Wings Burning Still Flying. Poems & Manifestations These Busy Months

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
improbable unprovable
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 

 Aghast Nibiriu

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.

Erzulie

***********

Post-Hamletids

 __ 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

for without scienza supernova

 et ipsum factum convertuntur

shall not be lost and nothing done in vain

 that roots in faith the truth

and disdains not reflection...

dearest literary angels and daimons:
     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 --

The things stamped into time

Stamped into configuration T
hung on the Tau, corpse left to dry

The way the memory remembers itself on each occasion 

As a complex of enfolded miscegenations

Once impressed the

Delta Δ which never
recurs (mixes the fresh
with the salt waters)

Alone again naturally without 

Reference to external memories
manages the event

 & yet
They return there anyway

To claim the only title
worth competing for:

Truth 

Which is created
by the flight
away

*****

the suitcase rolling down the street I hear her rolling
 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
permanent disaster

**** 

schizo-colonialism... 

          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
https://www.facebook.com/kunda.ac

  ***

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

before words?

roses, I mean 

petals of form

sepals and sigils

as for bleeding in the stead of

The poet does not write sitting 

nor laying down standing

and does write not even

clearly at times

they think enzymes code

leap-bridges in brainwaves

they are never used up entirely

the special sudden idea poems are not

about ideas a cage

without birds

But there the feathers are, anyway

all about, having spiraled

nobody knows the design 

merely probable

Fib

In Fibonacci

numbers seek no end in them-

Selves no proof

They just like combining the ways

simple numerical motor

skills without even

wheels or woe

@@@@ 

"With African vodun—as we have seen—the integrity of the tribal person was one with a system which was conservative and traditional. There was no breath of subversion—no cleavage in the collective. History and art were one medium.
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."

—Wilson Harris, “History, Fable and Myth in the Caribbean and Guianas” (1970)

March 24

the vision, like the dream, happens in a flash,
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
wherever
we adjoin
such fevers, they give
sognatori signatori
dots of
have nots
will travel
travail

cthonium
ephron
the hittite
lands
permanencies
never
on sale

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
centauri


++++------------------------

 For Carlyle Reedy

  it's a balancing act

of balancing facts

within fictions

about factions

& the con-

sciousness, as such

of our actions

& where we ate

 what page was that?

plumb-line

& sinker

beginner is winner

who never left

a path

 part one

under one

 under one

stone

come undone

I gather

 ***
Doggerel
(for the hounds,
music for the angelic)

i am a fool who imagines himself

an earthworm, a mouse, a pigeon

& piece of human packaging,

fool's bane mine to love the likes of you

sweet william, sweet jane, in the mud

as crud language generates grammar

crawling in your veins

it is likewise grammar calls in vain

to find a god beyond the pale

for a fool you know complains

all the while the owl pearls

the fool imagines himself an earth

an avalanche a tide to sweep away

imagining the fool who laughs

and loves you all the same

my penguins run like elephants

the eels entwine and dance

it is sometime no fun to be a man

and yet i am all the same

inside the wings fallen burn

or rise on tales to live with saints

while opinion runs a 3 ring circus

look at me I believe

no look at me, my belief,

no look at mine, no me

I went & shot a man who represented

what I hate and I am no one's hero

the story belongs to no one

in particular but a friend tells it true

we are all dangers on the prowl

our kings all dead our defenders foul

or non-existent and only imaginary

mother earth accepts our tears

you who science call dear

fear the mad fool atavist pigeon

better should you fear the pins

inside your own opinions

stuck in the cushion of your brain

attracts the bolts of the air

and set fire to your hair

for you are no fool, no man's fool

so be wary should you stumble

into the lion's den for then

you will have no prayer

****

Peformance at Tłusta Langusta, Poznan

   "Sauver les phénomènes, c'est les sauver là où ils ont lieu et là où ils ont leur lieu"
---Henry Corbin

 

 

Exilios, Volume III, New World Music Utopics

 in a world where the margins begin to disappear, the borders themselves obscured by islands of floating refuse, we all seem on the verge of exile, living in between memory and potential community, in a place of happiness that exists in no place at all, in a moving moment of sound, and yet this sound seems as if it must be a place or yet speaks of a place, a delta where many musics mingle before setting out to sea on paper boats & cardboard boxes...

 http://www.bestiar.org/george-christian-exilios-3/

   Few years ago my friend George Christian Vilela Pereira asked me to contribute some guitar work for a track on a album that turned out to be part of a sprawling jungle, a trilogy of albums, called Exilios. Listening to the first few volumes and previews challenged me to formulate new terms, to grapple with what seems like the strangest mixture of everything I like, which somehow seems like it just shouldn't work because in the world where we live the ideologies that separate and stagnate music into pigeon-holed territories and long-exploited ore mines guarded by product-oriented, hungry, market-hungry, old speculators who don't like funny people and funny mixtures messing up the mind of the buying public by offering music that makes them think and feel too much. It is further haunted music in that it draws from world-wide sources, being a studio album, basic tracks recorded in Brazil and contributors from across the ponds added into the mix, so that there's a hint of virtual utopia here, a musical space that refers to many cultures all at once and yet expresses either all of them or none of them to my ears while still sounding between-the-worlds organic, like a dream that you should write down before forgetting it. There is a hallucinogenic quality or potential here, ayahuascan trips, like all the freaky megalopolises, Mexico City meets Teheran, but's it all a club in Calcutta called Igloo Canal, the studio walls grow edible fungus, drones carry in trays of jasmine tea and espresso. Nothing is connected in any obvious way but it's connected all the same. If you play it at a party, many of your friends will leave or call the police. Because it's that good. Because it's that evil. One moment its some psychedelic lost soul wandering the polluted beaches where sharks belly full of plastic and transistor schrapnel wind up stranded, another moment its all the Sun Ra freak out down at Slug's Saloon, the one's that happened after you left when Pharoah and Sharrock arrived late and they invited a harp made of tin and sparklers to plug directly into the amp and plunge Queens into darkness. And there's this voice singing in some language between languages, a microtonal language, swirling, turning itself inside out, a crooning that is aware crooning is too cute and draws venom from bitter blues people of the crepuscular zones, humored like Don Van Vliet, but also a little crusty like Cobain, a permanent voice in migration, like gypsy moths or swallows saying anywhere but back to Capistrano. It's kind of like all of this and yet kind of not because there are too many layers and this causes description to be an exhausting futility. It may take 100 years to get to the place where this music already exists in the universe we know and be landed upon as an inhabitable planet. I am happy I arrived when I did.

For full details about Exilios 3 and the previous volumes, please access this link.
  https://georgechristian.bandcamp.com/album/ex-lios-3

Droneology

Horns, whistles and human voices drone at protest in Bucharest

   
     drone is not unrelated to the disappearance of the universe  
        and everything we ever knew or wanted to think 
   we might know. but then again,  
drone is too lazy to think for itself. 
   drone would prefer to be other and undecided.
 what will I be? background, foreground? 
forever on the other side of any intention? 
   Am I a noise or a consequence of noise or am I silence in disguise?

 and yet drone, as a genre of post-ambient music, manifests a forced identity pattern, passive aggressively, in the realm of gendered politics, where drone must dominate the aesthetic scene, primo piano, 
  rather than background the soloist.   this lamentable turn of events only  expresses the failure of post-aesthetics to create a mythology based 
 on it's own genetic material. drone, as the concept and process-oriented ambient   after-effect mall-music for the art-schools, denies 
   the sacrificial origins of the search for a visionary trance portal 
. drone as an opiate of the chill-out lounge set is as much ill-at-ease with marx as it is with uber capitalism. drone also needs industrialism, labor exploitation and power sources to make itself louder than usual.
  

  
   drone enters the west from the east. 
         it's the sound of cave and fire. the composers of the first drones were the first performers of them and the first audience is between them lost in sleep already.  
there are no new drones that have no access to ancient drones because water is every where water. drink of it with great care. it is the water in the river of Lethe. drone is flow that does not remember nor recall. it is the consequence of all the things people don't pay attention to in their life of making noises. and yet even this global drone itself seems to drown or get lost inside something beyond we still don't know how to name. the keys to drone are given to all people equally according to the means of their hearts to create it and to receive it. everything is made of waves. the waves all go flat. rhythm is in everything. but time has no tempo. there's no end to the possibilities of what we can say. no conclusion. only the falling away of attention. 
  the drone versus noise dialectic versus silence versus non-sense

    when the noise is normal, pumped from the designer noise-box, 

it's not normal anymore, not normal noise, not even half-normal. 
it's not noise anymore at all but does it strip itself of name? when does the cumulative effect of noise become the fallout of drone? is there a dialectical and scientifically recognizable relation between the bullshit music no one really listens to and the background radiation of the universe that's reached thermal equilibrium and flat sleep?

    

  For further sentences in this mode see my THESIS IN NOISE in the blog from 2008

https://transparent-abelard.blogspot.com/2008/03/theses-in-noise_29.html

The Falls of Hyperion

   
The Falls of Hyperion Karolina Ossowska Jeff Gburek 
recorded between September 2016--2017
     Field recordings heard on the album were captured in Romania,
Italy, Poland & Ireland. Instruments: Violins, Steel-String Guitar,
 Prepared Guitar, Microcassette, Thai Gongs, Hand-drum, Piano,
Inside Piano, Piezo Elements
(all reverb effects created by home-made plate echo),
Yamaha Keyboard, Goa Bells, Aluminum Gamelan, Voices, Snare,
Kocioł (Traditional Wielkopolska Tympani).
Texts: Lift Not The Painted Veil by P.B. Shelley
   & The Rushes by Jeff Gburek
Photographs & Cover Composition: Karolina Ossowska

 listen here:    https://jeffgburekprojects.bandcamp.com/album/the-falls-of-hyperion

 

photo and composition by Karolina Ossowska

With a palpable sense of relief I pressed the "publish" button a few seconds, few days ago on the album (or sequence of compositions) I started thinking about in 2015 and despite what it says on the page, it began with a few violin passages I had asked Karolina to play in November 2015. The mood passed and the feeling would not return until the next autumn of 2016 when the 2 main tracks took the shape they retain here. The material spans our recent relocation to the other side of town and perhaps seals and allows us to release the quasi-rural life of Wilda (tongue firmly in cheek) and by the time October came round I had the final piece, Lift Not The Painted Veil, arranged, mapped and then executed all but for the poem that finally rained down with Orionid meteorite shower on October 21, which was rendered as voice-over on October 30th, 2017, in one sitting. There remains only to assemble the physical copies for the limited edition. Place your orders soon for those because both I and Karolina will be on the road over the Christmas/New Year's period. Sit back and listen, it's a long journey. Dreams and visions are the aim so fear not the veil. Be lifted. 

   listen here:    https://jeffgburekprojects.bandcamp.com/album/the-falls-of-hyperion

In the core of the matter, the dark matter, in the hidden forces of nature which nature has yet to discover, as if in the first and last frontier of a mind that seeks to know, that seeks either science (demonstrable) or gnosis (intuitive): our theme. The first Hyperion is the one we know, by name, but even so, distantly, the Titan, the light-bearer, the high-one, star before the stars, the father of Helios and Selene, Eos and yet his own mother is Gaia, the Earth before the Earth as planet, the fiber of vibration in the cosmos. As one of the Titans who overthrew their father Ouranos, Hyperion and his ilk (not before giving birth to many other deities, among them Prometheus), are in turn overthrown, by the Olympians, then to suffer various forms of imprisonment, bondage and oppression. Titans living the life of an eternal underclass, defeated, untouchable gods. The otherness of Hyperion, the one of the Romantic traditions, specifically in these works: meditations on Keats' Hyperion Fragments. Keats with such hallucinatory musical language, that must stand alone, naked, on the page, sending it's tendrils of thoughts throughout various gravitational fields. Hyperion who struggles to awake and then struggles to sleep and remains a figure of insomnia or dreaming, as if a kind of background radiation, messages of the unborn impulse potential in nature before the nature of human colonization. These voices we would like to hear on the horizon our sounds call into. Dangling over the abyss of all languages. These are the sirens and the whistling caves on the edge of the sound.

photo by Hubert and Monika Wińczyk

Curtains of Silence, Open (Late November Poems)

        with this ring of light thee I wed
     those thoughts of which fallen
      through the net abounding
    calm the hellish down
       and pet the duck
       it's light photons of fire
      penetrate water
        and that is earthly all
                                                                                                 
                23.nov.AM


=  ====(((((((((((((*********))))))))))))====  =


and I thinking in one night
who reads the odyssey
or whether dreams cancel reality
and vice versa while walking in the błoto
around lake named after nymphs Rusałka
dream on paper boat sailor Rimbaud
did not Ginsberg address himself to Pound
Ezra when decrying
no herms in those mounts
a question for who knows
et who wants to fathom such
imaginary hand-shakes

nov23, late light

    Curtains of Silence, Open


             I
  
   new tape title ideas become poem accidentally by
"jeff gburek is a new name for me", he said,
 an old one for me said I
--on the birth and life of another mother for Edmund Husserl --
   we know dendrites meet dandruff unknowing the bend of the real round of the corner--
  of the split-ends we mend together, the synaptic hand-shake
we share, the maps unraveling crease & tear, speak of
context being everything when everything is nothing
 a chapter not a book a page unturning, tricklings
 and like a outworn map, the tectonic plates of the earth rend

          II

  a flash of fog, I mean of light
(photonic slivers, slits)
as if within the sterile beams a truck
struck an asteroid
avoiding a frog
while the spider insider
weaves the garrulous gloom
sucking blackholes
from behind the moons
that Ophelia strung
on the clothesline
for your eyes alone
to ponder in the floral
wilderness of berry 
  
                 III

           that's the bunker where they bury
           the closet of tattle-tale
           clinker and clank of Cytadela
           be they keys or rattles
           wooden hollows
           the things they drape
           the robes upon
           one guesses aghast
           and walks by quickly
           stuttering numbers
           codes of prayer
           to let this now pass
           in peace between
           the two tall pines
           of the new year
           at last redeemed
           in the loss of name
             --they who fall into Earth
               become Earth
                without name--
         
             dawning there
           in skylark's cue
           to the night-thrush,
           blossom, Venus
           speed you, Saturn
           flare aware, take the aged young
           youthless Hyperion's
           glare away

    IV
          
these are the songs
of happiness and longings
yet to be invented
in the pent up sequence
that rejoins torn fractals
and run flesh over memory
as the one who died
once upon a time
forever in the rush
of water healing
the fragile nimbus
gourd for gathering
nutriment of promise

be held here, then, see
the pain of your stars'
receding cantation
in shifting texture
lightly by arms
as in birth
and eye crystalline,
guide you the flesh
and hands extended
openly in greeting
that year without year
rhymes as eternal
invisible lavender
extract of soul, yours,
for all to sense
freely in essence of day
 as nights first announcer
asleep as ever

    V
& the curtains of silence
hung about the horizon
draped about everything,
of the thing, shifting ever
what it is, as beckons
or beacons & with urgency
cloaks the normalized
perverse in mourning envy
roaring or sobbing
boring or 
sirens the webbed
sleep alive to
stir softly your
nobler organs
where to paint caves
 of primordial genius in hope
& earth, universal
turns the torus
equators anon


Coda,

a flash of fog came through
a sliver of photons
 dithering dew
fragile nimbus lord bearing
 a new name to us all
a name we cannot spell
the dendrites dripping
 hypertextual grins

some stars of words just floating in my cranium
 grazing, grassing
the ceilings of the brain

the tape itself, the torus of horus,
 the torah borealis, could be called
in the realm of the ultrapersonal

"curtains of silence hung about the thing"

and yet what do I know
that resides outside language
and knows much better?

11.30.2017

Three Poems, October, 2017

  Hyperions

within our sleep
dreaming together a world
too much rapid-fire non-sense
jumping the guns
out in the wild west
or in catalan
amid the many
in the one
I cannot fathom
the trigger
but a cause
for alarm asks
where are we going
people?
whose holier
storm of selva
oscura are we
paying for
now?
 listen, details, in the slick
from outside-in
tumbling inside
out in the day
the face
the die cast
once human
over-drawn
by cloud.
I can look out only
then glance
backward
then forth
short of the vile
and live a while
longer & see

10/2/2017

Annoyments of Resizing
aka Back Button

signal to me
your relativity
& my bane of decisions
never leaving peculiarity aside
disassembling incisions
only to cut & hastily
paste them back
into leap space gap across
the paradox of density
where infinitely
tiny slats occupy
fractal galaxies of
unknown inbetweens
blocked from view
& driving language
mad with reversal
trying to top
arrows of time

10/3/2017

For Some

Poetry is like an oyster
the girl jet black or her hair
stepping back to graze
upon her image in the glass she passes
-- unawares --
without pause a privilege
to be her ear's mirror
wrapped in gainful employment
& striding with vigor
as she pins the flame-tipped letters
upon the air her radical fingers
weave with indifferent fury

For some, elegantly strewn
chestnut leaves in the gutter
sharply breed storm
in the lungs and quicken
the curling of toes into shoes
that glimmer of catkins,
 the edgy humor,
 of moon's last passage
-- that could be, just the thing...

Other people, however
 discern little music
in the duck-stutter & flash
of conglomerate algae
sunken in the pond, dotted
by concentric circlets
invisible raindrops
maybe cause

 And some yet
paint in stillness
the leopard-eyes' rods and cones
their own jungle geometries
scratch into codes
written as silent satellites
beyond the limits of the sky
wherein one imagines
the one thing
we all have known.

The nothing we have in common.

Dominion of darkness
embossed or etched stars
of goddess Nut overarching
Fear and fear-cancelling fear
for the tremors in the first Earth of me
I have forgiven unforetold
the hundredfold ebonite scars,
or maybe simply
I have forgotten

Open light wet on the grasses
where pigeons peck their infinite lunches
until as one flock as if one wing
they as you I and all cardinal
points appear to disappear

 Dropping as a canopy of stars elsewhere
the yellow leaves
autumnal dreams, such as these
Hyperion heaves, with groaning
Words-- only to those who speak English--
or to those also audient
for hidden worlds
where all Earths fall apart

.to pieces

.memory gathers

for some, for others...

October, 5, 2017

Middle Harvest, 2017

Middle Harvest, Final Harvest

        a title brought to mind by the Gaeilic

names for September & October

for these were the months in which the Autumnal reaping

 of moods revealed departures from the imaginary Ireland of this Summer

   wherein I released my hold on the idea of an isolated island life,

Meán Fómhair, Deireadh Fómhair, names for other times

and so with letting go of dreams, in the Taoist Wu-Xing calendar

 the dreams of wood,  木

 meeting with the metallic urgency of 金

     and with this Golden Autumn in Poland,

the premature, unwise, scraping clean of the forest

 amid protests and resistance of activists

      in the old growth forest of Puszcza Białowieska

    as if an unacknowledged struggle between species were underway...

*

 Annoyments of Resizing

signal to me
your relativity
& my bane of decisions
never leaving peculiarity aside
disassembling incisions
only to cut & hastily
paste them back
into leap space gap across
the paradox of density
where infinitely
tiny slats occupy
fractal galaxies of
unknown inbetweens
blocked from view
& driving language
mad with reversal
trying to top the
arrow of time

*

The poem, I guess, is some place I disappear within.

It's like a sound that doesn't quite exist made by nothing

quite there yet hard to ignore,

too soft to ignore, like a cat's paw

upon the yielding straw

where the perishing of the universe

bends the bending of the universe perishes,

the curvature going flat.

*

   Up to 11

out of the anti-fa and into the fire
being correct is always politically so
as when they comment on a music video (ee0-ee0)
"ah, everything in Iceland is perfect!"
every emotion is perfectly expressed, every street-volcano
top-notch, clean and snow-glistening, all politically tight,
cute as the dandruff on Bjork's shoulder, blackened
so they say, deep up into the northern lights,
there is an effect derived from being relentless
Mika Vainio, dead in the trenches of techno
& would that be what you mean
by politics-- made of snare drum, horns, you know, marches
fajerwerki, ragged glory holes, 21 gun saloots
versus random laborious bubbling
as if philosophy meant exhausting a series of pertinent questions
while whatever stumbles to the wayside
& "whatever" comes to mean "so what" and "fuck off"
it's always less shocking to report, rather than witness,
something which almost always happens to me
quite different than something which "almost" happened to me
(which never squander'd my flesh)
in that the "something" concretely befalling others
I have seen or felt nearly (near to me)

in the place of all these people
happens nearly enough to become personal memory
and the ironic "whatever" dissolves
into an objectivity (no one experiences)
like turning the resonance up to 11 
& the fray shudders inside the letters
standing back from the lips
crushed by mispronunciation
into figures of democratic convention,
they say, they need you, to speak for them, the dead,
but you sing, to them, speak to them, instead
& if anyone is over-hearing, think on us
as birds in any forest,
gathering leaf & worm
for the nest in the winter-bound skull

*

 10/2/17

 within our sleep
dreaming together a world
too much rapid-fire non-sense
jumping the guns
out in the wild west
or in catalan
amid the many
in the one
I cannot fathom
the trigger
but a cause
for alarm asks
where are we going
people?
whose holier
storm of selva
oscura are we
paying for
now?
 listen, details, in the slick
from outside-in
tumbling inside
out in the day
the face
the die cast
once human
over-drawn

by cloud.
I can look out only
then glance
backward
then forth
short of the vile
and live a while
longer & see

*

 

 Four Poems for Rupi Kaur, Almost.

10/8/2017
  
 1

when I was young I didn't understand the ways of duffers.
as a duffer I suffer the spell check interruptor & (as a duffer)
I do not understand the ways of the young. (I suffer)
I speed up and they say slow down I say this is the way to fly
and that writing is like sincerity the practice of being alone.

press share button. I go out into the streets to find

discursive content with people. 

what do you mean discursive content.
I don't know it's something I saw on the web.
oh what browser do you use? I always thought browser
sounded like a large & lazy word.  hey, don't talk to people 

with words stolen with words stolen from your old poems 

like people are just palaces

for some auto-correctional poetry to happen in.

these people ought to get a grip on what you mean.

before the buttfire grips them.

the fire down below

  2

sometimes I feel like this.

just that.

I know you know what I mean.
I come through the screen.

 3
everything with words. ripped out of the magazine of your mind.
travel one century back into a recognized literary masterpiece.
what are opera glasses? I've been to an opera once or twice.
Sat up front. closed my eyes. almost fell asleep. they are kind
of like binoculars just smaller and more useless for birding.
what's birding. like bird watching I guess. you have to have been there
in the forest to know what I mean. we used to be surrounded,
you know. not really. are you thinking people will understand
when you shift into dialogue? can't tell yet.
but they say if you look through the opposite end
of the opera glasses the world looks different.
opposite end? yeah. we have to find a way to
try it out sometime. sounds subversive

 4

it's okay to say what you want.
say anything you want at all.
rest assured I am not listening.
it will help you to relax.
chocolate helps reduce stress

 & raises dopamine levels.
remain affectionately ironic
& ahead of the hate game.
above all, be happy you are not that other person
coming down off the high
and that the lift isn't broken
that the steps are not crumbly,
that your life isn't.
it's a long climb

The Rushes, October 21 (Lift Not The Painted Veil)
 written as a dream passage
  waking, and walking, into the rushes

1
written between ripples
owing something to the name of the further father
matriculating would be
what we could be

automatic water

waiting to fall
anywhere now
under high pressure
down to earth
& walk among the people
unafraid & covered in hollyhocks

waving very fine lines of thought
attached to a stick like a dandelion

ready to blow in the wind
the answer my friend

what we have waited a lifetime
to remember before

/waiting for the end of the sentence
/waiting for the pen to kick in
/waiting and wondering
/where the next
/paycheck...

the flood of memory fills
the gap of love in life
and life in death
disperses the reversal
into knowing nerves
that fire again
& hatch inside a nest
inside a skull
forever woven forever weaving
the magnetospheres two
neutron stars once black
holes merged into ejecting
intra- then extra-uterine
struggles to be born
once again feeding hormone
puzzle wrapped in muscular
contractions fit to timed
expansion of the margin
this syllable this sibilance
& siren out of nowhere
such as Orionid pebbles
scattered scintillant
dew on unmown lawns

the cirrus sky above
serene swaddling mesosphere
raise up the pole of the world-tent
raise it down as well
for these are the directions
the water curls to belly out
where the sun shines longest
for this particular blue-bird
whose tail-feathers we prize
for our mother's pillow
for our mother's crown
that is light to fly with
waiting for the mountains to settle
forms into sensible forces
streams to bath hands
send the salmon initial
wisdom of the berry born

2

stay as you are
your hands bound behind
head into the wagon
in the world of the lira
is Poland the flat 5 coin?
Germany the 6? what pigment
darkens so
the Baltic Sea
 red border,
red guards, rubedo order
the trade of perishable gods
of perishable goods
these strange leaf-shapes
cover the countries
are the countries themselves
who would rather be forests

what? do you think
they grow on trees?
you have to work for it
you have to work with it
free hands
form Europe afresh
awake this morning
history's dream
they are the double-doors
double-doors revolving
sending souls two ways
the inner or outer
depending on
depending on everything
there being no points of view
other than many
only you there unite them
you have to work with it
get behind the wagon to push
because the wheels are stuck in the mud
you can't leave it to the animals

pluck up your nerve

many eyes in the window slits
prompt cursor

I can see it all from where I am standing
everyone speaks about it openly now
as if the pain lingering
where the last memory of some life without love
there was dark black fire-cloud
explosion planes out of nowhere
out of blue emerging

speaking of needles, here's one
fits into groove, crackles
the noise of it's master (replay)
entry of figure into weapons cache
instead all cassette tapes
scribbled titles, faded ink
espionage of fossils
"BEES WAY GONE"
& when the red blood of this vine
leaf runs down the walls
of the Chemical Collegium
 discovery (itself) with skeletal fingers
turns the page (alone)

alone with these words
encourage the young
never lose faith in study
of the magical science

leading a childish love-life
among angels
know it or not
you just might be

***********************

writing
in the same coat
I wrote
this in
ten years
ago

your breath there
in the oscilloscope
the mouth of the earth
pouring pure
waters forth
the chattering ducks
& dummy ducks
float upon

*****************___
+++++++++++++++++++++++
*******************************************

so, now we have a situation where a man sets himself of fire, in Warsaw, with intention, with a manifesto & here is not a point in this manifesto I find contrary to my views. he is of my age and lies in critical condition somewhere, a family outside Krakow... and his spirit that is calling out to me is this burning of autumnal leaves for who? For every injustice he feels, I must feel also. His pain is my pain. His desperation my own. Everywhere you go in this country, the people have the same complaints. My wife does the job of her bosses on Sundays which they cannot perform during the week and is paid no more for her efforts. We struggle with absurd tax laws. We have a health care system that keeps you on your toes: be healthy, because there's nothing it pays for. Women's rights are eroded. Thugs wander the streets and trams harassing foreigners. The government doesn't want to accept refugees but wants the EU subsidies. They cut down the forests and know one can tell where the timber or the profits go. The constitution is a lost scrap of paper in the wind of history? And flesh burns mixed with lighter fluid. Rehearsal or curtain?    ---  meridians for Piotr S ---

********************** ________________---------------
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>.......................

On this Day
(Three Status Update Poems)

October 23, 2016 at 11.14pm

wear a barrel
over your head
open a small door
cut into the barrel over your head
let your skull rattle
in the barrel
like tongue in the mouth
wailing ululations

open a window
on the night of the infinite
it is a window
in the flesh of the night
let the sheer curtains
flow through the gap of it
sheer curtains over the aperture
and through the frame blowing
sheer curtains blown by the wind of poetry
to blow the words written
on the sheer curtains of
poetry into the wind
of the infinite
(do not await the human accord
but write with the wind
and curtain
washing time

*

 October 21, 2012 at 4:50pm

a spider-web spun over my wine-glass by
night or what night always one in the many
sitting tight in the tense centrum of fragility

*

October 30, 2014, 3:44am

no apostrophe
should i go beyond
all god all word
I'd only find this secret
deep in the recesses
a series of conjectures
wrapped up in rituals
the eyes in the mirror
appear to be
unable to see
to sing the infancy of the unborn
and draw an infinite line
i cannot show you
music of molecules unstirred
my own hands having
stolen themselves
my feet running away
if you want no god
please don't applaud