life
all its sick, rotting depravity
its bitterness, its sweetness it insists you take it
so your own deep self can become your enemy
Life the life which is light pushes in like a glacier
inexorable it finds you, wherever you are
crushes your works yourbody
intruding into the synapses of your awareness
you cannot, like you cannot death, escape it.
My Universe is one of sensations.
I weep that it is all I can seek.
I graze in a field of ideas, I consume that which is soul to another
People flail in a sea of love help me, help me - I'm drowning; not imagining its' depth; no more than a baptismal font.
People's lives are thin.
Their emotions ride their skin
cracks from a fault line.
Seeking the music of the spheres
we must cast farther than the solar wind
to the motion of stars beyond our reach.
Gothic existentialism
I feel a newness emerging
as if my deep flesh creaks open,
bones rub, like a vault door whining.
This occasional light
this stratospheric brooding
Lost in the backwash of a person's life
to the sight of others are the lies
oppressions and generally tasteless behaviors
we have visited on yet others stunned at their misfortune
who, close to our course
were unfortunate enough to cross our paths.
And you're a coward if you demur setting course
across the grim puddle this species calls living.
A world full of emptiness
This turgid black bubbling
Ringing protests off the side of life,
its invisible inexorable weight
Floats above the world
Time has its own beat
you mark it in your own way
it judges not.
The mundane
The sounds
You're in love
with yourself
wait until you love another
Life is so bitter, anymore
that humor cannot keep up
I used to think
I was lucky
to have been born
when I was
but I'm not
so sure anymore
The guarded Buddha
We exist in memory
memory is not linear
Maybe the whole galaxy is only one world;
and planets are just small towns.
It is immobile in space.
All else moves past it.
Insanity will keep me alive.
The Geography of the Soul
For me, "saner"
is a measure of my awareness
of my insanity.
Make art, hell; live it:
live the tragedy.
Live the proto-gothic, horrifying myth.
But once in the labyrinth...
The secret grows; it's here to stay.
Swim in my dark/Swim in my warm
Repose into Life/and let your other self/experience for you,/through you.
Looking for a deeper rhythm
Waiting for a sustaining flux
Things happen along with me.
Ah, these sad people these sellers of soul
life is an inwardly recursive romance
a discovery of self, a discovery of the deep
dark unknown
because what is there inside,
but nothing-nothing at all
a hilarious, laughing nothing.
The Cosmic Kidder
Sub-atomics: sub-atomics, that's it.
If you can grasp sub-atomics,
you can sled down the side of a Life through a piece of infinity.
Universal Surety:
You recursive quantum effect
You talking to yourself
You hopeless
You epitomy of hope
You all in all
You sorrowing mystery
you exultant display
apotheosis infinitum
tergiversate impossibulum
Peels of laughter:
such joy, such joy
insanity laughing
the Universe laughing, laughing, laughing
You fool; you saint, you gigantic light-speed sloth.
Remembering being old/because you are closer/to your birth/than old age.
One lifetime, one childhood in a post-industrial, information-age society is enough.
In-between man and this moral soul agony
to which I am no party this not I this not you
this we-this substance of we feeling.
There is a sound that starts somewhere deep within
Thanatos libido of the dark
Grinning demons dancing amoebas
the meaning of life and chocolate fudge cake
The spiders of the mind itch noisily
The world abyss
I lie on you, like a wet cloud
an aching, gothic necessity.
I cannot still this furious saying: Braid my hair into dreadlocks
and dance in the sun.
The loneliness of flying, a dizzying, endless fall through
the same place in all of it's possible variation.
Am I falling, or is it all rushing past?
Slow sunlight, looking for a tensile strength. Man, with the machine, may move faster than sound.
Spirit, unfettered from mass and matter, may move faster than light.
God, resting in eternal silence, moves faster than thought
and is therefore everywhere.
The Anarchist of the soul
where does he wander now?
The sound of rushing water
The blowing of breeze
All this is my mind moving.
Wildness seeps in around the edges.
Smelling the wound
The years bleed/into nothing./Time slides by.
The loneliness of flying/floating on an endless sea.
The cosmic variety of being is both an infinite regress and an infinite progress.
The billion brilliant stars in the far starry night.
The pools of clear water running in the light
The crystal pure cool clear water running in the light
The pure pools of cool clear water rippling in the light
pure clear water pooling into light.
The crystal clear water of light flowing down;
Into pools of cool clear water you will find
In the springtime of the morning.
A fractal is a function that describes an infinite regress.
Life's details are like fractals - the eternal return.
the details of my life are infinite regresses, like coral fractals, are bucket work.
Caution: Schizoid E.T. at work.
Give me a break, O.K.? It's not easy being an interested sociopath.
The path of particle physics.
The high, keening cry of a soul aflame.
Lost in its' eyes; mirrors on the wall,
like so many doors. The high, keening cry
of a soul aflame. We are not vibrant pools of life;
we are self-perpetuating patterns. When we can no longer,
the high, keening cry of a soul. I will perpetuate self
as long as I can; perhaps even learn a new
cognition, and control my body's dissolution.
Quantum cognition and star chime
New Cognition=Star Chime
A dance around substance the spirit of feeling
A basic quantum effect talking about itself.
Quantum cognition thought shine, star chime.
Like a dancer brightly turning, arms akimbo and
silver body shining;
Like a dancer, slowly turning;
I would go out there, beyond the curve of this captive sky.
To traverse the vast solitude of starfields;
and travel the void between galaxies;
To see their dance, as one sees a room filled with people.
To travel to the edge of the Universe...
to see, or even feel, its center;
A light so intense, it is a dark
landscape of light.
I had my soul tight in it
Then I exploded, like a star
flinging off accretions from
a millions years of gravity.
Now I alternate between two feelings
young, humble first steps
over and over again
and standing exposed
before you.
All for you, I thought:
This will help me know you.
I burned every bridge;
cut all ties,
strenuously and with resolve
to convince you of my sincerity.
Still no answer.
I even went so far
as to forget how to function
as a "normal" person
make art, hell - live it,
then forget it - I forgot
more than most people know.
I had my soul in it tight.
Then I exploded like a star
blowing off accretions from
a million years of gravity.
I have burned myself out
with the passion of my love for you.
Now there is nothing left for me.
No one to touch; no one to touch me.
Evolution: The death of Cyberpunk 4/29/92
A clay raft on a briny deep cosmos.
Endogenous, protein based operating system accepts alternate written
Solar wind information download. biologically significant solar wind
Biologically significant photodisintegration information download and
Photic consciousness photic disintegration
transcending spacetime in corporeal form.
Strong earth survival skills
endogenous protein chip operating instructions
a high-tech manual;
affective & cognitive photosynthesis
transmute sun into consciousness,
a biologically significant photic consciousness.
The PBOS is the strong earth survival skills. Strong earth survival skills are an
endogenous high tech manual on a protein chip (DNA)
Sedition
Separate yourself into falsehood.
Undermine your path with subversion. Obscure your motives
with false body language.
Darken your soul
with a screen over your eyes.
This, dear boy; dear girl;
this is the way of true anarchy.
If that is
what you seek
know that at its' end
you will still
have your body.
And not much else.
Staring
wishing for
transcendence of spacetime
in my corporeal form
the details of my life
to fall into place
freedom from the
misery and despair in life.
11/89 My dreams are the secret place
that my inner self goes to. why "her"
When I say to her, "I want to remember",
I feel the sting of a voice saying "No".
It is private, where she goes for
refuge. From you, and the world. But she watches.
She sees you-
"And she comes
her hair
a million strands of beauty."
Original
When I sit here in the rain, and look out across the Universe
through the concatenations
of time, I wonder: do the harmonics of neutrino clouds
bring showers to a globe
we do not see, one circling the invisible sun,
and are their resonances
merely the sound of falling rain?
I can see clearly across It.
And I do not want to stay here at all.
Welcome to Dreamtime
Brain Science; Allegorical only; An Alchemical method of quantum re-arrangement.
There is a world there. A world more tangible than this;
a metadimension like the one of dreams only with more reality within.
You can imagine another existence; only a slight shift in your quarks'
space time locale and there you are. Welcome to Dreamtime.
Relationships
You and me are brushwork upon a sidereal canvas
that fades with time, even as the brush of our imagination
is applied. We are only patterns that somehow perpetuate ourselves-
less than pools of life, more than dreams. Within this less than,
more than, a Universe? The atom I dreamed; you no longer are;
yet you remain. And you; what do you dream?
After Katabasis
I've surfaced to normality. My mind is above my chaos water; I'm looking around.
I'm feeling the sensations of normalcy; the colors, scents, sounds, textures-
no perceptions are born. It's strange, and boring. Strange, because to it I'm
unaccustomed. Boring, because it is that passionless part of life.
The Vanishing
I remember.
That is like saying I seem,
or appear to myself (and you),
to recall or recognize.
I will.
The words of the mage
commanding the marshalling
of sidereal quantum probabilities
to my bidding.
I will remember.
A juxtaposition of the preceding two,
more than their sum.
I will remember from where I
came; because dying is a scary
but boring possibility.
8/10/92
Imagine my surprise upon waking beside you.
How does one reconcile a tear and stone?
Here; take a bite of insanity.
That little dot, there in the center
of your white soul...
that little black speck...don't look
to close. It will begin to loom
large. It will become a door,
a lens into waking beside me.
The psychological androgyny
of the endogenous muse
is in the brow of the male
which is flushed
with manhood
from the flower of masculinity
erecting in his chest
as the root of androgyny
thickens in his loins.
What are the stigmata
of sexual enlightenment?
Do testicles retrace their descent
and become psuedo-ovaries?
Will erections keep longer, and are orgasms slower to come?
Does one, like Shiva, sport a male pectoral and a female breast?
Does one share the same spatio-temporal spot with a feminine consciousness,
who appears, like mist, out of a gothic dream?
I am doomed.
Doomed, I say: doomed.
Doomed through endless winter days
and eternal winter nights, forever.
Doomed through searing summer days
and nights too humid to breathe, forever.
Doomed in this life, and the next, and the next...doomed to love you forever.
Turning sunlight over Sooner, or later,/we have to face it;/or it will bleed/our our ears.
You have no idea. This is better than a drug, and much harder to obtain.
This backlit journey/down.There are stars/brighter than our invisible sun./Hence its' shadow/in our cave.
Turning sunlight over/bottoms up/inside out/the plaything of a god./Lifting it draped
on fingers./Turning sunlight over/and surprised at it's shadow/then entranced/then
lured, and drawn down.
I want to go out to play and have the childhood I never had.
To leave behind, worrying their selves, the nagging voices of the ghosts. I'll reach out to where
the other people are, beyond the curve of the earth; graze in the starfields,
and it will bethat the light will dawn-space will look like one land,
the galaxy like one world
(no one will remember death)
A childhood in space in a body with no
sex-not male, not female.
A place where no desire lingers, much less, lust.
My mind will expand
and there will be
so much room;
and then I'll rest
so very deeply
for a million years
(No one will be around,
it will all be secret).
I am a smooth
single-skinned child
born recently
of light.
One mere neuron
in the mind of God,
lights shining; raw,
just now able to be touched.
There is hole in my heart where love is running out.
Learning not to trust is a matter of degrees of pain.
A chronicle that wants to write itself, but not by my hand.
My subject is love and as it runs out I'll learn of it and dream of it
and write of it, not the sides of the wound pulling together
nor the degrees of pain.
I don't have my feelings under control.
They're out in real life, rampaging out of control,
headed straight for your garden.
Dreamscapes
Most people perceive a Karmic wasteland
charting perspectives in a...the geography of loss
mapping perceptions...
chronicling experiences...
You saw things when you were too young
Your naivety
was stripped off, and away,
out through your eyes;
and in flooded the tsunami of light.
Someone showed you secrets
way before you were ready.
You saw me getting ready to do the same and then you panicked
I've ruined more good things like
this than I know how to recount.
Sometimes, people have demanded I
tell them things before I felt I was ready
to say them. Other times, I've felt ready
to or just didn't care about the
consequences, I just wanted to say it.
For human contact, to have
something to offer
Either way, I've always, since spirituality, had a little
voice in my head telling, insisting that I
should not tell secrets about myself
and about spiritual
wisdom. [It was and is not my place to tell.]
Can you imagine
standing on a planet
and looking out
at night into a
sky empty of stars?
Into a flat black expanse
stretching out before you so that
it seemed you could
step right onto
it and walk away?
I am no Buddhist;
ungrateful
for the pain of life.
It's tension, stretching,
and pressure.
There are too few lovers in this world.
Mostly, there are cowards and predators.
Cowards fear to give their bodies,
much less their selves.
They fear its' loss.
Feline, majestic predators
hiss and spit
over what little meat
they do obtain;
ungracious,
they are reclusive and secretive.
Mostly, they are the same.
The oddest juxtaposition
occurs at the pinnacle
of their love,
Both involuntary.
Sphincter contractions,
and really cool brain waves.
Not much in between.
You haven't known fear
'til you've known fear
that grips your crotch and twists it 'til the life runs out
'til there is no joie de vivre in giving oneself to another.
Then to be forced to live
past forgetting it because
you don't understand
the fear.
Spatiotemporal components
go floating and shooting by.
Stars like paintbrushes
zoom in and out of sight.
But I'm bored with that.
Brushing away the awareness
from my face with the hand
and motion of an old man shooing flies,
I sleep his sleep, on a blue bench
before a white adobe house,
in the mid-afternoon heat
of the invisible sun.
The Dust of Tears
Some ideas have edges not seen.
Working on a dangerous idea:
in one day I live many lives.
Weathering the storms of being
brief terrifying moments of lucidity.
The dust of tears falls
like manna, layer upon layer
sparkle upon sparkle, like stardust.
Eat the ash of your tears, my God:
it is your own food.
The water went out of my tears
The water went out
leaving only their dust
leaving the dust of tears
the salt of another world
rain flung across a minute universe.
Salt cuts the light
and spreads it, like the fan
of a Spanish dancer who shows only her laughing eyes.
Like a dancer, brightly turning,
I would go,
out there,
and dance in the starfields.
Working
on a dangerous idea.
Spring '93
The subtle air hungers
unknowing, I think.
This world is numb
to the core
and sleeps one billion dreams
a night
one billion dreams
a day
and waits -
for the time of knowing.
Spring '93
The beauty of this arcing thought is tied,
like a lover's back,
to the mouth.
I am not at all what I seem
I am an unimagineable creature
at dreams in the pool of life.
I prefer bone and sinew
to muscle and flesh
and to be a dancing skeleton.
You, lover, do not know what you have lost.
There is nothing like a solar penis
and nothing like setting water on fire.
Nothing like drowning in that love;
nothing like that sweet, burning death
and nothing like losing it.
Life is in the details
where sanity doesn't go.
Launch yourself, laughing
from the small things there.
The light waits at the edge of the world. The tall souls held by the belt of the world
drawn tight wait.
I'm not free, but I've learned
that struggle draws tight the web
the dessicated ghosts of mind itch painfully
and it's best to wait.
It was at once a denouement and apotheosis.
Some twilight words in blue and white
about the notes of a saxaphone; a corner patio;
the gardenia breeze through the billowing whiteness;
and a memory
forgetten and longing for intimacy.
What did happen to Icarus after?
Haven't you ever wondered?!
Each feather is like a memory
pressed into wax.
I have ridden thermals
toward many heights
and always, it is the same -
another feather pulls out,
and I glint, falling
through the dark
toward the smiling
grabbing feathers
as if they weren't common ideas
poised in the internal cosmos;
as if wisdom didn't cry out,
spiritually promiscuous in a meaning below language.
She sacralizes the profane
with the geometry of the soul.
I keep building wings. I keep trying.
Symbols
Spring 93
Do you like words, strung like pearls on the voice?
I suffer
from the existentials
and because of the full moon.
It seems simple
to stand around on the earth
and be happy
but for things that get in the way.
My emotions are overwhelming
other bodily functions
like eating, sleeping, crapping, and thinking.
Screaming at each other over the roar of the cosmos:
"Yes, it is quite beautiful, isn't it?
"Rather noisy, this - a lot like a waterfall."
In this time of full moon, clarity of thought
fades beneath its rushing sound in my ears
and clarity of emotion, of passion, will swell veins and stretch skin toward bursting.
I'll want to spend all day and night in bed;
licking and sucking
and kissing and thrusting
caressing stroking fondling
and fucking.
There is an appeal to darkness
in all I do to raise the light.
It always seems more ready to respond
to an appeal for it to lie heavy, to fall
like a blanket, smothering.
The dark burns well, brightly, joyously.
These appeals to the dark, this courting;
brings forth a lovemaking from the light
that penetrates beyond flesh like a solar penis.
I prefer amnesia
and forgetful sinking into the world below.
I have found the cosmos
where I sleep;
I see the Universe where I set my foot.
The earth transparent affords a view
of invisible stars briefly waking
one sleeping eye toward mine
before returning dreamword
Whydopensnotmakemarksunlessyoupres hard?
whydowomennotrespondunlessyourweight
liesuponthemfull?

Spring 93 Equinox
I cannot help the minute slip.
It's not as though I wish it.
It is a betrayal I cannot prevent;
a betrayal that is fatal
and from which I cannot die for my falsity,
every so often;
and from which
I ultimately die.
I cannot stop the full moon.
I can't help drowning in it
I can't help it
I can't wipe it out my eyes
I can't stop the full moon.
Weeks later I may come to
in bits and pieces of memory
my heart seems to gasp
but this is impossible it cannot be, not again
This time comes
and goes
then the next
and again.
Time
the full moon
on the tower.
I have this ringing in my ears
about the bloodless fascination.
Do you want to hear?
Come close, children;
and I'll speak to you
of the arcane realm
the mythological, the stupendous
the surreal the impossible
You seek the instant?!
the eternal?!
the right now all the time?!
I have taken it literally
the wine
Blind feeding
Those brave enough to endure hell
Those brave enough to understand
waiting for a new world
casting wide my net
catching larger sunlight.
A neat trick: but it's been tried before.
An oblique approach to blindness
or maybe an oblique approach that appears blind, but not to the approached.
People have gifts and curse them as plagues
The edges of the wound have no boundary
they are infinite in spacetime
dwell not here but elsewhere
they walk around in a body and breathe deep sighs
mourning their problems with memory.
My eyes erupt in light/and of course into light dissolve/like bolts eternally redissolving snagged
in the forever moment and I vanish from my own sight. And of course people say that is abstract
and difficult, but when has insanity ever been other? If a controlled atomic explosion is our age's
metaphor
These little explosions hurt.
These little thoughts split,
like our poets say,
to find the heaven in a wildflower
and eternity in a grain of sand.
These cracks in the detail.
These openings in the world
That which you see not; save you look to your mirror
Schrodinger looked.
The cat walked out the mirror.
Schrodinger stood on his head.
Flowers bloomed from of his feet.
His toes rained down like marbles.
The Universe tilted.
Cockeyed God wondered that a cat
should walk out a mirror.
The Hummingbirds all went "Om" with their wings.
Let's dance. The mystical pieces of my life don't make sense
how I am drawn toward up.
They don't seem to fit.
These changes scare me;
the tectonic shifts in the ground of being.
The earthquakes are coming
As flesh creaks open
around the third eye
Sleep rips as light vivifies
that which was dead
swells, engorged, open,
extended to touch the heart,
like the heart, of the sun.
I am walking on top
of something lethal
something coiled, something hidden
quiet; so it sleeps
quiet; not to much awareness.
something molten
Spring 93
Violence is a noble thing suborned
Radical Redundancy
Post Neo-Gothic

Touching God the dark underside
is like living in a bolt of lightning
Slender is the hope on fire
that drops slowly

...Viewed with some suspicion all that was obvious
The (blank) you couldn't see unless you looked in the mirror
There is food around; there are people. Everything is okay.
I've taken the cure. I'm immune.
I wander through people's hearts, that's where I live.
The dark weight of the earth is in her body.
If we were to go out to the stars and you were to grow tired, sleep, and disappear
into dream for lack of food and rest - I would wait for you - I know you would come back.
If we were to go out to the stars and I were to grow tired, ask to rest, to sleep,
to spend time in dreamtime - If I disappeared - would you, please, wait for me - I'll come back.
The bridal veil; her gloves; her gown, that whole wonderful garment spun from
one fabric, rests on an old sewing machine from the antique shop.
Her bouquet, red roses emerging from dessication and wilt, sleeps on old
cotton. Mother of Pearl grows for a wall. The wound is bound.
The asylum is clean. The cell is lit. The sanitorium is quiet, the cloister
empty, save for one soul hard at liberating.
We are hanging out on this planet;
and the tide of aeons laps at its shore.
All these souls crowd in on this one point.
We are playing this game with God the Starmaker at the edge of the Universe.
We dare one another; we commit ourselves to, and commit, intolerable acts.
We are outrageous, God the Starmaker is silent. Is he outraged? Mortified?
Amused? All we know is that he is silent.
I guess I'm atoning for sins
real or imagined.
Spring 93
My heart flares up
like the sun trying to light itself
like a god trying to catch its breath
and failing to understand
Spring 93
There is no doubt
I am not what I appear to be.
There is a dark pool;
at least I think it's a pool.
It came from somewhere-and I am a diver.
My whole life is a metaphor.
Maybe I'm a werewolf, or a dreaming dog beside that pool.
Spring 93
All the women I have ever known
have left greater or lesser marks on me.
You can't see them, but they breathe
some more kind of jagged air.
Lately I've noticed how hungry people are.
How like pirahnas;
how like the vampire ghosts,
as if tasting the possibility of a larger meal,
they rip and gouge holes
in the beautiful silver body,
and dart away, vanishing.
How hungry and afraid they must be.
You seek not to be more than human it is enough to flounder in emotion,
to live a limited life, never beyond its' edges.
Though I have gazed for hours upon this sun
and turn away now; it still burns brightly for others.
God will rush to you when you step out of that.
You may not recognize him
he may burn you he may freeze you
he may be a troll he may be a spider, crouching or waiting.
You may think, or feel, that you are in hell
while you are in heaven.
You may be the only black speck on a white plain
aware of yourself alone from above and afar
for a moment
before turning from God to survival,
to the inside of that limit, the human experience.
What is this writhing?
From what do I twist,
as if impaled?
Only the knowledge that
...
And the onset of adulthood
with its permanent, ecstatic...
I want to speak in that tongue -
You know the one -
the one unlawful to utter.
This world's fabric -
this air intagible cannot stand it
(just babbling)I want to read that book-
you know the one, filled with the words
like the food of a god
I open to page nought
and am blinded by their beauty
It
thought that
if it engendered the proper perception
it the world would disappear
enabling it to see the Universe
as it really is was.