|Jezioro Rusałka, Poznan, April, 2018|
Looked at in a certain light
he saw the walking bones of mankind disappear.
Looked at in another light he saw the flesh upon the bones
as a unique contrast or animation which created
an abstract void or disappearing dancing bone.
— Wilson Harris, BLACK MARSDEN (1972)
to venture an inversion seemingly impolite
black matter lives... traveling toward us...
black metaphor matters...
faster and more ghostly than the speed of light,
the inverse causal frequency
--while the physicists speaks of the arrow of time,
their sin is missing the point
ἁμαρτία -- missing the mark --
for I speak of the stutter and glide of time
Sound Splays Entering the Eye of the Needle
for fire more than water repeats no path
(or there is no path)
in fact, none of the traditional elements go askew,
they cling, perhaps via entropy
to a mind-boggling stasis (as if I knew --
(the waves of the ocean we see
don't deliver deep-sea molecules of h20
to shore, as we'd like to think -- & I
asked Chas Whittaker: did
we ever leave Buffalo?
Repeating the unanswered question
to Raven and Karolina
on the banks of the Warta River
because we are made of so much water
Is that why we cohere?
Because we go nowhere?
that language generates difference alone
challenges surfaces that maintain...
words. yes and no. but I won't say them. sounds.
but not to play them. when they play you.
the result is aphoria of the tongue, fingers, eyes
and the mind's sphere hung on naming correctly
that which stops it's turning, goes nowhere.
let me feel the furthest star burst
and reveal inward forms anew
let the heart valve the deeps
there will be just you, reading the anecdote,
absorption atypical of greatest care,
which is love seen with disinterest
and caress, the reliable inner ASMR
no theory of improvisation or composition
without reversal. rehearsal only in dreams.
where responsibility's terminal story
begins, the beguine, bangs PD,
cuts out of class the collaged track,
remixes the whack attack
into traces of Haitian intuition...
guess where that's at... earth trembles
even the palms seem to be swaying
mental palms leaves drip with
fine wines of autogenic jazz lines
as the rimes be saying these days
perforated leak the future into
the origins tricking down the words
down, into your ditty-bag
into your ocular cones, into
your vast arrays, your Woodhenge of Saint Louis,
into the esaume of the Kogi , the node of gold tied
black threaded across gold, to link the memory
of the rivers to the dark disc disappearance
that left the hold of God upon time
as a direction that stings, the remorse,
the apple in the garden defined
the gold of your most generous emotions
spread before the human desert of drives
splattered before oceans
Tiamat slam-dunks and pays you in mountains,
--you have yourself here a piece broken off
a stone within which the soul stolen from--
where-from healing waters filter, thrive,
--so pay it forward in great lakes rather of love
for the creation falls beyond stagnation
and less one braggart swaggart like me
-- or someone I imagine more (dis) advantaged --
in these bubbles of suburbs
godless after Sumerian swing took off
the heads of the Pyramids
leaving you countless waves
in search of author, author, author, please,
please, upload the applause,
torrent file Hammurabic new laws,
grant the false leaders wise mental leaves
from this idiotic campaign of champagne and blood,
author, author please upload the applause, pass the apple sauce,
Gates, put your mouths where the money
replaces hate from the state for the admiration of the meek
who wait not inheritance but plant seeds
hidden from their grief in secret gardens. don't complain.
drain the indifference swamp.
ask your sister about more than What's App.
ask your brother whose brother is whose, is yours
and save your fingers for the next poem.
chocolate, magnesium, inulin... need I say more?
should I carry on? what have you to say
less bitter. less engorged on cynical pessimistic dither?
what you've got but lost paradise, chained,
and you to rock?
for Pēteris Cedriņš despite all that
and despite Aldington's dung heap, anyone's nationalism
for Chris Barron's vigilance, and by way of
ludic buddhas array in golden syllabic possibles
raindance orders of trans-ressurection
without fables of figurative rainbows in political border goblins'
fettered gloom of not being able to exercise jaws
for proper tearing limbs perhaps joined to animal
limbic memory: go instead using your near to human eyes
for star-gazing into different points for the glory
of your strength is to climb high in your mind to peaks
where other earthly creatures are too weak to travel
and marvel first before plucking feather for inscription
and write it up instead of down for the eyes to rise
on the spirit of the words rather than this bitter slamming
of everything mediocre with your blunted hammers
for no reason other than sounding correct and good
before your court of lesser resolve and greater resentment still.
we, if not designed, were never built
for what those values value and if we were
then we know how to mint new coin
with deeper love and gentler impressions of the divine.
__ and he? who was he staring into the hollow eye-holes
of his father's skull
before dawned the recognition
the mother of hilarity
spawned the spurned genius
of an unearned promise?
what devil wriggles in a heap of ashes
and what blows of memory repel
confidence in society, so the animal precarity
weapons forth smiles so unhappy
__ and what did the abyss, gazing long back
venture in reply but an inverted writing
of an already backward scripture intoning
the place of a distant charity smothered in the stars
as if dead diamonds, the inedible silver of industry well-wrought,
would crown the ideas with the aura of idealism...
clever, yet barren seedless imposter of the heavenly flower
slaloming down the stem beckons
what powers be given to words by books, I wonder,
beyond the simple sponsorship (censorship)
of some collective entity?
what compelled writing to be carved first?
hath been there any book there
unrelated to the book that is everywhere and nowhere,
the book not made of hands?
dear auditory hallucinogens, spirit catcher of Kali, orators of memory,
coders for the data complex coin,
sellers of vintage vinyl collectors lps:
Recordings can remember the order of events
provided the events happen linearly
or recordings must remember events
that happen without any actual linearity
but which fall out in time
configures to appear
consecutive (art is needed to reveal the illusion)
which seems to be how events come together in memory anyway
--we being struck from all sides by
multiple time arrows--
or governed by one constant vector --
hung on the Tau, corpse left to dry
recurs (mixes the fresh
with the salt waters)
manages the event
They return there anyway
worth competing for:
her suitcase down the street or anyone's my suitcase
rolling down the street somewhere anywhere
it's me rolling down the street the carrier of nobody's
belongings in particular going anywhere you can name
no image of poets, no pictures of poems, no romance
no romance about poets until modernism flaunts the camera
boasts the silents black and white traums
made those untouchable surfaces almost lickable
watch them frozen in headlight fawns
conspire to break you in cold sweat
galvanize desire wired now to click
bait and switch the ash almost cash
like johnny in the pocket cheats
keats or shelley out of kubla kahn
deliberately getting it wrong
no romance about image of poets
before the emergence of the MI complex
drafted the laughter of innocents
into permanent undeclared war
and olson spoke through any one lion
feasted upon the blood-washed mirror
of self-spitting self-splitting
image of post-oedipal heretical
would be wannabees
putting on display the plays of eliot
for the age demanded it all
no romance held my mind for emily dickinson's picture
nor daguerrreo of dante or whitman the type
face alone words flickered flames in the nerves
burning the things known of in brands of meleager
and i never needed to see the expert dangler
of cigarettes or to see them around the bourgeois
parisian cafes doing nothing and getting nothing from it
but the option to dictate who's who later
from what photographer made them famous
i read the worlds of carl sanders
and langston hughes, claude mackay, kaufman
before ever I saw them just the voices
of many people heard clearly in songs
coming out of the rickety car radio
those voices nameless yet those voices
transparent souls inside the souls
pulling angels out of thin air
those voices nameless yet those voices/vectors
transparent inside the soul
inside the unsold/pulling angels of thin air/ where did they go?
my stars! they disappeared one night/ they turned the corner/
round the door/ dropped over events horizons/
the whisper reaching/ who it ever is
was me no longer/
aimless kingfisher issues no rings on rings/
but names within names stretch from midnight on/
in who's ears those ears your ears ours
silvery sarah, billie's cloud
Europeans were not exactly searching for their roots
down there, were they?
but then again, who can say?
maybe the Hyena, maybe the Lion
runs the blood of the European
they safari for, self soul seeking.
Is the art of translation to leave out the things
people don't want to hear in favor of business as usual?
the art of who is allowed to be an artist
who can change the grammar
and question without marks
who can turn the map upside down
with their own feet, walking the world
|Photo from globe-trotter Kunda Ac, in Chile!|
always amazing photos and true stories of travel
melatonin on my mind. serotonin.tuning tones in time.
the God enzyme. the voice of rain wrinkling the skies
and the skid of the skater the grinding wheels of the tram
the fish doesn't drink the water my child wonders
why I ask sillier questions of the clouds adrift in dissolve
the barriers between syllables join molecules hands in air
as freedom falls up the spiral stairs
and meets Hanuman opening his chest in hope
meaning is elsewhere, but I'd like to go there, bring some back here, from the beyond into lawless lands where theft called trade sharpens the blade and blunts the mind of my children
truth is like love in that you know you know you want to know and like love in that you turn away from eyes that need you and you turn truth into the hidden, the hidden away depths, the eyes in plain sight, the unspeakable and truth is the civilization likes the cactus but pulls off the quills,
civilization puts proof into pills and gambles language of persuasion, takes kitty to the the vet to rip of the the claws and leave the doors open when we're choking to death on chemical clouds,
truth just got branded and bandaged in a bland package stuffed into culture
the bird, the word that art ate up, the paradise of vultures, birds themselves, unknowingly
Did thorns come first?
Did thorns come
With Guyanese/West Indian limbo that cleavage is a fact and the rise of the imaginative arts has occurred in the face of long held intellectual and legal suspicion. Therefore the rise of the poet or artist incurs a gamble of the soul which is symbolized in the trickster (the spider or anancy configuration). It is this element of “tricksterdom” that creates an individual and personal risk absolutely foreign to the conventional sanction of an Old Tribal World: a risk which indentifies him (the artist) with the submerged authority of dispossessed peoples but requires of him, in the same token, alchemic resources to conceal, as well as elaborate, a far-reaching order of the imagination which, since it is suspect, could draw upon him a crushing burden of censorship in economic or political terms. And it is here, I believe, in this ambivalent gateway—this gamble of the soul—that there emerges the hope for a profoundly compassionate society committed to freedom within a creative scale that transforms ancient fears and deprivations."
between memory & forgetting, falls, like the lash
of the eye turning into the mirror
the lakes make of the skies
divulging inward earths upon terra
firma, signed beneath seals
revealed the shadowy unique
ever terminal in the numerals
of design, dassein, web-weary
which I resign to you, most beyond,
of any desiring joy, to form
in silence those tones surrounding
the boundaries of every line.
i write in truth in faith
while the earth to us seems lost
and the sky crushed
by the cost of conquest
of the bum rush to limbo
the thread i have
but lost to you
such fevers, they give
water is what her
water made, the earth
visible to the sky
beneath her feet, cosmo-
graph as inversion,
the well behind
the eyes alpha
For Carlyle Reedy
it's a balancing act
what page was that?
(for the hounds,
music for the angelic)
i am a fool who imagines himself
|Peformance at Tłusta Langusta, Poznan|
"Sauver les phénomènes, c'est les sauver là où ils ont lieu et là où ils ont leur lieu"