the jar beneath the star artaud foresaw/as having already exploded

the jar beneath the star artaud foresaw/as having already exploded

it was cruelty to laugh at, not with, the man laughing at cruelty itself
he saw the blink and black-out, the thread consciousness was not, but must
evolve out from...it was like the golden lid of a wandering jar.
where-ever the lid was placed, the jar would form, beneath it,
no matter what size, perfectly fit, screwed tight
and each jar beneath it like a drop of transparency,
the jar always empty, the whole star, his star
the collapsing and rising foal...

in the vivid looms of consciousness,
the thread of not-seeing, not-feeling, not-perceiving,
the binary and bipolar gloom --so-called--
is repeatedly woven, as the unwoven
or the unweaving, Penelope's trick
against these vulgar suitors of singular Time

her hand is woven into the scarf, the glove
her eyes are woven into the shroud
her breasts are woven into the dress
memory of the flesh wears

i feel i know well now Penelope's loom
weaving and unweaving the cloth,
seeding and salting the earth of thought by turns,
doubting and redoubting death's shroud
until my true love, my truth, comes home...
I could call her Odysseeus.
Fair and red and blond at her mons.

Am I not seeing blindly like Tiresias,
inverted, converted, the liver
of Prometheus, whose day chained
to the rock of Poznan
is only slightly unlike nightmare?
while somehwere on the steppe
sun shines newly on the next foal
of Przewalski's horses

Poznań, 10 march 09