mahler plays a victrola
under a mushroom canopy
gloom, cool light, fireflies
padding of the lichen moss
destiny's blossom,
fragment
of the chernobyl radio -- crackle --
pollinators, whatever it would mean to echo
in the outhouse in Romania
luminous moulds on the walls
ahead of them came the ac to dc
bc became bce concept of ancestrals
reversals these very stubborn beacons
lucipherase in the sky
but were they always performing that
lightshow in the shit-house
for themselves as aphrodisicacs?
then came modernism
erasing many ideas and species
even itself soon enough
bitten off the chew
marconism, the good year,
theremin blimp, weyl, oum khalthoum
maxwell equations,
the first signs emerge that
binding feet of girls (wu han? --
signs of being abandoned
I'm the cartographer of winds
misunderstandings forget me
just as competently
as them who eye
---
when you seek to enhance embrace just slightly withdraw
--
there
is very rarely any new life that doesn't contain significant portions
of the old life. when did life begin for you and where? what part of
life is always here? (left behind, scattered) what part in some distant there uncertain? are there any
parts at all.. and on which sides do they fall? in all the years of
traveling wasn't I always going to wind up in the same place? do I know
the limits of who or what I am? and if I ask you will your reply only refer
to you alone? it didn't matter in the end if we worship dionysius or
vishnu, crash or the pineal gland or the flow of gold in ingots of speculation
in the slave-ships of cryptocurrencies. there is no silicon native to
silicon valley. i can never rest this case your honor we best be getting
on...
---
Error is boundless.
Nor hope nor doubt,
Though both be groundless,
Nor hope nor doubt,
Though both be groundless,
Will average out.
As if prompted by the reminder
Bales of cotton candy
dissolve into sensational browns, greens,
discesa indiretta
-- volume di acqua sporgente,
seek to spread themselves out
spargersi, spandersi
Il sbaglio non si fa, non e'
niente affatto
ma sempre torna
Mentre quello che non e'
tende al gioco viaggio
d'essere e diventare
qualcosa vera, altro,
inattendibile**
Dear Alice,
I was thinking about you
through myself, as usual
bending, almost naturally
like in the Brenda Lee song
except for pesky Novalis
and that Wunderkind crew...
I wanted to know
about Alice,
hoping she's feeling
Ten feet tall
---that's how it came out in writing --
moments ago
(like I wanted to fit this
on a postcard to Pete Spence
like he posts on FB
even now -- like Tarot --
He's likes a portobello, non?
which I mean to extend into the spirit
and ask
how do you do,
amid yet the things of France
& as are we all
there and not there at all
or undecided
ca va?
**
the earth is also part of your body
knowing what eyes want, I want art (meaning whatever I do) -- knowing what ears know-- to remind me that I should be honest, faithful, rebellious, traditional, drunken (oh, but why?) and yet sober (but what for?). That's all. I want art to remind me of what I really want and that which gets me up to do. This and that. Anything. To revert, pervert, return, advance, get sucked backwards into forwards, to be free to be freedom's arrival point, free from view, in the underground rail-roads of water, sluices, followers of elderly root networks, sending via mycofilial tendrils and slime moulds the woodpecker's cry to send water up to the bud's of next year's the new leaves. the new year's sunbeams, buried in the acorn's ruin
**
no one will see you or listen to you
until you are not there
obstructing their view
**
music is freedom itself as dance living dying into mycomass always flowing
great hydras of terraforming cryptobiotic soil on the birthday of Arthur Rimbaud
mingling undulations siphoning idiosyncracy crapshoots
mon ultra somnolent itinerant cactus
my music never over
sporadic mutant blossom
ready now to dusk
as visions come to jacob boehme
far too early bohemian
fathoms of mothers gather their moss
build the braintree's leaves
prepared pinnacle
pineal acorn
nut squat
stored by squirrels
doffs its cap --
it's almost Spring
inside the Ice
date unknown
(on the birthday of Arthur Rimbaud)
***
RENDERSI
CONTO
CONTO
Make photo or drawing or music live improv with moon energy but do not look at moon. Art smart: Go make an old growth forest and ask me to come to the opening. Gaia is a bitch, wrote Lyn Margolis. From no point outside the eye is anything seen. I cannot see but feel the sun like a blastospore, ballistosphere dawning amanit cap on the Black Sea (yes, it is difficult to dance in the quicksand)
And it's
not that I think there will be a political solution without political
problems but that human consciousness has to develop a perspective that
includes itself amid the actual biodiversity manifold from which it
emerged and genuinely appreciate how the planet incorporates and
destroys even those who think they control it.
Nov 10
Light Exercise
Morning permits me coffee and juice
as proof I've outlived consumerism
of melatonin where night lives,
while news of solar magma blast
Earth's magnetic field entangled
the previous 48 hours generates
pink auroral plasma seen near Tomso
in Norway which, while invisible to me,
feels actual here in my follicles, tingling
eyebrows & slightly metallic swallow
to my palate plus that double rainbow halo
seen around full moon magically with Karolina
two nights ago at 5th floor eastern exposure
window, dazzling, sliced by two jet airliner exhaust trails,
entrails carbonic, refracted light
in the otherwise cloudless Above
Nov 11, morning
**
"woven of the earth wherein..."
woven of the earth wherein
weeping as of sap
slaps the wasp back
into the black-
hole merely 1556 light years away
another layer of dinosaurs deep --
it reveals the old order
of ferns and variegated flora
and microfauna, fungus, molds
silts the swampy nervous
wrecks of earth rebuilding itself --
this is supply side Rockerfeller renames--
-- you can rest now, do your part...
Lorca was a service-officer of sorts
landless landrich wandering raven of duende
that angel feather-flock flame engorged
slashed riftage into the heart of the matter
Fuente Grande, these are things of Europe
debated like the value of Pound
but when young black lives matter
how fair thee any-coloured of the many
who ever will evolve the reticular
reformation of the outer-ear
familiar of the moth blown lilly
cutting a diamond stylus into a Gypsum Soul
loaning volumes from the library of Silence
gathering round the Migrant Trees
Nov 11, evening
Riff from Rifft
"if you say hi energy hi energy hi energy a thousand times it's starts to sound like hi energy
-- Damo Suzuki
anything sentient
beyond dishevelling
bent appeals off the grand idea
abnormal suns aber norm all soons
beyond dishevelling
bent appeals off the grand idea
abnormal suns aber norm all soons
life seems the neurons light sees the nervon the lumi adddia drum durn
eddy from a frown... ulm a what freddy eddy langsam watcham, inya iwanna voi
(he then, being an elder Damo Suzuki, gray frayed locks bedraggled--
no less a surfer of tsunami, drops the mongolian tibetan throat chant mammoth
elephant vagina throat vibe cavern apple
effort to continue the cause shamanic
shatters
to scat that light mental tinder
whap
(unfinished)
(finished)
nov 11 -12, late night early morning
Ghost me, ghost you, ghost us
What "desperuptions" of economy
Beckons gold from opium, Bitcoin pirates,
an illbient blab of perpetual track marks
With leaky gut tankers
Tazing the indigenous
While vapes away every oblivious Canaveral.
Is the war really over?
Is the pandemic back on?
What blockduster netflick tik tok
Will distract us from God
Slipping us the mickey
Over the horizonal cackle
Of the ant-castle mottled
With yew and poplar
News of the heaving wetness of leaves
Writing letters to friends in the sod
Who'd rather never've heard from us again?
Have we stalked the last burnt bridge
Into perfect felony of solitary disaster?
Or shall we not tap on the illegible keypad
With Stefan Ellis that one extra poem
To that one person who reads everything
One last first time? Cogito ergo sumus.
Nov 13, 2022
not a poem but part of the scene
In
the the begining, I have to admit, there was rock, rock and roll, that
was derivative almost entirely from soul, gospel, blues and funk was
what any good guitarist had to pull off. Hendrix therefore is the first
God, uniting all of the above with psychedelic visions, electricity,
feedback, howling, diving and screeching, great master of noises,
conjuror & poet. But within all of that (back of that, as Jack used
to say) was an intelligence related to a music I had to learn slowly.
That was what they called jazz and it (jazz) was one thing for one year
of listening and studying and by the next year another thing until
eventually it was clear that the borders between musical genres was
entirely fictional, mostly bogus marketing schemes and bigotry. Once I
heard Ornette Coleman, music both coalesced, all flowing into one great
Amazon river delta or it dissolved. In any case, that was the mind
opener music. Ornette was not liked by the average bourgeois elitist
into jazz. Similarly, I came to Ayler and other musicians (Ra, Cecil,
Don Cherry) doing the so-called free jazz thing and within this music
were other musics from other lands and other worlds. In this music you
heard the voices of animals, wind, oceans, streams, leaky pipes, motors,
jungles. This music included everything whereas musique concrete
isolated and objectified a few sounds, strecthing and dissecting. Which
is not to say the genius of Pierre Henry for example was not poetic and
capable of being visionary and expressive of all things in the cosmos
but that being a composed rational scientific music, it disallowed more
than it permitted, in my opinion, and isolated what it wanted to
celebrate and paradoxically turned the musician into a technician with
all the dangers implied in Heidegger's critique, that we in turn become
machines or remain operated by machines. On another level,
electroacoustic music is an extension of jazz and classical music's
means and enriched and enhanced and even dissolved it's grammar, it's
own limitations, limitations placed on it only by cultural
establishments and people who are too frightened to face the infinite
and pure possibility of creative freedom.
part of the scene of my thoughts
if
you tell people you are in coversation with the spirits of the other
worlds, the dead, and listen to the voices of other species, you can
remove a lot of the bullshit talk from your life. it's very liberating.
we never made art only for people presently alive. I know very well
after a decade or so of university education (and life among educated
technician artists) how the idea won currency that art is about the here
and now, your community, your human life, this materialistic
paradigm, your techniques: it's is very easy to trace. and yet, all
indigenous peoples had their universities of forests and mountains and
seas and oceans. we all were once something like indigenous people, even
nomadics. we owe our work more to the future and past works of the
earth than we do to those whose sense of career inside capitalistic
market paradigms prevent them from undestanding the scope the poetics we
are bound to... because our happiness depends on expressing the truth
part of the scene metaphysics of words part 3
....Words
do or don’t do the work of the poem—they are, as Jack Spicer said in
his second letter to Lorca, “what we hold on with, nothing else.” The
work of the poem, McNaughton writes, “is not in any sense a job for
rhetoric, in order to gain efficacy of persuasion, to gain social affect
i.e. power. . . . Language and discourse, specifically generated by the
advent of writing itself, are in the agency of power. It
is like Alice Notley said, words aren’t language—they never were...
Robert replies: Maybe
I'm missing context here. What do you mean by "What we hold on with?"
Sort of a passionate drive i.e. Lebenstrieb? And what are words then, if
not sign symbols to communicate through "language"? And the last point:
"Discourse or language can't be creative
expression(s), as they are tools in domains of power as per your
sources" or "single words don't make a language"? Will check these
authors – sounds very interesting albeit cryptic due to the lack of
framing.
Jeff writes back: Well,
first thing comes to mind is poets and how simply we know that we could
never write (or even think) anything if it depended on grammar, just
woids, theories of the sign, social approval, rhetoric -- all the linear
framings of englightenment and post-enlightenment
modes of reason and discourse. there is a passage from primo levi that
comes to mind to me next where he describes one of his fellow inmates in
auschwitz, known only by his number, null achtzehn, as the empty
involocru of a insect blown by the wind but connected still to a rock by
a single frail thread spun from it's own former body. that's where
poetry allows for an almost superhuman power against the most inhumane
forces imaginable. it remains cryptic because no one can explain it; and
those who try to do so suffer the loss of a resource that perishes when
exposed to certain forces of modernity -- like those freschi in the
fellini movie -- poetry is not the image, the art, but the medium, the
glue, the gluon in physics, that allows the pigments to cohere invisibly
-- I wouldn't call it Lebenstrieb because it's not personal, it's not
related to egoity nor corporal identity, not even to life so simply
framed by one body or body of bodies -- I think a lot of people think
it's like Chomsky's generative grammar or something but when I read his
ideas about language, they don't seem to be covering the same field of
energies. Well, that's the best I can come up with for the moment.
Thanks for the question and for your curiosity
Context
perhaps helps to some degree (to provide my sense for it). For example,
if you know that the poet Jack Spicer wrote his letters to Lorca in the
60's long after Lorca was dead and that Spicer lectured on magic and
poetry used metaphors of mediumistic messaging
services, like the radio in Cocteau's Orpheus film, maybe something of a
pre-post-modern materialistic rhetoric based poetry can start to be
seem in some depth of perspective. Poets often do not speak to nor need
to speak to the living, alhough our use of material audible and visible
to the living allows them to overhear our (often hit or miss)
transmissions to one another. Some guiding principle in this.
long live the queen of the earth
pact between the bone & skin
quill, burin, gut string, steel-string
the language avverbial
dew on the white feather fallen
disembodied of the dove
& above the clock
of the full buck moon
venereal not martian
tinged clouds
copaline burning on flat stone
to cleanse the mental wounds of war
rich are the ones never caught complaining
may you who have homes yet return there,
& the flower in the path smile upon you
freedom is never needing to explain
the poet, cryptozoic, starthistle,
creator of shrouds revealing
but I beckon the fall of light
what could be more pointless?
it falls without me in shreds
abandoned to destiny
I submit my conscience
to the morning star's scrutiny
whatever that means
to the morning star's stumbling
fructose dexterity
gambled on the leaf-cutter's trembling
flag of detritus
all of it abiding, hung
like those sleeping stars
there for you, like it or not,
whose slumber cycles
barely flicker over eyelashes
both false and true
many yet the unknowables to meet
great and strange madness visions
& there being yet a certain stink about
those blue velvet trousers...
what matter art if not leading
hearts back to earth? what value science
if we cannot prove the ignorant human
colossus is falling like a dumb, lifeless
golem over our planet.
the earth is our queen?
she goes down to give advice now
let it rise into heeding
unplug the years
(written over several days the last 2 weeks)
july 2022
**
In Belovo, July 2022
O Gypsy on the hill,
muted still
strangled by pandemics, hate,
or sending abroad
lost children
into cement, high rise,
corporate stocks:
songs, strains,
lipless tales,
forlorn horses;
how I yearn
to hear you
take them up again
and rattle this
flattened biodiversity.
O Gypsy in my heart,
know thou art
prepared for prayer,
ready to clatter
bones and bells,
stoke the fires of legend,
memory, untether
thy outer matters
& drive our caravan
amid the stars.
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