Poems written from Solstice 2022 and through January 2023 in the order of of their appearance in notebooks or facebook posts (on the road to some final form in the sand)

 

"I am pulled as rivers are

towards the end of something

something expanding like an Asia"

-- Hölderlin

 

 

--- itinerant inneries -- and "infinitesimal" -- so it happens anywhere (in any room at any time), 

always happening everywhere, you can't even keep up with that speeffle, it's the fastness of what's still faster than light blowing muons through us from whatever multiple big bangs might still be out there ready to happen haploid -- you, in the middle of some nowhere thousands of digitally scattered star-points in space in a debate with your cat about whose eyes are more diamond

wake up in the deaerths of our bowls

from meridian to meridian strung out clotheslines

of the gypsy camp on the outskirts in the minus 6 centrigrade

starched as in frozen -- a line of reverential poetry --

    a prose fractal on the recursion regarding space-time not having any gallilean 

(used to be "archimedean") point but to gather information as pursuant to all point potential in any possible universes expanding neuroplasticity

 

*

 

 

 

 

Fate-full Hour (Solstice, 2022)

 

"It is always difficult to come out from wherever we are

into this space that we share with one another."

-- Cecilia Vicuña

Just as simple as putting down the pen

or hanging a chandelier, I suppose.

Then there's always the thought: does she want me

to kiss her or does she just want me to want to

and does she really mind my being here

or really not being here at all.

Is being inside being at home?

When do we get home?

 

With #Olson you are always creating whole

worlds and societies in which you wind up cutting

your own hole in the ice. Or cutting out whole figures

in paper to paste into a book of collage works

where each page is continental drift itself.

Language as evagination.

 

What about being heard? While in the forest,

it's enough to listen. Tinny voice of somebody

on cell phone messaging service.

That sliver of voice in the distance, broken

Each of us in our own emergency.

 

Or let it be said now: the game is over.

Won or lost. The ball as it bounces,

into some other court entirely.

Why (utter) even these indulgences

but for some pain lingering

to be gently sent down stream.

If one can get to the edge,

close enough, that paper boat...

 

Then there are the cleaning people. At night

when you are out of the office. Removing the detritus,

the stuff we scratch off ourselves, the scraps

of our habitus, collected towards another heave.

Leaving us in our ghostly calm.

 

Or as in your poem, where happiness happens,

with the imperative need to undress.

If there were any bottom to this.

 

I triumph not over my incoherence. Or perhaps there is more

to incoherence than what I gather up, absorb...

Why don't I just let myself be? And among.

 

Looking at the hour, the round of the clock,

what is coming around the side of that fixture in our lives.

Have we darkness enough? Have we passed through

to the other side? We mount

the stairs again. We ascend.

 

Crossing the threshold, we turn to

look at one another. The skylight window

is open, fresh with rushing noise.

Simple as that.

 

 (21+/-22)/12/2022

-- who can describe the calculus of time?

 

 *

 

 

Dec. 24, 2022

 

"...the double-drum of dual insight,

is where the energy of time finds us..."

  -- Stephen Ellis

 

what branches were there supposed to be in the forrest

other than those that found you there

 

 the wings within your feet

as they fan the corridors

damp with petrichor, musk

that plenty which seems before value

scattered and nearly unknown

 

and then, skipping ahead, across gravel,

seated on the lichened stump...

   when i try to scribble ideas from dream-dark webs of glimpsed authenticity, I grope about working in multiple dimensions... text is really slow but even sound is slower than light, lighght gathers more slowly in sound files on-line -- light must be really slow on some other scale -- so what's the other ultravibrational frequency -- what medium can carry this dimensional amalgam? it's not language or maths -- what bees honey the dome to make it all happen? it's beneath out feet and higher than any sky -- opening to newborn on high as below --

 

*

 

There is a justice in this forest these words cannot touch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jan 2, 2023

 

sky above sky

in the cloud down layers

where the undead drift

letting it go, just like that

memory knot of stars

clustered in this nobody grip

by the dreaming for everything

high necked spruce branches

in the canopy clatter and giggle almost

mallards or maybe geese hoot

cutting cuneiform v and w

in tablet of nearly blue now

sun gone into other Sundays

around the globe in the future

mirrored Monday imagines the poem

and those late bloomer gunpowder blasts

enter like ghosts on the scene

unpredictable as memory itself

bygones becoming presages

events offering to unfold

enough to finish without

 

  an unseasonably warm woodsy walk

 

 

* 

Jan 3, 2023, later

the owing gets owned

when passing the buck

because there is no reality

superior to existence

each king rules on one throne, alone

as in chess, one square at a time

& only pawns can become queens (?)

if they cross the border

staying in the same iffy game

patiently arriving where we need to be

while mushroom caps push up

through the remnants of the universal veil

seemingly from anywhere in their

invisibly growing fuzzy filamental network

gridly in it's own warped ways

unforeseen, unannounced

harbinger of the future quantum field.

Is there any being right in being wrong? I wonder.

Correct me if I'm right

 

*

 

Jan 3, 2023

 

 UNKNOWN FISHES IMMORTAL HYPHAE

 

 looking under looking into looking over

 

*

 

Jan4/5, 2023

 

 

butterfly effect is written on air.

mycelial and beetle sigils inscribed

chemically willy-nilly on the cambium level

subcutaneous, as for trees

whereas painting applies to surfaces

and most early sophist-icated writing

systems gouge in clay or scratch on stone

later on skins in pigments, papyrus, scalps of wood

all across the eurasian transversal anyway

while in china there were scrolls

hmm... dried fabrics, dry wood... paper...

writing was born of black blood, purple, aluminum

molten lead, gold, whatever from the alembic spills

volcanically to the gravitational constant

slow life slower than slow life

gyring or conspiring to gyre

down as up

by the time there was a walter benjamin there was the ink from which she was born

 

*

 

 

Jan 6/7, 2023

 

after many aeons unspoken abiding still

fettered to cacophony of identity

access to whatever splattered excess of trance

to die of beckett or benjamin's cast

for any writer who will not meander

nothing will push the pen or tickle the heavy keys

coldly tethered to everyday reveries

within which the catches of the salmon revive

occasionally pawing them bearly upstream

spawning demeter's vaster daughters

pushing them in prom or pram

wedding them to walnuts and thyme

ever so forlorn in the keatsian clover agrovelin

abt some syllabary of the codex actuelle

to discover old knots of quippo

hanging from heaven up under amazon's armpits

throughout the canopy of mind

& be still the sap from the knotty pine

accelerando ed agglutinando

sowing circadian seeds, fragments

spores of the universal veil

 

*

 

Jan 8, 2023

 

 

Existence being daily

while nightly alone for some

poetry dateless awake into the sleep

on either side, draws death up

like a blanket that folk wisdom

wanted to cast away

with the brittle margin of seas clinging

and the pull of the tide

Cannot escape momentum

The entropic engine

Our life pushes up the invisible

Mountain born of the slide

 

*

 It either speaks to deity or nature about the shared nature (occult science of common sense) or it speaks to the shared creators of a language in process of creating itself but it never speaks while not trying to seduce one to believe in things inexplicable that support everything you want to call reality but cannot grasp in one take. It never speaks of one being alone. It creates a sense of wholeness or a sense of gentle fragmentation that upholds the various nets of existence. Speaking about it without becoming it never happens in anyway that makes you feel outside of the truth it unites you with or reminds you about never having left. In school they taught us merely the alphabet and solfeggio. We learn the rest by ourselves for ourselves. It is a gift.

 

*

  

just shy of physical value

the particle cloud

a portal

a castle

no singular path

for the thinker

to enter

and the dancer

still has to

dance around

until viewers

become the cloud

just shy

of physical value

 

*

poem in the form of a comment

 

how many listeners do you need until you get one real listener. same for the readers. if it amounts to how many previews you make before publishing, you are still only thinking algorithmically about rates of reflection and refraction that may have nothing at all to do with what is actually miraculous about all creation. even if it's all random (life, cosmos, existence) you got sucked inside. who can account for this to some degree merits consideration. wandering jewel of stars

 

*

 

 I want to be a poem. What do I have to do? 

Seek to be written by a poet. Just pretend you are a poem and go to a poetry reading. 

Mingle and stand apart. Dress like a flower. Play dead. Be very rational around drunken people. 

Wash in the blood of the lamb. Take the meds. Jump into a taxi and say I am a poem, just take me anywhere. Absorb everything. Express everything. Ask all the right questions at the wrong time. 

Be incorrigible, truthful, sincere. But first of all, tend to be misunderstood. 

With a smile. Poker-faced. Sad and non-chalante about it all. 

As if you didn' really want to really be a poem.