the failure of reason

I did this piece called, 'If memory is a lie then so am I', in it was a reference to that American Gulag called Guantanamo Bay Prison, where incarceration is an endless train of shadows on the wall -- however, it was noted in a documentary that a majority of prisoners shared their experiences with each other in the form of Poetry; not just mystical-romanticism but post-modern angst as well - almost everyone of them wrote poems to capture their plight and increase their sight, to harbor hope as a light to over-come fright, which is the real-deal if ya' feel-me ...

Romanticism sings siren-songs alluring you to the craggy-shore of love-me, baby, love-me-more -- or, for the longing swells of the ever-peregrinated, where longing is what makes you go-baby-go, to grow 'n stretch beyond the fatal-skin 'yer in --

a conflicted Romanticism as a plaint of a Beauty which cannot be captured nor knows any fear, yet is neither consummated in passionate embrace, a kiss-less kiss, a touch-less face, so sHe goes to that longing Love that shall ne'er be won, peregrinated to follow an ancient aching heart 'til life is done -

in Romantic Mysticism the longing is often an allusion to the ever seeking Heart toward the beloved, as the goal is Love, a hungry love never sated - Oh, to kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses me, and in that kiss live an eternity - our hearts know this, Love attracts Love, the secret of the kiss -- and the law of attraction is as above, so in you, as you see Beauty, so it is in you, too -- all Lovers invent the Beloved and then the Music, the Poem, the Story is always about that -- the Lover makes the music, the Poem the Story as a texture of that ancient ache, a reality play which changes in innumerable revisions and realizations forever voyaging with the heart as compass - always going, never arrived, a visceReal Love uncontrived ...

I'd like it to be more clear, singing a Siren-Song reverberating there, alluring with a languid laissez-faire, calling you with a back-bone chill, a frisson thrill, where you lose your will and the last thing to go, ya' know, is the soul, which gives the pearl it's extra gleamy-glow

-- romantic-mysticism is like that at first, where the image becomes cursed by becoming numinous 'n fluid, the thirst being the thing after-all, after the fall -- that the goal of longing swells, that ancient-ache that tells us to yearn toward the goal, of love, ya know, is the place we lament in sears of tears that we're sent by the particles dream to coalesce as a Sun again ... while you're post-modern humanism stays the course, in images made of sense, toward lips so sweet to kiss, the meaning of all of this --

nevertheless, when looking outside-in beyond the fatal-skin we're in, it's enough to just begin to reach without an end - the song-o-longing remains the same, In infinite darkness an ancient ache cried out in a million quivering lights as if the night wept stars --

we write and read Poetry to heal the wounds of our reasons ...

love

love: what would that look like, how would that feel, inside-out with out a doubt, making it real? Is it dependent upon our impressions, our sense-based metaphors describing our mood, love being really neither bad nor good. Or would the process be lingering with an ineffable-peace, the numinous moving-us toward release, from the fatal-skin we're in toward a heart rending goal, with tears in our eyes from longing so. 


 I'm reminded of the 'Divine Saliva' a repast most fulfilling when you kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses thee, and in that kiss is sweet eternity -- Amirta

some called it the Red Lion, the Philosophers Stone, the Pool of Nectar of Immortality which'll change your brain beyond the merely human vain, transmuting you through quantum-tunnels in the fatal-skin yer' in with a blast of atomic-might folding-space 'n time to the beginning of night, at first-light; thus you'd of created a soul with the goal of Love ya' know


becoming human is much more difficult than you'd expect, which is the first real step toward divining love - why, there aren't many humans really, except in singular-forms that tend to cluster askew of your bell-curve norms, the herd-instinct we do mimicking germs -- even these Newg'd romantics in their zeal to be nice, in random acts of blindness, which conceals their vice, are only feeding their hungry-ghosts, though they entice; while the fixated geek scratches their head-lice, the ideas they stroke, their hearts are of ice -- it's no joke that Nature binds you to the fatal-skin you're in and turns off the growing-of-your-brain when you, the driver, stop changing the lane -- individuation is the process of becoming human, which is simply individualism without the dead-end tunnel-vision of narcissism, which always defaults to social-darWINism, which is a crime against humanity

for example, I've a friend of many years doing a slow-dive, falling in increments onto his face for the last ten years or so ( the same guy I wrote the 'lil diddy about, ya' know, 'the seduction of despair, the rest is silence') - anyways, he's one of those groupies of newg'd romantics cum bio-informatics but cannot stay in a relationship very-long, preferring the diversion of group-immersion, that coming 'n going song -- he's kinda all over the place like a teen-age boy with angst, though he's 60something with a 10 year itch turned to rash --  he came over to stay from Nanimo the other day for an over-night play with some connections he made in his last group dynamic - again he rolled out the egregious errors of his last wife who left him without a home, the depression that resulted and, give me a break, that whine he does to please the fools who cannot get-up and choose to be relieved -- I had him in tears as he whined some more, not feeding his need to feel the poor-boy, fixed him in the eye with a warrior-like gaze, told him he's lazy, full of fear 'n doubt, the equivocation-haze - then he got angry and shouted-out, fukU,fukU, fukU over and over again, 'til the fear in his body left him flowing like Zen -- then I smiled and said with warmth that is real, after the fear is gone what's left is to 'feel' ...

... the love of a friend should batter the head and pierce the heart - thus speaks love

mnemosyne: the very-tease of merCurious illuMentations

the very-tease of merCurious illuMentations or further farthers found near-bye

sHe is grateful for the verities of Poetic experience
and Poetry often shows this lyrically without
the lucubration of pedantry or
the fundamentalism of bigotry.

sHe sings in the ecstasy of realization
so lightly in these darkened days,
lifting our eyes to the nobler quest in feeling waves ...
or better yet, sHe plays with language and creates anew,
mangling with absurdity, the light, from black words
as a Poet ought to do?

-- words imbued with a silence only the heart can hear,
the potential of the pause, the swelling of empty space,
in that stillness her longing heart whispers with verity,
the logos is thus theos, and so my dear,
you meet-her in words far 'n near--

Yet if the telling is the lure and words are as powers
to sway and preach, then they neither fly nor teach!

sHe lures us to look and look and dare see
with eyes open to our inner reality --

sHe dives deep, the infinite-in
where a visceral piety is the pearl,
made in the murmuring mud, rolling around in the sound,
a whirl'd of delight,
showing again as a gleam in her eye to be
reflected in the thousand mirrors of your mind --
where there are many more glimmering pearls
for you to find ...

on the goatherds crooked staff

Poetry is an act of actualizing self, individuating with each write, which flows out of the lowest we did fall and crawl to the highest we dared dream in the eyes of a lovers gleam - this 'lektrick muse let loose, plugged into the warmth in your chest or the chill in your bone to become words that tinker in the antics of semantics and linger on the poetics of noetics, rythm'd in time; words that smash and blush, flash and hush, dash and duck, in the neuro-linguistics of your mind

I'll give the 'moan-oral' a try: I always liken'd Nietzsche to being the original cunning-linguist: an emancipated-semanticist with a philandering-philology of ontology path-dependent on desire -- imagine the Übermensch trying to quench his thirst for power with nihilism -- nonetheless, these writers write and I remember reading each of them and listening to Sibelius -- writing is a way to emerge from the cocoon of learnt metaphor clusters which we garnered from other writers and philosophers, so that our own wings of imagination, though fractaly path-dependent, but meant to navigate to new worlds we wept-of before, when we lost so much more than we felt we could endure, unfold fer sure and wing us to the fire like the moth to flame -- so, this bookmark of writers gleans my left-write brain-stays and even Heinlein, that right-wing hack, made credible sojourns for my becoming young mind -- a shadow hangs over me 'cause yesterday came suddenly, in the books that I read, reverberating inside my head ...

I'd like to hack-through this Gordian-knot with the steel of reason-true -- but that's what I'm telling you, the reader - when you think about anything you're in the point-of-view you're in, which is more-or-less than the sum of all you've heard and read, inside your head - then you go somewhere and develop it according to the nerves in you, plugged into the warmth in your chest or the chill in your gut, transmitted to your pen over and over again -- so the goatherd is simple, representing the quiet of a naturally rhythmic life filled with silence and peace, the pause of emptiness wherein the sound of dreams begin - which these writers and philosophers longed for, i.e., to become the noble-savage watching ripples on Walden's pond

aHa: a poetic noetic instantiation in three acts

aHa: a poetic noetic instantiation in three acts

rushing inference, imminent insight,
suddenly its clear, a gut feeling,
swooning, reeling,
cross-connected hemi-sphere,
syncopated, reverberated, totally aware

open bi-ways, ahh, blue-sky days, making up my mind,
synapses shiver, axons quiver, dendrites deliver,
'lectrik-neurons fire suddenly in time

aha! aha! oh gawd I see, I ran around 'n cried,
a fool I've been, all along its there, right in front of me

with a grin 'n a nod 'n twinkly-looking 'round,
raised my arms 'n slapped my thighs,
'n made a ruckus sound --

donned my hat 'n set it skewed
upon my big bright head,
set off to town in an uplifted mood
while whistling a sweet sound,
forgot what I had found

#

there's a hole in my head
where the wounds of reason seep,
all words are dead inside my head
what's left is dark 'n deep

@

I'll always live
and always die
on the event horizon
of my mind's eye
where the flash
of neuronal fires
flower into
sudden infinity --

the seduction of despair

yes, that's the thing,
we expect our desperately depressed friends
to just carry-on,

work inside the conceit of gravity,
have faith that this is as low as it goes - but no,
they often have an agenda dependent upon
their dead-end tunnel-vision,
you don't get me --

you don't understand how deep is my well,
so, I'll go beyond your gravity and
you'll be sorry that I fell ...

something like foreshadow the dark content
of life-disavowed, the faith of reasons not allowed
and the rest is found from here and there,
the little fear that when I'm gone and you're waiting there,
it'll become clear how sorry you'll be for me
not being me anymore:

I'd rather be a ghost
than feel like one,
it's more real for me and i'm being real with my feelings
or lack of them
from now on ...

my uncertain suicide

 

death has a certain advantage which we the living do not, the rest is silence ... Momento Moris are stories we tell about feeling like hell, or deader yet, feeling nothing at all; the gray wastelands and tunnel-visions where all the dead-ends meet -- however life, misery and everything changes all the rules which were dead forms and rituals to begin with -- you have to make your own fun, be your own Sun and shine in those dark places others are afraid to see ...

my uncertain suicide is a sort of revisionist angst writ large for the gray-wasteland people - a friend in his 60's is pensive and avoiding eye-contact while his twelve year-old daughter begs him to quit skirting the edges of that black-hole he's sporting and just dive-in -- there's a 'suicide' theme today and I'm writing like I don't really care what you all say ... an experiment while feeling trapped in the world of the living - he responded well to the poemeant and is coming for a visit - suicide is thematic today so I had to write away

as a teenager I held a knife to my chest with EMO fright for half a day -- I was very afraid throughout my thirties and around 42 had an epiphany that death was better off dead and I was just afraid to live -- however, surviving isn't a priority but evolving is and if I have to strip down to my core reality I'd do it in the silence of simplicity -- nevertheless, not feeling anything at all is part of the desperate attempt toward feeling anything at any cost of desperation, which is the credo of the 'I don't wanna grow old' crowd -- I remember emotions being so charged with the stresses and strainings of just growing-up and then just-growing old became lame and without any noble meaning: a sort-of gradual disappearing where people can't hear you talking anymore nor even notice you walking down the street -- the fear of disappearing and not meaning anything at all is the last form of narcissism packaged in self-deprecation - nonetheless, we do go through phase-state changes which include these unremarkable gray-wastelands which leaves us feeling better-off dead

the rest is silence

in good faith is celebrating gravity
and depends on the thief;
which is not really a valid point of reference
for a disembodied voice: the answer,
i feel, is taken away

the thief is in the fields to the right;
the fast car, the suicide thing,
the ferryman and the coins,
the woman at the station, waiting

since I'm not having anything to do with it,
I just hope you're sorry now

merCurious illuMentations

the rest is silence ... such is the conceit of 'knowing' which is inclined to 'want to know more'; bent toward the gravity of 'I think therefore I am' which is the raison d'etre behind all pseudonyms ... wisdom based on 'knowing' has a fatal flaw, reason, which is wounded by the point of view you're in, the 'I,' where the fatal-skin begins -- however, the heart does not differentiate between man-woeman or race or any of our sense-based tools of distinction -- rather it's that 'glow of awareness' which is the key to the realEYEsed seeing of this blissful reality changing, ever rearranging -- a heart jammed into the vibration can see on the sharp-edge of a glance and into the hearts of man-woeman-beast without judgment or opinion while discriminating-wisdom is following the heart but using the head known as licking-honey from the razors edge -- the 'I know' mantrum is another form of temper-tantrum and a ritual of Western Hubris, the kiss of the Narcissist that looks at each other with darWINian percepts, that lasso of who's who on the hierarchical tree of 'I me mine' memory -- mmm, nonetheless, the fractal-flaw in us all is the revolutionary-mutation, the viva la difference dance where we all look into the mirror of each other and see sister and brother and if by chance the mirror reflects in a myriad of ways, the beloved one, then you've begun to see that the rest is silence and shall want no more, as such, said in another way, freedom from freedom is truly free, that is, the weight of the world is really its only door ...

Atlas mused - the yoke we bear in time is space, the domain in which we view, all that's done comes back again, because we chose it to -- when we look even deeper then, again we look some more, what we thought the weight of the world, is really its only door ...