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| night on earth, jim jarmusch |
here come the thrashers, the blind-scaping... nash, nash, nash
how to escape the evolving helter skelter of one's times and the ceaseless Big Brother Weather updates from the Polish Orwellian Central committee, red alert storm warnings of lightening thunderstorms, advice to stay inside,
do not take shelter under trees, etc etc (what trees?)
to live in the free-floating islands called cities the (in)communicative drift of internets unraveling deep space dust against tranquility trellis baffling babylon with lucidity, calm, distance
-- and to have lived in the suburb of Berlin called Poznan or in the vague suburb of Poznan called Berlin -- and travel the mental wires between the vardun of the imaginary chiasmus, migratory paths once again between the two trees, then the next two trees between them, we will have hewn with memory the passage for the Rom all the way to Andalusia
here I will insert, jarring the frame, the poem, written in May, 2019 rather, en route to play the DYM Festival in Santok, near Gorzow Wielkopolski, where the poet-singer Papusza lived once, after the double-exile (forced as the Gypsies were into sedentary city boxes, Papusza Papusza -- who was also subject of a kris & declared pikie, her crime based on trumped-up charges she revealed the "codex" of the Romani language to Polish authorities -- a betrayal of her people, they said, when it was actually Jerzy Ficowski who did it all on his own by publishing a glossary within a book of her poetry in his translation)
leaving from the west side station, Dworzec Letni, Poznan, aka
Kaiser Station, formerly used exclusively by nobility when Wilhelm II and
retinue would visit for vacations
but this time it's not the coal-guzzler locomotive but the modern
"tabour" & me with my band of invisible mental gypsies flying
still under the radar of the blocks & dish antennae
driven into the interstitial internal exile, with our relations: deer, fox,
beetles, crack in the cement bunkers where something vegetal
stubborn & rupestral chucks up a stalk of life, moving onward to
(lines written between line of the text)
of the wars behind the Festung shambles in rows, rubbles,
where some lingering
Gorzów Wielkopolska
to the Polish Rome of the shackled down Gitanos
bitter vinegar imaginary of zyklon B some souls still burn
with final eyes blinking
escaping into
submarine dreams open the hatch to new War for the MIC
close my eyes again, wishing it away, and with the rush of
the cinematic windows
the train awakens me in the forest that itself walks like tall
trees my Gypsies stand
fir and spruce waves and witness to the bulldozers
if this is dreaming
it's very oddly cursive after all typically
looking out over the raw earth gutted for developments,
logs
piled for commerce,
civilization
breezing impotently through my hair, running like a train
by the lakes we declare we will be beavers of our own trees
the keepers of the stillness of our own lakes we declare
where the waves
reciting our fishy erudition & cacophonous genealogy
full of
wandering go the ripples, these are the poems of peoples cross-currents
everywhere in hydrogen gambling through several stars &
we few frail meteorites
fallen in a splash
within hearing. the form of the ear that cups the ripples
otherwise it's only muteness that sings the overtone
ventilation's hidden incantation
at the rebirth of the magnetosphere surrounding earth within
the engine
while the greater
blackness of energy mouths the contrary mantra of inexistence
maintaining the maniacal threads of hypocritical
civilizations & suicidal life-forms
self-contradicting in the hells personal dynamos --
LOOK!
the forest says,
Look, we are looking through you with Pinocchio eyes every
limb
& trunk severed
pine-eye, the forest full of laughing silence,
doe-eyes of the mare,
the marbly stare of our totem, of the lynx, peering through
the leaves, the living bush preening itself like a cat rolling over in
snow, or the throw of dice making words
stick by chance to the paper, to the mouth of the speakeruntil I am jolted awake just by equal chance as the train
arrives in Santok
and as if by a dream command, reality ensues
and now, 12
hours and several dance-floors later
there is no return train for another 4.5 hours,
on Sunday, with nothing open in the Polish Rome of the
Gitanos
I sit editing over
my lonely mishap fantasy journals shredded with truths waiting in the extreme normalcy of Orlen petrol station drinking over-priced coffee because it's too cold and windy
to sit outside. & of course there's plenty of good pop music to inspire
lonely fantasies of escaping which I share with the workers in the station,
the modern petrol station with iTunes and Spotify & my habit of making up
lyrics "food for life, can you be, food for life, fool as I
am, for life, blurted blue out of the sky split open by the darkness desiring to pair with it's own alternating opposite, it's
witness
baby, baby can you be my soul? the song seems to sing
and I try to be some soul, I cry, what I'm trying to be
Go, go, go baby, do your crazy math
Hello new words, goodbye, goodbye
I will never speak you againMay 19, 20
Onward, back to Berlin, the post-postwar Berlin,
freedom to live is a split infinitive binary and moody joyeux born of one surround sound paramecial or piecemeal membrane bouncing the wizardry from oz to osmosis
Berlin, Neukoln/Kreuzberg/ Mitte/ in transit, all over/ May 28 until June 2, notes scattered,
a deck pharos-light cleopatrick tarot cards, fanned or passed to hundreds of hands, back and forth,
language itself, this weather-worn & dog-eared effect, scattered notes, gathered
the screen lights your face so people actually see you typing out
your type, your aura secondaire, bristling with notions, the screen
reveals the scene inverse Diana was peeping upon
the veil over your mind the hologram of burdened desire
the lady pulling on her socks and restoring
her shoes & re-shoeing her skirt hikes up revealing her thighs and calves
your type, your aura secondaire, bristling with notions, the screen
reveals the scene inverse Diana was peeping upon
the veil over your mind the hologram of burdened desire
the lady pulling on her socks and restoring
her shoes & re-shoeing her skirt hikes up revealing her thighs and calves
revealing my eyes listening to all the people speaking mixed baroquen
English and Germangly Turkish and being unable to grasp
the idea that one cannot grasp it (elusive context) anyway no matter what language
the idea that one cannot grasp it (elusive context) anyway no matter what language
and what literature is. seems. becomes. an old form replaced
by cinema while in both
the kinks into truth are in the details accidentally espied
like the Turkish girls walking arm in arm or with their mother's aunts
one only imagines they speak about potential suitors
you have to stay with things, walk arm in arm, with immediacy
like the Turkish girls walking arm in arm or with their mother's aunts
one only imagines they speak about potential suitors
you have to stay with things, walk arm in arm, with immediacy
& like the Turkish girls, around another Ecke, walking arm in arm again, this time
with their grandmother's aunts or those who have the new husband in the first years still with the
slick dark brilliantine hair fades in the zoomed style some bit of name tagged in the nape of
the neck, the friend pushing himself the pram in those first years before something takes him
away, a narrative we don't know about but you have to stay with things there
unfolding the moss & sweet williams and the whirring ambulance that scrape slash of the kebab as
it turns this peppery odor creating the hunger you don't really have, smell the
Jasmine flowers hear the suitcase wheels and the French girls on their bikes as
they discuss this city they don't need to hate, these two fishermen on the edge
of the canal, with poles tipped in florescent green lights like antennae over the canal
the grunting of swans disturbed in the floating sleep by the techno live-coding camp party for the Maria Himmelfahrt, the same old drunken thuds and
their cigarette buds in the scuro drifting like fireflies almost extinct
in the forest Glen on the other side of the water rippling...
all along the Paul Lincke Ufer it's only dweebie forever foreigners that cruise the margins
when its
another day the rain falls on Sylvio's (camper) caravan, he's feeding his friend's dog -- epxlains how his droogie in hospital was hit by a car while drunk -- and heavily on the canal there
are millions of driokwrs (droplets) to see but without any umbrella I run now, quasi
drenched by inches miles of rain above me not in itself wet because water isn't
wet yet and the Turkish girl in hijab the couple she is with they crouch under cover of green
overhang, looking out on the water without any rush regrets or rumbles, waters
is watching itself escape endlessly... watching the wave propagations, maybe
... the freedom, so random, so still
-- still cool, still abiding -- everywhere around that energy of every single body being ready for
summer to jam and the burst of pollen through the nasal spasm the bee and
hoverfly the titmouse & sparrow wiggling through narrow cracks in the walls --
There are no things really. Things are clusters, maybe,
aggregates, amalgam of elementals maybe -- but things, as we call them, remain
illusory by-products. The body is an ecstasy of energy. Movement makes things
into an ecstasy of energy. One must or need only open the door to feel this
ecstasy of energy. And once one goes out or comes into this ecstasy there is
nothing that stops anything from going everywhere. You may say the skin
contains the body & limits it to its flesh but every fibre of muscle and
nerve and bone tissue is in flight and moves in this ecstasy of energy that
even sweeps through sleep wide awake with metamorphic intentions that
brainwaves barely notice at all. How can this be? We must wonder but we don't
think about it most of the time because we are all serving this flow of energy
24 on 7. Everything we do is engaged in furthering this cosmological rippling of
waves running across one another. Who can calculate all the gazes and flashes if the eyes?
the club called Loophole and all the scratches on the walls, how many
dervish fingers filing nails
determined graffitists anti-de-featists making freaky
grooves... our concerts and conversations mix with the passage of various languages -- my favorite pre-occupation -- listening and dreaming narratives -- more potential than real mostly -- never-ending surf and collide, pull and rush --
**
when she throws her loving drunken arms
around you at midnight
when the last train
is still in sight
and only then
when we are sure
we will forget
we will indeed forget
that we have need
of even this moment
fed upon being unable
to resist loving blindly
any isolate cloud
drifting across the desert sky
at one of the Ringbahn stations
where they heap sands
around you at midnight
when the last train
is still in sight
and only then
when we are sure
we will forget
we will indeed forget
that we have need
of even this moment
fed upon being unable
to resist loving blindly
any isolate cloud
drifting across the desert sky
at one of the Ringbahn stations
where they heap sands
into granular hills
to ship later to desert
construction sites
to ship later to desert
construction sites
combining
corruption and design
*
now after hours delayed finally on the bus in mind I find the past
the scent of fresh wild rukola growing through grooves in the concretely at the Sudkreuz Berlin station pungent as the babble of voices of the Poles & Croatians, Georgians
now after hours delayed finally on the bus in mind I find the past
the scent of fresh wild rukola growing through grooves in the concretely at the Sudkreuz Berlin station pungent as the babble of voices of the Poles & Croatians, Georgians
drifting in the vape and cigarettes of permanent transition
which I wave away from my face in continual prayer
press freedom is being destroyed yes
but the less known freedom of other creatures
known even lesser, remains
collapsing into the liquid anthropocene
without any wave of recognition
perhaps for the better
to walk unknown
*
freedom to live is a split infinitive binary and moody
joyeux
born of one surround sound paramicial or piecemeal membrane
bouncing the wizardry from oz to osmosis. freedom is
the bindweed
permaculturally specific to a fence that does not require
vines but gets them anyway because of integrity of composition, staying power. freedom
is one life to live within ever more moving leaves, concept set, venn
hexes, carved on your life tree, swivelling blisters from bliss to
blisters my sisters, you dangling
blossoms, you thoughtless bastards. you -- made of many cells -- you -- organ within an invisible extension, none at all.and despite all that there is ever and anon a limit and
withdrawal from the edge of freedom as if it's condition depended on drawing a
line it should surpass by stepping first backwards before the leap into something
largely nameless. this is the freedom of freedom: to not want nor care over
much for itself. perhaps it is also vaguely some form of respect traversed by
motionless. calm. position. vibration. scintillation. the awareness that
there is nothing really absolutely necessary. whereas hunting or being hunted
brings about a slavery and binding to a culture and it is capitalism that grows the
false hungers. one freedom cobbles coattails cranial cases and fabricates prams,
basinets and identity preschools for many others. graduate into the perfectly
polymorphous potentially polyamorous detachment from being unable to commit.
the freedom not to do, to retain the right to do nothing, governs them all.
very positively
*
have I met the eagle's eye?
i can say yes i have,
and the owl's and the lynx'
we are troubled somewhat
matters of survival
don't allow us to see
when other eyes, so plentifully,
surround us
distance comes in close,
little of the languages
known drifting between teeth
huddle oviform
any longer than a pause
compounds of protozoans
entangle the blood
only briefly the sigh of the pestle
turns northern faces south
that's the smile
of the moon between
modernity & love
you can not kill
you can only buy
there is no sex
but a hexagon
making theft
into generosity
in the morning there will be
taciturn photons
under the palpebre
there is no better
word for them
my feathers, she said
they are dawns
making eyes
invisible
my colors woven
even through worms
the vision tore off
like a beak
faint echo reaches the fetus
from distant forest closing
the warm voices of the women, wooly
already heard the coyote
deer ears swivel
let us listen like a mountain
does it want to be seen?
does it want to be heard?
does the berry long to be eaten?
mind must quiet down to the empty
quieter than what I want to hear
beyond the threshold
you are telling me, a hand poised upon the door
mind quieter, as attention expands
.
we have re-labeled the streaked path of the glaciers
with indo-european promontories, tongues,
cut up the parco into porco, carving out niches
where hand-held units were once hand-holds
the brittle grip between precipices within caverns
the grotto a great ear into which dionysius'
trickle of the spring that summons the great chord
dashes into unicorns & harps the international garbage patch
.
The mixed cacophony of 3 or 4 competing sound systems is indescribable. the message is subtracted from the sum of the ungraspable -- "they are so contextually unconscious of what they are doing individually that they can't be competing/communicating with one another -- but the mind and ear trips and seeks endlessly to connect the things even as they drift away from any sense... so it's expanding the universe pushing time forward by chaos and collision toward the penultimate slowness of the long-lasting timeless but final vibration... The mixed cacophony of 3 or 4 competing sound systems is in fact indescribable and pervasive...
.
in the future fonts will be considered as visual timbre
awesome... i was even unaware... i have such a narrow habit with my devices, I can see how they do that, to screen, narrow, filter my perception. but that's mind-blowing, what you've written. seeing messages in another font, another cursive -- so like translation, in the personal sense (my mind is in a trans-translational crisis 25 on 9 days a week) -- but that the life of different languages, the modernity of a billion cellular floating icons of identity flapping their wings
