Metamorphosis of finitude.
Even here mosquitoes bite;
always prey as much as predator.
Winged fleeting shadows,
heaving brine soup.
Flutes of bone,
notes ricocheting off cave walls.
You must only get through one day.
Nullity and powerlessness.
Reciprocity and conjugality.
Bright apophatic nothingness.
Scouring the cemeteries for Shaun the Post.
Jumped a wall, grave hopping,
but didn't find him.
Red rose placed on another.
The landscape thinks
itself within me.
Post-nasal, itchy, greasy-haired, fuzzy-toothed,
cross-legged, eyelash follicle depletion.
Every physical imperfection
yet a magical circle has been drawn.
Wonder and bedazzlement!
Miracles always
followed by unbelief.
Slave labour bunker excavated
for a private pebble
beach
Babylon is too rude
Open to the abysmal
character, Kora,
to the crevice between skeletal ribs.
At the limit of reason, intuition. Already possessed
by the mass? But no -- attained without reaching
the summit first.
And why is it necessary?
Needed to properly give thanks,
else like a child;
receiving without knowing,
innocence without wisdom,
unable to truly return
the gift.
Jumping over one's
own shadow:
"Ego sum qui sum"
Sound of small waves
Prows cutting through water
Go to the Dogana point
Bring yer own bottle,
sit, drink and write
sense or nonsense,
Anything that rushes out.
Invoke the masters
without fear of pretension, in an
attempt to make it sing again,
ringing off the rim of
the bathtub.
Each breath takes
us to the moment of
creation.
Cracks, stains, mould,
butts, caps, corks,
ship masts, boat motor
gurgles.
For one evening me and
my wine hold the
responsibility of keeping
the city afloat.
Wager with the adversary.
Marco Polo to Dadu to
do business with the Khan.
Geologic ages compressed
into seconds.
Wine for cigar exchange
and now a small torch
between my fingers.
The incarnation must be
held in the body and in the mind,
in the senses and in the
breath
Medium of star shine
and street grime.
The guerilla always puffs
a cigar while on a jungle romp.
The edifice of the land.
Ash tapped in the crevice
of the pier stones.
Phenomenology is a metallurgy.
Quick puff succession.
Forgetting vowels,
the breath between stops,
impasse and the overcoming of impasse,
ongoing con-spiracy between God
and Man.
A mad swamp of incomprehension,
tension, and then words graced
from somewhere above.
At this milieu, at this
middle, something
sparks, smoke is produced,
the world is fashioned,
breath, anima, ruah.
Smoke drifts across
the sparkling water,
a line of lights,
vaporous curl of letters.
"As one that would draw
thru the node of things"
Cigar a baobab of ash.
Toes free.
Only the stars remain firm and clear.
Not even these --
a flicker of the death of Heaven,
like the improvisation
of music, forced amnesia,
a terrible disease that
has no name.
Floating on the azure air...
Jubilee must be conscious,
elegies of discarded empire,
ignored accordions in the
plaza, body as the intersection of
the physical and spiritual worlds.
The Calypso was the first ship I spotted;
stranded on an island of seduction.
Christ changed the nature of category itself.
Thurn und Taxis
Mars to my right,
Venus already below the
horizon and behind me,
Neptune, on porpoise-back, straight ahead,
rising and blessing from the sea.
Interface of light, of water, of sound, of blood, of wine. The door was open
and we rushed to the event.
Committing the only sin
of letting a single breath pass
unawares.
There is no space that
needs completion,
every detail is already
drawn in.
Even this solid rock is sinking.
The deity moves
through love, everyone incomparable, neighbour encountered
in the rupture of
myself.
Respirating, perceiving.
Not a hole in this world.
Fragmented, distorted,
risk, paradox, ambivalence, precarious.
Philosophy must trace the mystery which precedes being.
Naiads, dryads, sylphs
and undines assemble unseen beneath
the stars and spheres.
Matter is not inert
but moves.
What a place to drown!
Huzzah!
ReplyDeleteWuzzah!
DeleteWhere have you gone?
ReplyDeleteseriously.
ReplyDeleteYeah we love you.
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