"in a looking-glass that sees both ways"

 

*(The poet approaches the mic, leans in, voice is a low hum.)*

A poem is a mirror.
A **ɹoɹɹıɯ**.
A yes-I-can with crayons the color of Tachyons,
rushing out of whirl’ds where past-meets-future,
reaching **for-words**…
yet going **back-words** for some more.

It makes reflections, like a ripple,
but you’re at zero-point too,
where the puddle tessellates to a past in the future *you*,
and you reflect it back-words and for-words
'til it reverberates…
right there.
Now.
Here.
Like an invertendo-innuendo that’s an in-your-face…
**ɹoɹɹıɯ**.

*(Pace picks up, a hint of paranoia, a conspiratorial whisper.)*

And this mirror-Kah… it *rackles* with the spirit of the times.
This mirror… reciprocates.
And everything recorded is written everywhere for anyone to see—
a hit-list for the insurgents,
a collapse scenario for the empire,
as the top one-percent feed the roots of alien, alternative… cycles.

But listen.
‘I see you, you see me’
and maybe together we’re spied-upon in an irony
of what it’s like not to be truly free.
So we carry on.
In a more human innuendo,
a more momento-mori story,
mirroring each other… more merrily.

*(Rhythm becomes a slow, rolling, cyclical chant.)*

Another cycle of the Sun,
rollin’ ’round the earth ‘yer on,
then in cycles turned your way,
yes, another day…
where cycles in the Sun are glimmerings on the Sea,
making many reflections,
and sympathetic tessellations vibrate in our oceanic-brain,
where the orbits perigee,
where we learn the lessons of leaving behind
and faltering forward,
where we would-if-I-could be the king who would be a man,
riding these cycles of the Sun by the Sea,
going on this way…
over and over…
mirrorly.

*(Voice turns sharp, staccato, aggressive.)*

And we become these just-in-time
**poet-ninJa assassins,**
recycling those one-percenters who wannabe left alone
with all of the crayons.
We reflect their creme-de-la-creme in our extra hot latte,
and with every word we missed the mark with,
we feed the roots of further cycles
than ever they bloomed before.
Splash.
Of.
Color.

*(Tone shifts to gratitude, warmth, a big-hearted exhale.)*

So thank-you, Poets.
For the many reflections.
For the big-hearted yawp of freedom to be who you want to be.
Thank you for sharing your wrought-out ramblings
where my meaning-making takes a rest
and instead, with great exaltation, I surrender
to how you all ‘fess-up and down and around
and always… with a wry wit in it.

It’s bright.
It echoes the numinous in-us.
The euphoric-eunoia.
The bright language of connecting,
an authentic friending in a lightning look…
in intertextual-fugues,
invertendo-innuendos,
or mirrorly… by-the-book.

*(Voice drops to a final, intimate, questioning whisper.)*

So is that it then?
This eunoia-euphoria…
this urge-to-merge?
Is that it?
Expressed in longing waves,
swelling in each other as sister and brother?
Is that it?
When you’ve engaged both sides of the brain…
the scholar and the minstrel…
is that the euphoria we’re after?

*(Poet holds the silence for a beat, then steps back.)*

unfortunate heaven

(The stage is bare. The poet steps to the mic.)

(Begin calm, deliberate)

They tell you prayer is soft hands,
is waiting for a sign.
They tell you it’s a useless, romantic kind of whine
that only grows your doubt.
But I say prayer is a shout.
My prayer is a dare:
May love grow in the hearts of men,
and may believers learn to think again.

They show you quotes about commitment,
about how the moment you begin, Providence moves too.
How a whole stream of events you never knew
will rise up to meet you.
How boldness has magic.
Power.
Genius.
And they say, “Begin it now.”

(Pace quickens, voice fills with anxiety)

And that…
that scares the shit out of me.
You see?
It’s the finality. The end of the mystery.
It’s the sweeping swings of a promised Spring
withheld from my wild purpose.
It’s the dead forms, the placid rituals,
the mantra-mullah songs that kill the Truth in me
the moment I sink in.

One night, God came to me in a dream.
Said, "I’m taking you to the brighter-world, Jerry."
And that’s it.
Heaven.
Game. Over.

(Frantic, pleading)

WTF.
What if I want to take my body-of-cycles with me?
What if I want the sweat-of-passion and the blisters of unfulfillment?
What if everyone has to come?
The monsters of the night, the broken, the lost—
can it be so? No one left behind?
Isn’t a Bodhisattva a gem that keeps coming back for more?

So I choose this edge.
I choose to slice the night with the light I find on the dark side.
I choose this persistent imminence.
This place where death limns us all.

(Angry, hitting a rhythm, like fists on a table)

They give you the wish-fulfilling gem!
The power to change it all!
The holy fire! The timeless abode!
And you turn your back?
You turn your back on splendour
for the simple, sweet redolent smell of another human?
For the pain? For the failure? For the wounded misery?

YES.
Because without it, we’re not human.
We’d be like those fuKin’ Angels,
no pleasure, no pain,
just taking some sick satisfaction
in fuKin’ with people’s heads
because we’re so easily deceived by hope.

It’d be like being King of the Hill.
An alpha-grin, spitting down at the world,
“I’VE WON.”
And then you’re done.
Except for the fun of rolling a few Sisyphean rocks
down on all the other wanna-be’s.

(Shifts tone, becomes wondrous, philosophical)

There’s something wonderful in the cloud-of-unknowing
that heaven or hell cannot glean.
It’s the unfinished.
The undone.
It’s the potential that makes infinity trivial.
We are better at being the process, not the finished product.
Knowing is the end of curiosity.
So I’d rather be on a Sisyphean roll.
Really.

(Softer, finding the core truth)

Because if memory is a lie, then so am I.
A story I tell myself.
A fiction and a reality, hopelessly intertwined.
An act of remembering that changes me,
so I sing my songs as they come,
right now,
making myself in my own image…

(Voice drops, each word deliberate, a quiet anthem)

unbecoming,
unfettered,
unfinished,
undone…

(Building to a final, fierce climax)

Because when an inner situation is not made conscious,
it appears outside as FATE.
So I wrestle my demons. I like the contact.
I like the fire.
Like Prometheus, running from the perfection of the Gods,
ranting about the lack of darkness in their light.
He brought us these revelatory wings.
He brought us this truth:
That the burning of the Eagle’s Talons
is a misery required
when enamouring Fire.

(Silence.) 

Cantata of Wonder

I. Cosmos — Adagio maestoso

What was it Einstein mused…
when he spoke in a kind of mathematical show ’n tell?

“If I rode on a beam of light…
through the deep dark reach of space…
what would I see?
what would I be?
would I be anyplace?”

Then he chuckled,
stuck out his tongue,
made his eyes go wide —

“I’d be everywhere at once…
bent toward the infinite…
really deep inside.”

Beauty echoes…
through all things.

Like Nature’s laughter
inside a flower.

And a communion…
of the Eternal Present exists.

As if no past ever compelled.
As if no future beckoned.

Yes…
deep calls to deep.

II. Mind — Fuga scherzando

The relative dance…
is to the frequencies of scale.

Planet to Planet.
Star to Star.

Galaxies and dark matter
revolving in the slipperiness
of deep and dark space.

Keeping pace…
to their own law…
of falling into each other
in time and space —
matter into matter.

I’d imagine dear Wittgenstein…
with a black hole in his head.

Bending the light
with his insight.

Gödel, Escher ’n Bach —
playing with the infinite-in.

Where all that’s left of the Cheshire cat
is the grin.

Canons and fugues
with Shepard scales.
The white whale…
of Information Theory.

The Eternal Golden Braid —
in quantum tessellations made.

It’s Higgy dust.

Where from nothing…
to everything you see,
a quantum fluctuation
made you… and me.

III. Love — Cantabile con tenerezza

Ontology…
as path-dependence.

Poetry… writing…
is an act of actualizing self.

Individuating with each write…
that flows out of the lowest
we did fall and crawl,
to the highest
we dared dream —

inside the eyes…
of a lover’s 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 in the poetics-of-noetics.

Rhythm’d in time.

Words that smash and blush.
Flash and hush.
Dash and duck.

In the neuro-linguistics of your mind.

IV. Prayer — Lamentoso e misterioso

Sometimes the poem is a prayer.
Sometimes the prayer — the plaint —
is a diminutive echo…

of our deep
calling for deep.

Our slippery-sloped
separation anxiety.

Sometimes…
feeling this is all I can do.

And this — this…
is a catabasis romance.

And yet… a duality dirge too.
An elegy of woe.

And a place of exceptional Peace —
where the quantum frequencies of bliss
are released.

V. Wonder — Andante luminoso

In the phenomenology of Love,
coupled with the visceral reality
of joyousness —
that frissons up the spine…

What remains…
is our own courage to change the world
from the inside out.

Withoutta’ doubt.

That lost art…
of interior design.

It starts with wonder.
Imbued in awe.

Unbound by the language of reason.
Nor by the fatal skin we’re in.

Uncluttered by the pitter-patter of patterns,
promulgated by bad education.

Nor spoilt by the cliché…
of tribal mediocrity.

VI. Coda: Illumination — Finale con fuoco

From stars we come
to stars we shall return,
this ancient ache of longing
that’s urging us to burn.

To shine on and on
from inside out,
where illumination is a fire
without any doubt.

Romanticism

The Romantics —
Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, Keats —
move us with the rhythms of the numinous.

The Poet is often a Romantic.
The vision of Romanticism echoes the Devotional Bhakti Yoga of the East.

Novalis, the German Romantic poet, once wrote:
“We read poetry to heal the wounds that reason makes.”

I garden for the same reason.
Writing, for me, has been a balm against
the endless demand to
please be reasonable.

The Poem is never finished.
The writer is always writing —
grasping at the numinous,
at the unreasonable —
guided by a pen dipped in laughter and tears,
hopes and fears.

Aspired or enthused,
drunk or merely called
to a task that cannot be finished —
for truth and beauty have
no beginning,
no end.

The writer is the pen.
The words are what he has caught in the wind.
A speaking heart,
singing a longing tale —
for there is only one Poem,
one Story,
one Song.

A deeply conflicted Romanticism:
a plaint of beauty that cannot be captured,
that knows no fear,
yet is never consummated in passionate embrace.

A kissless kiss.
A touchless face.

And so,
sHe goes to that longing Love
that shall never be won,
peregrinating to follow an ancient aching heart —
until life is done.

In Romantic Mysticism,
this longing is an allusion
to the ever-seeking heart —
yearning for the Beloved,
the goal being Love —
experienced,
but never sated.

Oh,
to kiss the Beloved
with the same kiss
the Beloved kisses me —
and in that kiss,
live an eternity.

Oh, our hearts know this.
Love attracts Love —
this is the secret of the kiss.

The law of attraction is a sympathetic vibration:
as above, so in you.

And as you are moved from wonder into awe,
your eyes glitter
with the beauty you saw.

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,
changing in innumerable revisions and realizations,
forever voyaging with the heart as compass.

Always going.
Never arrived.

For Love has no opposite.
The opposite of hate
is discriminating wisdom.

wishes

There is a wish, 

At least,

At last.

When none are left.

And none,

We're ever right.

Though thought,

And worry

Hurried then;

When

There was,

Everything against.

Now we wish for more,

And more,

Of less and 

Less.

Radiant Emptiness

From Stars we come, to Stars we shall return;
This ancient ache of longing that's urging us to burn.
To shine on 'n on from inside out,
Where illumination is a fire without any doubt...

Mundanaities naturally

I read Castaneda throughout my in between years, in my teen years where I woke to my Na'will and dreamt that juan-carlos floated through all the mundane-bits that we do ... but he assisted me too, with death-awareness pattern-recognition; these trails left behind by Natures foxy-moves, 'til you could read its language, its omen-nomenclature, and not need to know what it meant, then take another breath while brother-death counted what was left...

artists are often autogamous, like jelly-fish, especially when they're disturbing meaning in a rhythmic pulsation, exciting to fluorescence a deeply subtext'd verse; but don't mistake their stinging strophe for arrogance, that's just fierce presence, moved by waves of astonishment, cascading through their nervous and vascular system; they’re spontaneously overflowed ( sea through ) and while reaching with their iridescent tentacle, they'll simply, elegantly, fluoresce a gleam in your eyes...

On the L'il-rat-eye'd critics:

They're 'little-rat-eyes' = literati and 'ill-little-rat-eyes' = illiterate -- it's funny how ignorance can show up in an Academic and failed high-school red-neck alike -- I suppose that arrogance, hubris, is without distinction

those L'il-rat-eyes are speed-readers who're always looking for ways to fill the gap between their lips with knowledgeable sooth-sayings, 'cuz they've mimed the word meaningfully, yet without the Poets consciously cogent sounds in their head -- Poets, however, have gaps in their head where they merCuriously spout their words smoothly, mellifluously with surround-sound lips that never get stuck on having to know anything at all -- they in-wordly lip-reciprocate in an astonished why-lessness that (disturbs meaning) de-means everything into a sudden swoon that turns the whirl'd 'round -- the poet is one who brings a fresh focus to the everyday, fresh eyes to the mundane, with music in the ecstasy of wildly irreverent rhythmic words that fly away off the page in particles 'n waves, while they lip-synchronate with all the meta-sensory expansions 'n contractions that constantly risk absurdity...

these ill-little-rat-eyes cannot see beyond 'what's in-it for them' and maybe if they wink and coo, they can get laid too -- otherwise it's the alliteration of the illiterate and we all know where the ill-little-rats go when they don't know, pressing against their desperation with their glowering expectations and they can't really do a cogent crit 'cuz they don't have the wit for it, so they'll shoot a Poets work down with a number crunch, a petty solution, the money'd knockout punch ...

while they're reading a write I imagine their cunning-less-ness is at the base of it; while the Poetess is wet with over-flowed inspirations blissinging up her 'lectrikly sapient spine, making us feel an infinite-in, with her words flowing outwardly sublime -- however, those L'il-rat-eye'd critics with their pre-packaged-percepts cannot really see beyond their mediocre myopic certainty...

?¿ intertextual-fugue ?¿

an ?¿ intertextual-fugue ?¿ is here --> http://goo.gl/TsxBlQ <-- comic="" literary="" my="" span="">

What is an ?¿ intertextual-fugue ?¿

When we were children curious and free, we'd learn by mimicking what we see; sometimes it was frustrating and we'd jump and scream 'til we finally figured out what it really did mean; so maybe the planet and its people too, are in a cognitive-dissonance and just don't know what to do; 'til they do, when they become heart-centred again, that'll be the day for celebration then...

ComiX are ephemeral and topical, however, what comes around, goes around -- we humans are on the brink of falling-fatal to a heartless machine, doing our 'duty' as an ordinary-drone has-been -- or we can be rising-rapture'd in an organic-mutation within a few natural generations - then we'd speak in light's language of shadow sculpting time, moving to a music which only the heart can hear, simply-sublime, risen from the slime, dancing without any fear.

So the point-of-view is the field of possibility. What would 'objective' Art look like? -- ?¿Art-officially; it seems to me that there are two forms of Art. Objective Art and Subjective Art. Subjective Art comes in 3 flavours, generally, i.e., Intellectual, Emotional, and Physico/Instinctual. A quick example of each would be Picasso's Instinctual works, the Expressionists emotive works, and the Intellectual forms of the so called minimalist Post-Modern Art. Of course there are various blending of these 'subjective-types' which speaks to each of us on the level of our personal character, our relative perspectives and, to paraphrase Nietzche, all of our bad-education; hence the like/dislike quality of subjective art works.

With Objective art, like the Gothic Cathedrals of old, the Pyramids, and music such as Beethoven's 5th Symphony or Mozart's 40th, 41st and 42nd symphonies, each and every one has a similar experience. Lifting us up, out of our personal time/space habit patterns; lifting us in awe to the greater nature of life, like wings of wonder flying through the vast cloud-of-unknowing that is this sentimental-reality. So it is that Nature reflected in Art, seems to move us beyond our tunnel-vision, while the subjective forms tend to chain us to our comfortable habits of seeing and hearing, or that they provide us a temporary diversion from our methodically-inauthentic machinations at best.

Poetry (and I agree that ComiX are a form of Poetic representation) often reflects these 'small' miracles in our everyday struggle. Like most Art, it is subjective and produces few Saints. Art as a Language can speak to us within but without any reason, and often sings of a Love that cannot be named, in a music that only the Heart can hear. However, it is like having a 'Myth' which is like having a 'Map!' The Artist can share these 'stories' of her 'Map Quest', her experiences, and somehow in the sharing, we the readers and perhaps the Artist herself, are renewed! Nevertheless, ?'knowing' is like these Maps, but it's really not the Territory, that cloud-of-unknowing we're presently 'wondering' through...

In summary, tl:dr, 'we don't see things as they are, we see them as we are, and if we change the way we look at things, the things we look at change' -- and that's what these Poets of possibility arouse in their Art. It's why I read Poetry and Comix; or as Novalis averred, "We read Poetry (or ComiX) to heal the wounds that reason makes."

http://goo.gl/TsxBlQ

catabasis [kəˈtæbəsɪs]

Pluto just went direct -- Last April when Pluto went retrograde I experienced my first a-fib death cycle, during which I'm in the frequency of Spirit disconnected from ground -- and the body feels a weighted stone -- and these events reoccurred until recently, when I found a way to manage these cycles from within and also from help my Doctors and Naturopath provided -- nevertheless you can divine the rest

 Retrograde makes it an inner event -- so many of us made this trip recently, it was very far inside, where deep calls to deep... so now Pluto moves forward and ...

"What does not kill me, makes me stronger." --  Friedrich Nietzsche

I chose for the topic of my first essay Will Eisner's, "The Origin of The Spirit," The Spirit, 13 January 1946, page 2. The density of  the imagery, the bold colouring of each panel and the way in which the panels are divided up whimsically, all moving the narrative along, grabbed my eye right away. I found myself flitting between each section hungry for the action I was anticipating there. Then I became mesmerized at each panels portrayal of 'The Spirits' catabasis. His personal descent into hell for remediation and his spirited return with a dark vengeance.

That's my Thesis: "Hallelujah Anyway" -- Comics can be a cathartic catabasis [kəˈtæbəsɪs] -- it's story telling 101 -- by keeping it simple it resonates with the reader and a nontrivial empathetic inner event occurs -- the reader becomes alive to his or her own process of individuation -- or at the very least they find a voice that speaks to their personal tragedy, the wounds they suffered for their individual remediation, the withering they endured on their dark descent, and that they almost died so that they'd be stronger for it.

We see farther standing on those truly-squared shoulders of our chosen Dark Super Spirit-Sleuth ... I feel a pleasure of ebullience as I imagine myself the protagonist of this well written and boldly presented story. 

Even so, this is only one page promulgating these many reflections, and I'm allured, like Narcissus fingering his self-aware pool of consciousness, while Echo diminutively stutters in an arcane self-referential mystery, over and over again.

As the symbol of Ouroboros attests, we repeat in these things, as if all of creation stuttered out of itself toward this pure sapient frisson, which we are, which our stories reflect, and from which we emerge somehow more whole...

I've noted that our stories can be like a romance, and I'm constantly returning, rounding another catabasis, in an urge-to-merge, and I'm inclined simply to exist in that kiss -- oh to kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses me, and in that kiss, mingle mystery -- oh our hearts know this, Love attracts Love is the secret of this kiss --

Back to the story: I met a dangerous man in black at Starbucks this evening

'Fuk, she's still not answering the phone,' I curse under my breath as I slip the device into my jacket pocket while opening the glass door to the coffe-shop, stepping into a room with dark roast cloying in the still air, and look into the dim light, where I have a meeting with, 'fate.' 

I’ve seen Pluto, that old black and dangerous God, at least three times. Probably more, and HE scares the shit-outta’ me every time! Every time a frisson falls up my spine, every time I feel spent, and I’m usually left traumatized and trembling from the Power I just experienced … The ferryman, I call him. He’s pitch-black, glistens with the entropy fugues of Galaxies pouring into their stuttering black holes. He was, well he surely is, but can easily exist in many alternities and Kaliterations, but way more than that, more than any human fear imaginable, he’s a dark Knight who’s a bringer of death and other blood fatal events onto our mortal horizons.

He always stands there, at the edge of his marvelous imminence of missing matter, which roils and churns at his skin, making him shimmer in blackness and chaos; and we’re just an itch he may scratch, an unlikely event on his dark occurrence.

He's kind of like a Comics caricature of an unconflicted Super-Hero whose abilities are to take succour of lost souls, eat them, with a touch of the dark vengeful knight of passion and determination. Except that makes him more approachable than he really is. If you meet him, it may already be too late.

There’s no solace in these meeting places where his creative-destruction is all there is, and that meeting with ‘HIM” is of consequence to all of manifestation…

So, at a local Starbucks this evening, where I met this very dangerous man, a man who’d made an elixir, an elixir he exclaimed to be the 'Red Lion,' and went on to say that he imbibed it 973 years before in a Bohemian castle. He looks to be a healthy middle-aged man with eyes of steel-blue, wearing an Armani suit that ripples upon his animal physique, shimmers blackness; the Alchemist, I wrote in my Journal on my laptop. He collected and concocted in many fields.

He approached me through an acquaintance to request that I write about him, for what he later called, ‘a power that could change the rules of the game.’ and he continued brooding, 'a power over death.'

a laptop

illuminated letters

complete with words

black on white pixels

scattered

lines on a screen

layered

sentences vibrate cyclically;

we see them in ourselves

‘story’

until these things happen again.

-enter-

I break-up with you

-> breaks give direction <- p="">

I break-down alone

-back-space-

with i n t e n t i o n

both unknown and known -

our home, a period,

our motion, a verb,

an adjective,

shift-insert

candles burn, wax wanes,

drips down, drys up sputtering;

warm glow of screen

quote

it was devastating

for all of human kind

who conspired with the fire of war

burned at both ends

unquote

Serendipity: the happenstance of meaning -- the happy dance of gleaning

Sun            mEandering              iRonics        madE           soNics           briDge  connectIng    hodgePodge     foundlIngs           faTal      happY              w Ith           wo Nder   The  languag E           no R   The            w E're   Xpanding       nega Tive-space        lang Uage-weeps   After-words         whir L'd               o F             d Uality,   tremblin G   Upon            th E      victim S,

sometimes meaning is an arbitrary thing we do to fill in our blank looks -- nevertheless, the thing we do with words to make them wing on feathers dipped in tears and laughter, to mime the looks we give each other, and woo our reader into our serenade of serendipity with the happenstance-of-meaning gleaming from their eyes... 

the happenstance-of-meaning is gleaning that we leak in language; A-lexi–thymia: Literally meaning “no words for emotions.” -- there is Beauty in unfettered language -- like Jazz, it becomes fluid and undulates meaning within the main components of the Poem -- 

the happenstance-of-meaning, foundlings of the great or small

the friction made from rubbing the heart 'n mind together

the imagination aspires from the limits of syntactical-chains

binding us to the tunnel-visions of common sense:

this present imperfect tense 

this present imperfect tense in the happenstance of meaning -- there is Beauty in these fettered phrasings -- as the tongue carries the forms-and-rituals of the word, sounds rolling as a tidal wash upon a wild-worn shore, tumbling, reaching forwards, then, where deep calls to deep, moving back-words for some more... 

intertextual ironics <--> uber-lexical sonics -- the happenstance of meaning is the happy dance of gleaning

                                   intertextual fugues <~> sǝnƃnɟ ןɐnʇxǝʇɹǝʇuıi

Somehow, the level of meaning, intended and happenstance in a write, are co-dependent upon the level of the reader gleaning, i.e., their 'comprehension' their 'wonderment' and all of their 'bad-education.'

it has become evident to me, that the 'meaning' envisioned by the Author will probably have been revisioned by the Reader. Hence the subjective like/dislike quality to the tale told. Engrams or HieroGlyphs branded in the brain via synaptic structures are inter-looped: there where you can gather more dendrites by adding new memories to old thus creating a modular set of precepts in the garnering of meaning. Musing further, to use Socrates validation, 'seeming is often master of the reality' and we therefore need to agree to terms for an agreed meaning to be garnered. To deter the 'revisionist' and march like 'soldier lemmings' off an agreed upon ledge, to 'meanings' fatal fall, to reasons fatal flaw ... that it is co-dependent upon Language=Syntax (agreements of form) for connecting, while Poetry is the flow and rhythm of words, sound-scapes which create meaning from word-movement; reflecting is optional!! and yet we 'disturb' meaning by recreating Language in our own image according to these HieroGlyphic-synaptic modules we've garnered. Subjective intertextual ironics made of objective (echoing Nature) uber-lexical sonics become the happy dance of gleaning meaning.

Language is a bridge, connecting, but the bridge has a syntax you gotta' pay to getta'cross what you wanna' say; Poetry is the stream below, murmuring, reflecting many Suns; meandering modulated-sounds for each 'n everyone!

In the phenomenology of Love coupled with the visceReality of joyousness which frissons up the spine, what remains is our own courage to change the world from inside out withoutta’ doubt, that lost Art of interior-design … it starts with wonder imbued in awe, unbound by the language of ‘reason’ nor by the fatal-skin we’re in, uncluttered with the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad education nor spoilt by the cliché of tribal-mediocrity!

Caput inter nubila condit.

She hides her head among the clouds. 

intertextual fugues 

The happenstance of meaning,

in a hodgepodge of words.

with inherent seeming allured. 

One is Joy, 

another addiction.

Like me, 

like my 

inflated sense

of word.

Flags waving,

look at me,

and my words

we are WRITEoUS!

We are what we

Write.

Write flowers

and streams

and

windy chimes.

Face facts,

Words escape

meaning

with cowardly

defenses like

paragraphs

and

syntactical

alliances.

Prepositions 

pasteurize,

so that whimsy

and

freedom are

battered,

suffering

split infinitives.

Similes with

spiritual

accents

and

distinctive

adaptations of

cunning.

Read liberated, inebriated;

fight the

oppressor, as

the maker of

meaning

is

you! 

    you        

           hear infinity in the conch of your ears hissing there 

                        while liquid last eyes 

                        see the numinous that's moving-us

into an ephemeral shining at the back of the mind,

illuminating the limits of the fatal skin you're-in -- 
let's be

dumb and        

stare at forever!

      let's be  this grinning 

                  empty, drooling,

                        free of meaning, ghost-hunter of the eye...

nevermind worrying in soft murmurs, 

let's linger astutely,  
then hardly at-all,

                then, nonetheless

           when it's all but over,

         wrap it up

            in many Mansions

                    for LotusBlossomslaughter. 

'til it's 

Xpanding negative-space

...from the eye

of a howling-pen,

language-weeps

language-weeps

after-words language-weeps

from the wounds that reason makes;

seeps from the wound of omission,

seeps from some super-scary-SaṃsKāra,

seeps from the whirl'd of tunneling-fear,

seeps from some gimme-gimballed duality,

the wound that is an imperfect rorriM:MirrorRorrim

where they're trembling from the loss,

from their lessons upon the alter, from getting stoned, over and over again,

in the wailing rhythm of suffering;

innocent victims, like you and me,

lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy,"

there, you know, just there where the stretchered edges in longings go,

where we all strive to Love, yet stray only to affection,

and falter lessor still, yes, there where we whimper in the clinging,

instead of weeping for the longing Dream, 

there where were bursting at the seams

of what it all means...

                                             pop

                              there 

where it's dark and deep.

Al'giber

Abu Mūsā Jābir ibn Hayyān (al-Barigi / al-Azdi / al-Kufi / al-Tusi / al-Sufi), often known simply as Geber, (Arabic: جابر بن حیان‎) (Persian: جابرحیان) (c.721–c.815) hence and cognate the etymology of gibberish, in which arcane mixtures, these 'darkly grace mixtures," which were known to have transmuting properties, which he then oh-oh obfuscated in his Poetic fugues, simply as a precaution; the door-between-worlds, or wormhole in space-time, this frequency-rift, could result in catastrophic consequences for one or both of these instances in alternity -- thus when his Zykir sonics rose in ebullience, in the rhythms that were known to open a portal, his visage would glimmer between worlds ...

romanticism

the romantics like Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, and Keats move us with the rhythms of the numinous -- The Poet is often a Romantic and the vision of Romanticism echoes the Devotional Bhakti Yoga of the East. -- Novalis, the German Romantic Poet wrote, 'We read Poetry to heal the wounds that reason makes,' while I also garden for the same purpose, writing has often been a balm to what is lacking in the, 'please be reasonable' approach to living -- the Poem is never finished, the writer is always writing, grasping at the numinous, the unreasonable - guided by a pen dipped in laughter and tears, hopes and fears - aspired or enthused, drunk or merely called to a task he cannot finish as truth 'n beauty have no beginning nor end -- the writer is the pen and the words he has caught in the wind, a speaking heart singing a longing tale where there is only one Poem, one Story, one Song -- a deeply conflicted Romanticism -- a plaint of Beauty which cannot be captured nor knows any fear, yet is neither consummated in passionate embrace, a kissless kiss, a touchless 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 yearning for the beloved as the goal is Love; experienced but never sated - Oh, to kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses me, and in that kiss live an eternity - Oh, our hearts know this, Love attracts Love, is the secret of the kiss -- and the law of attraction is a sympathetic-vibration, as above, so in you, as you're moved from wonder into awe, your eyes glitter with the beauty that you saw -- 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 - Love has no opposite -- the opposite of hate is discriminating wisdom...

mantra-trivia in Tibetan

yeah, I use to recite rote mantras in Tibetan 

like the Manjushri's di di di di di di di, man he was juicy concerning mental Mercury n' words that see, clearly - that 'n others reading the scripts on long sheets of idiogrammatics written in 'lil tics -- 

nevertheless, light reaches the eye, bounces around inside 'til chemically driven, you sigh a wonderin' why, all these reflections are a cussin' conjectures 'n objections, becoming brainiacchtungs that are rungs down the ladder of your holes, where all your dirty cloths goes -- 

and you get sick 'n tired of slogging soggy jeans, that means nothing more than you're wired obscene, mired in the darkness of obsessisve bad dreams, dead-locked and it all seems to be about you, about you, oh it's bad -- 

but when all the words fall from synaptic trees, contraries 'n clarities, oh won't you, won't you please, dive deep up there beyond your event horizon, your suffering version of the inner idiot disease, and it's something farther than you'd ever seen with eyes blinded by the light of 'lecktricity, with reflections bouncing off of your mediocrity, back to where you've already been -- 

oh, but you want to, you want to, get it back so bad

after we'd recite in alacrity, we'd meditate on where the words dare not go, 'n learn to relate about what we did already know, in a language only that the heart can show, and it's clear 'cause it's not about you, no, it's not about you, anymore...

mea-culpatterns

in Cezannes colour of blue ...
think it through and feel it out;
yes, if it's under-understood,
it'll be over-stated and over the top --

It'll bring restraint 'round the
swelling of that
voice inside, which shudders
to jab with the tongue

It'll watch
for dissonant growls
and raucous rants
all diseased by your need to disagree...
between your terminal-shadow of despair,
where your dark inadequacy lingers,
It'll dismantel your misery
and unravel your fear--

pieces of you
that're not nearly risen ...
they make short work
of the inviolate rhythm of your suffering;
in the simple words of death,
-- forever

the kiss

to kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses me, disappearing into each others mystery - oh our hearts know this, love attracts love is the secret of this kiss ...

the stream-winners

well, that's a choice and many ascending-avatars spent eons of time in their caves trying to get out from behind the many-reflections of this sentimental-reality in flow -- this was the goal for awhile and they were called stream-winners when they'd finally grasped that the numinous moving-us is just a trick of the light --

however, the means of getting out of the stream all together was as illusive as stepping in the same stream twice, so they sat staring at forever, until wonder turned into awe and their eyes glittered with the beauty that they saw, and then they found that the stream returns in an infinite 'eternal-recurrence' which means that not only do you step in the same stream twice or more, but that the stream craves you more and more each time it passes by, longing for you in infinite waves, speeding up to feel you deep-inside; 'tis then that you have more and more deja-vu's flowing inside-out to open your eyes wide, from this free-flowing streaming-embrace, this free streaming-love in which we each take a step in grace ...

ssǝusnoıɔsuoɔ.consciousness

it
begins in ʎʇıxǝldɹǝd.perplexity
as the absurd.pɹnsqɐ-man
arrives at the nature of reality

without conclusions ʎlsnoıƃılǝɹ
without religion ʎllɐɔıʇılod
without politics ʎllɐɔıɟıʇuǝıɔs
without science ʎllɐɔıʇsılɐʇɐɟ
without fate ʎlƃuıʍouʞ
without knowing ʎlqɐʌǝılǝq
without believing ʎlǝʌısnlɔuoɔ

perfectly ʎllɐɔıxopɐɹɐd.paradoxically consciously-pǝʇɔılɟuoɔ.conflicted
with all these incongruities converging into the
moment he crosses the street;
                        his-heart
still affected by the dark
                      restless sea of awareness --

bent before his fierce-vulnerability,
 he's an innocent victim like you and me,
lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy"


we're all bubbles of consciousness, bubbles of brilliant shimmering hues, bouncing and bullying each other around while looking for ways to merge with each other; leaking through our surface tension, we're wiggling 'n jiggling for that 'special' one come to burst us free to really be whom we ought to be -- life is real only then when I am bursting at the seams of what I thought reality means

-- as such, the Poet is like a sphere with her centre everywhere and his circumference nowhere, without beginning nor end, always rolling, rolling ’round ‘unknowings’ wondrous bend - mostly metaphor is a trick of the light to get these reflections just right, so, you-know, it’s glinting in your eye as you release into the ‘flower of meaning’ with a sigh; like looking at the mesmerizing-sea glimmering-many-Suns, so sympathetic-tessellations resonate in your oceanic-brain, where synapses shivering-sentient luminescence, reflect again ‘n again … then you’re an ecstatic swimming in a whirl’d-view, swooning with another oceanic-dream waving inside of you…

“Nature is an infinite sphere whose center is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere” Pascal

"God is a circle whose center is everywhere and circumference nowhere." Voltaire

"The center is everywhere. Bent is the path of eternity." Nietzche

neither compelled by the past nor future beckoned...

if fears 'n worries are nothing but a hapless-spin, then hopes 'n wishes are its better-off kin, nonetheless they're both creating the duality-delusion we're in ...

intellectual-ism is a knee-jerK reaction, a survival specialization, like an exo-skeleton or thick-skin made to cover your soft-flesh, and that beating heart flush with warmth 'n blood, and all those 'leKtrick-filaments dancing in your brain, flashing as lightning in your eyes, from whence you'll look and look and dare to see the Beauty in this whirl'd of creative-destruction, and the Truth in this human. this all-too-human sentimental-reality ...

The goal is Love! The goal has always been Love, however derived, denatured or deconstructed we make it.

-- that's where a cosmic sentiment is a serendipity which is bent toward your infinite-in, there where love is a radiant bouquet, bursting to blossom as you, over and over again -- there, where the music in you is wanting to play in a mellifluous-voice which only the heart can hear, that'd take you into a melodious rhythm 'n roll 'round the sound of a whirl'd swelling with a kiss of bliss, 'tis this that'd speak in that uncommon tongue, the Soulful one, which is willing to risk absurdity in an unfettered language, and is divested with an unbounded-eye not limited to the fatal-skin yer' in, there where you're looking and looking and daring to see, this creative-destruction outpouring into another sentimental-reality...

The French Symbolist credo that “To suggest is to create; to name is to destroy” can be modified here, on more neutral grounds: prose denotes; poetry connotes. Thus is Truth 'n Beauty made as if a crystal with many reflections.

As Lorca wrote: I hear the beautiful beating heart of God, in the monster of the world...

elastic-time

elastic-time is when you're on a roll, whistling as you go, feeling on top of the whirl'd, where compressed time blooms and unfurls, expanding your point-of-view to doing what you've gotta' do to be true to the authentic-you...