Recognition of Space
1
I am one
who is afraid
of flying.
When I am born,
it is of a legacy,
of a dream
wrought in the imagination
of the window waves.
I am One
Without Myself,
a pig in a blanket
of solitude;
A God
within a demi-
monde.
A man
on the water.
2
I unwrap
my pieces into a cloth
from which I dangle
into the night
like a child
escaping from
Daddy.
I am born
everyday that I die.
I must speak,
I must move.
3
I am a legacy,
of a legacy,
from the sea
and beyond
the sea.
4
But who will listen
to a dream?
Last time one of Them
came around,
we incorporated Him
into the System.
And so it's not a matter
of listening any longer--
I will sing of trees,
and of blossoming
buildings
reaching up
to fuck the sky.
5
I am one
who is afraid of crying
loud enough so that
anyone
could ever listen.
When I die,
I feel squares of concrete
screaming in my bones.
I trip in a car,
one block after another,
until it takes me
to where I forgot
I wanted to go.
I am One
Within Myself,
a fish
in a school
of fish;
a sea
that can never make
an unclouded sound.
A rock
within the swaying
break of the earth.
6
I wrap
myself in sheets
in order to preserve
this order of the sun
that has issued forth
from the bellies
of the drums
of the dirt.
I die
every night
that I live.
I must sink,
I must
stop.
7
This peak is climbing me
up up and into the wind
seeping through the space,
tossing the duds on the line
to a smooth dreamy dance.
I feel such gravity
that I feel as one who flies.
The strict buildings
move into the clouds,
creation of man
and sky.
This earth and this sea
within me
makes me tremble in ecstacy--
or is it fear--
at the sight of the sunmoon
rising down
down
against the windows,
just as the darkness
forms into
a
tear.
Cosmogony
I
The eye sets
matter in motion,
desiring all it alights
to be as it is,
as it was, as it ever will be--
a moving likeness of eternity.
Rooted in all things,
standing infinite,
alone,
riding the waves of chaos,
forming structures that struggle
to be what they are.
Time is a space
bound by necessity,
by the messianic rising out of sea-bed
to face old death
in the bloody freshness
of new day.
II
But what of what is not
of vision, of imagined
projection of future?
What of the moments
that might have been,
that were not chosen?
These possibilities engrave
the skin of now
with tragic silence,
filling wet, slapping mouths
with emptiness
that can never be touched.
Endings thus become
beginnings,
endless twistings
around a point,
a drop of solitude pointing,
falling back to meaninglessness.
III
When we fucked
she said
I thought I was flying.
I think of holy war,
collision of earth and water,
destroying, creating.
We watch ourselves,
mouths breaking apart
in terrified hunger
as we execute the duty of instinct.
This is what we can do, together,
this is where we will go, together.
The sense of falling.
The scents of rage.
Note to God
Am I wrong to desire
more than who I am?
Is this constant sense
of failure
a rock
in the stream,
diverting water
from the path I would take?
The dust of our past
draws my skin to dryness;
indeed, my tongue is captured
by the moon of your silences.
So how can I continue
to play these everyday chords
when my essence screams
with the eternal infernal emptiness
of perfection?
I wish to be baptized
in the name of Nothing,
so that none may hold onto me.
Never
again will I allow you to love me,
to enwrap me in the breaking waves
of your hair as I struggle to under-
stand; no, I will not live
again. Living safely
is living dying.
You left me;
you will leave me forever
until my land is submerged
from the blows of my sand
trying to make your ocean see.
So must I leave you,
withdrawing into the thick warmth
of solitude,
refusing to accept the cool strokes
of memory.
I will no longer listen
to the sounds of distant dreams,
far-away thunder,
directed claps of faceless applause.
I will leave this sacred space
and look for some comfort
with the pigs.
Reincarnation
Well, it all began
as a lotus
in some god's belly button--
or shall I say continued,
the twining lines
based on the spreading sheets
of connecting universe
(they danced parallel
until one fell into its own
force of desire).
And so here forth I rise,
the product of a hairy,
green imagination.
(The scents of flame
winding into a window
from which he gazed
back into her space
for one
last time)
I plan to extend
the stay of the tower
so that I may drive
the last drop
into the breaches
of the upper atmosphere.
I wish to escape this earthy
heaviness.
Molecular binaries
branch out like highways
into emptiness,
and I feel the poison
of concrete in my cells.
But I must continue building
this mount of illusion
because I cannot afford
to fall again.
(in other words,
I am alone,
and I am alone,
and no black hole
can make me whole again.)
The clouds birth tears
upon my shoulders
as I break through
toward that further calm
of a solitary vision.
(
This is my horizon,
these are my lips,
and I can only breathe
and I can only breathe,
look,
how my shadow gasps
in the circles of a star
)
.
Integration
Once upon a time
The world opened up
So that the only voice that sang
On the page was death.
The clamor of a thing
Resonates soundly
Against its own skin
When there is naught else
but space.
And thus began
And beget the process
Of enfolding.
He learned the ways
Of the salty pump, the sweaty pimp,
The preacher and the pen,
And he listened
To the wind blowing
Him mad sentences of ecstasy—
All in order
To escape the divine disorder
That came out anyway,
Swallowing him like a whale
Before spitting him out again.
Towers rose, lighted,
Like myths
Before the sun.
Amplified, the electric
Solo launched:
I can only this moment
Live, meeting place
Of the eternal,
The face of the earth
I wander,
Taking new delight
Upon each found crevice, yes,
For I know
What doesn’t lie beneath.
Finally, he finished
And he returned
To the land
That had been waiting, spread
Open like a mask
To take him in
And crush him
Until he surrendered his tongue
Back to the sky.
The end.
You Taught Me How to Eat
You taught me how to eat
by growing me to hunger.
You drifted by, fins spread,
until I was man enough to frighten you.
fishing fingers,
crossing mouths,
we have broken apart,
and now you are gone.
You split in the rebirth of a sun.
I reeled on the beach of time,
swollen with new breath.
I chased your memory with wine.
Now I walk the earth
as god swam the sea.
I loved one fish
to feed myself.
Ministering the Contact
Let’s begin with the particles:
the plastic form of balance
upon which lay, scattered
before our stations
like haphazard explications,
the vehicles of a necessary poison.
What, Uncle Albert, can’t you clear
the transmission?
We’re getting smashed
because we’ve got something to say
that we have not learned yet
how to think.
But that’s just the local news;
Word has it that God
has come again;
indeed, that he’s been fucking
around the earth like a satellite
on the course to apocalypse.
The implications are manifest.
Sacredness is a curse
that cannot be transcended.
So thus, we must grow higher
until we are so heavy
with the burden of our own life
that we are forced to realize that we are floating
each alone in an infinite universe.
We’re speaking the same language
now, at least.
So thus, you understand that I speak
of tables and of containers bestride
them and of a constant lifting
beyond that surface that empties
then into separate stomachs.
We are drinking in these germs together,
and who will be sick,
and who will pass out,
and who will rise,
their heads on fire
to outstrip the sun?
Tree (Re: Vision)
My limbs sing in the air
of fire,
of a burning infinity
of universe
that coils into heat—
and when it cools
it sizzles on the street
crackling beneath the roots
forming the uniform
of all Things--
ain’t tit what you taut me
hot momma?.
Two by one:
note the main Thrust
of the Structure.
Keep Him occupied.
The energy of my span
wrinkles the past into my skin.
The future lies in my arms
and I fuck her slowly,
firmly, filling her
with the current
of my web of voices,
until she grows full
and is taken away by gravity
to bear life somewhere else.
Before such a Thing,
how can One manage
the thick sap of inner struggle
in a solitary confinement
of a real world?
But such thoughts begin to burn
away into the façade
of energy
Alert Head command:
the flood has commenced.
Prepare to die.
We’ll meet again later
and do dinner.
A Numinous Movement in the West
I. Intro: Penile Implantations
It was a world of suffering,
I thought, watching
the crew from a window
marching from day to night
with numbers stamped
on their foreheads
like produce of a machine
fueled by money.
Captain Kirk!
I canna control it
any longer!
The drudges always break
just when you could use them
to save your own life.
II. Body: Synthetic Shields
A Famous scientist Holds
that the Universal Ether bears
vital Germs,
which, impinging upon
a Dead World
would bring Life to it.
--The Frontier in American History {capitalization by editor}
Sometime in the night
of an 11th or somesuch figure
came the aliens
baring gifts
of war.
There was nothing I could do,
once the cradle of the System
was nailed down.
I decided I’d have to take the hit,
and hope there’d be escape
in the burning wake.
But They could see
into the sea of sleep;
They hunted me Down,
to the roots of my DNA,
until I could no longer refuse
to accept their level of the story.
III. Conclusion: Forest Nightmares
Will it be an affluent Union,
this Bridge
in the gaps of space-time,
channeled by the freckles
of the sun?
Can such skinned bear
the stress of awareness?
Or will we fall back
to fighting
amongst what we see?
Odo watches my face,
but remains unassertive,
taking my orders
as long as they fit
into the structure of society.
IV. Synopsis: Perpetuation
Here the visions parted.
Leto said: Remove your suit mask, father.
The Preacher obeyed.
--Children of Dune (spaces between lines added)
The line must be continued
so I have to run a bypass
at the next available encounter.
We will be satisfied.
We will be fulfilled.
We will Get Our Way.
I must learn to give
Them what They want.
I must learn to hold Nothing
back. I must learn to burn,
I must learn to live.
Variations of a Drone in the Empty Sky-Plane
/..
I’ve been thinking a lot
lately—about the Presences
and all the terrifying Beauties
of the Moment.
Being here, watching my face
shadowed in the reflection
of the sun in the glass. I see
the cities, the lights burning
like liquid concrete
into screams of green-red-stop
lights telling me when
to go.
To keep going
I’ve been smoking cigarettes
even though I hate them
for the damage they do to my
public image, let’s say,
Just as something to do,
another Way Out,
another one of those Zen-Tantric-
Become the One Bible stories,
waving my stub in the wind
as if I were writing myself
into flame.
Does this make
sense? Or does sense make
the vivid wrenching dream
of blood and wrath
that raids our Beginning Systems
with Recollection Viruses? It is unimportant,
perhaps, that it is raining
like delicate steel drummers
upon the fascist metal overhangings
over dorm-Cell windows,
or that it is 4:38 AM,
or that I am falling,
that I’ve been spinning
Out of my Self and Into a Myth
that’s writing itself into my
computer wall even now
as we speak like strangers
meeting in the dream realm
of a bad dream.
..\..
Starting over begins the making
of Sense. Change, eruption,
spilling out onto sheets
and then laying low, chilling out
for a while before doing it again,
hopefully better this time,
hopefully farther, higher, bigger,
better. We’re Capitalists
on the Inside. We’re down
and we’ve gone on trips enough times
so that we know what it’s like
to be Alien.
It’s thus possible to be both
negative and positive
at once. It’s a simple equation
of balance, of a focusing
upon the space
of a breath.
Puff! You’re gone
and then when you come
back down, it’s a little bit different,
a little bit more heavy
with reality.
She’ll lay
like a toasty pumpernickel loaf
on that surface of the bed,
pushing up
the space between you
until you feel lost
in the gravity of Your Own Place.
It’s the Hang Out
they’re looking for;
make sure you don’t stick out
too much.
..\..\Headquarters
Looks like He’s arrived
at the beginning,
and filtered to the end
like a stream,
He puts us into Place.
There’s no time here;
so of course there’s no
Us. So let the Translator say:
When He looks in the Eye
the World is Dismembered
into the fractionless State
of Eternity.
(He places the Orders
on the phone
to the Delivery Place,
and He takes the Biggest Hits
of all Time when the going
gets rough).
And so He is Here,
and He is Now,
and He
is Going
to take a piss.
..\..\headquarters\BallOunces
Understanding begins to get the Better
of you, once He finally gets you alone,
in the Reflection.
It always comes just when you thought
it was
moving to a different location.
I been going off
like a dimestore gun fucker,
and I guess you deserve a break.
..\headquarters\ballounces\Moral_Of_The_Story
Here’s the filler
that years of interpreting
the connotations that meaningless
inactive moments
have argued into being.
here’s the bastard
of a continuum
of Mistakes
that Create Beauty
out of meaningless moments.
heres that fucker
heres that mother/
father breed of a moment
that is meaningless.
Listen to the Milky
Extension of Silence.
We Will Sing