Since time is limited and I’m close to finishing up a rough draft of a novel and “novella” of prose poems, I’ve decided to take off from blogging for the next five weeks. Hopefully that will be enough time to get these projects under control.
In the meantime, I’m posting 8,000+ words today in four separate posts. Hopefully, that will keep you busy until next time.
First, an excerpt from my nearly finished “novella” tentatively titled “Fire:”
All Night Circle
You might hear life inside this poem, sum-numinous talk among friends, some tangible news of joint proximities of verse crossing over this greasy threshold of voices sliding over becoming me: the living music of our rejoicing host dys-coursing humanish word-beings interweaving us with a speed too vivacious and involving for any grammarian to unravel seducing the alleged divine with devout pronouncements in need of slapping, rejecting Its realm of slaves unseparated by love’s sanctuary, rubbing Its eyes looking again for love with love in love with seeing The Attractor’s presence in the flame on our bed to your left and Its stream to my right—Those unrelenting interior agitations fucking themselves into crystallized singularities, sparking fountainheads proving tears of longing are generation after generation of debunked witnesses believing ejaculation seams a loss, but only when She seams the woman beneath our man becoming the drain around which all things circle thinking again and again through Its cloaking atomic reversals splintering intelligence into substance—The fire and water of self being accidental reflections upon us, listening to what absents me, turning from our ocean to your prairie—That place you speak of toys to children, admitting the essential wholeness of interior treasure seekers who, forever bowing before your mirror, confuse you for their own image, their one molecule of true self exploding your ego’s jouissance—A touch of the cerebral orgasm—The wordless thrilling breathless moaning of hearing speaking strange relations into new lives where Buddha seams the divine flash of our cumming together, the when of our drum pleading you to beat Its skin so we can be our Self—Letting me feel you vibrate each hair, boning each bone so what boned last night will bone today, and again tomorrow, perhaps—Drinking our wine then leaving us alone with the ocean all around, turning away in favor of the nausea that doubts every image, a nightmare of goats pouncing on lions, wishing they knew you wanted us to be together outside time as well as inside where your parents came together and you emerged—A christ—Loving what love can do coloring the world current of all Its rivers at once, fermenting a truth in the dung heap that tastes like honey to me and milk to you—A love that tips over the cart promising to be with us this short while we’re alive, loving what we have in our hands more than what we might know tomorrow, tying the invisible magic string connecting us across space and time, ignoring our fears of entanglement, of getting piss in our hair and turds on our leaves despite our shrewd intuitions—I fell into your pit with eyes wide open one Saturday at high noon, somewhere in the park as villagers, like phenomena, rallied from nowhere, bearing witness to our new body—That wide exchange of currents when everything goes everywhere, imagining marches to the well where All grows silent, moving underground and refusing to repeat itself—Being one—The roomy font of speech with no alphabet outside the pinch of painful pluralities—Where creation sparks descent—A feces covered pearl at the invisible center of spirit-eating splendor, becoming that lucid thing which lovers love appearing in the night, the bee injecting its combs with sweet inspiration, keeping lovers awake, feeling each other’s privacy surrounding you with a consciousness that blows me away, listening to our conversation all night…
Now, an excerpt from my nearly completed novel, Wood:
The best idea any of my teams’ve been able to come up with, thus far, Gerald, and I do believe other ideas, equally adequate, are forthcoming, no matter how tangentially, or vicarious their connections may seem to be from this, I mean our, perspective…
Spit it out, Carlos. Jesus Christ. Goddamnit. Speak man.
Macondo and Good are sitting in their office, looking out over the gloomy quad shunned by students at dusk.
It appears to be a renegade bubble mysteriously percolated from the Interstellar Medium.
A bubble of interstellar medium, most likely ninety percent hydrogen and ten percent helium, mostly Hindenberg with a pinch of chipmunks.
The conflagrating zeppelin. Those happy singing cartoon characters.
Good can’t believe his ears. Macondo, under great stress, is deploying the silly method in order to continue functioning on a high level. Fight the lizard brain. Life is beautiful, and all that. The work must get done. Good admires Macondo’s valor.
It appears to be coming to an end, and we Earthlings will perhaps have a role to play in its final event, if Team D’s calculations are correct.
What is it?
An ISM-UFO. An unidentified bubble of interstellar medium. For brevity’s sake I shall refer to it as an Ism, which I view as a membrane with recursive symmetries across type. Only one percent of it’s solid, and that’s dust with trace amounts of certain metals. Before it became a gaseous bubble infiltrating the solar system it was an undifferentiated aspect of the Interstellar Media, which is to say it functioned as an intermediate scale between the stellar and galactic scales. It was the stuff connecting star systems within their given galaxies. Comprende? It served as the heaven’s fascia, which was somehow torn making this seem some bubble of its blood—90 percent hydrogen, 10 percent helium; 99 percent gas and one percent dust with traces of heavy metal, which explains, perhaps, its apparent solidity from our perspective. Stars interact with the Ism physically. Stellar winds form young clusters of stars and shock waves created by supernovae inject enormous amounts of energy into their surroundings, which leads to hypersonic turbulence—bubbles and super-bubbles of hot gas. The sun is passing through the local interstellar cloud, a denser region in the low-density local bubble. The interstellar medium begins, Gerald, where the interplanetary medium of the solar system ends. The solar wind slows to subsonic velocities at the termination shock, 90—100 astronomical units from the sun. In the region beyond the termination shock, called the heliosheath, interstellar matter interacts with the solar wind. Ism is vital due to its transitional function between stellar and galactic scales.
Great. So what’re we gonna do about it? Tell me something I don’t know.
Do about it? That you don’t know?
How are we going to save the Earth from it?
Well, the Ism seams a feedback loop between the sun and Milky Way. You might look at it as our solar system’s skin. We exist on a scale geared toward the sun being the center of everything that’s moving. This bubble of Ism, or chunk of cosmic skin, is like a virus or germ infecting us from elsewhere, partially existent on at least one other scale. These intrusions are common, especially as subatomic particles, and of course they’re usually benign. However, uncommon forms of injection can cause damage disproportionate to the actual mass and energy—that is shock and awe—of the inoculation. These must be neutralized.
But Carlos, how do we know it was intentional…I mean, injected implies…I mean doesn’t it…is that appropriate…attributing God, I presume, bringing you this bubble intended by…
By whom, Gerald? Who could have intended this Ism?
Just because we can assume or do something doesn’t mean we should assume or do anything, right Carlos?
But if this were actually a case in which we really couldn’t do anything, Gerald, wouldn’t it really be one we actually wished we could, hmmm?
Indeed. They might have miscalculated the interstellar fault line. Error may indeed be a multi-dimensional occurrence, cosmic and recursive. If it is an error we must treat it like all other unintended phenomena, am I right Carlos?
Yes, of course, Carlos! Of course, now might be its time. Everything must end. The bubble must burst the dam must break my heart must give no doubt now is the time. We’ve entered our common event horizon as Earthlings, as animals and primates, as human beings, as God’s children, strangely attracted into this event horizon, our time, only to be pulled apart by the ever-increasing gravity of our ever-increasing proximity to the void, that black hole sucking us all elsewhere. There’s no such thing as a last day for anything. Life like love abides!
Senor? Ah, these fucking gringos…Kierkegaard at the apocalypse…
Senor! Team C is informing me that the Ism’s energy seems to be a liberated fireball, if you will, of the interstellar electromagnetic radiation field, or Irf. Ism’s and Irf’s working together make the UFO something analogous, perhaps, to a hurricane, dynamically speaking, of course. Senor?
So, what you’re saying, says Good, as Macondo’s looking off, is if it’s analogous to a hurricane it’s analogous to the weather, what it’s doing outside, the interspace media, another Ism dealing with the fluctuating flowing humidities and air pressures among the micro- and macro-climates, eh? Its energy, rather than being electromagnetic radiation, is the air pressure defining any given space, which we call weather, which is actually a front, a membrane between two kinds of weather? Or it could also be analogous to how Nature goes? What we might call the intersystem media, or another Ism, being the pervasive water and atmosphere about the planetary body: the mind matter energy coursing through its organs among its organisms? The Ism informs our intersystemic water and atmosphere forming a membrane that joins and distinguishes itself from the existing external and internal Ism comprising it. Calories, in the form of Death, are equivalent to desire in the form of Life…
Senor! Dr. Good! Gerald, Jesus Cristos! Team G has alerted me to another useful analogy. Of course, every analogy is useful in that it helps us imagine a response, what to do, right Geraldo? Gerald?
Yes, Carlos. I’m with you. Team G. What’d they say?
Well, as long as we’re in the vain of this thing being a chaotic system, then, perhaps, in what some call laissez-faire capitalism: the intersaleable media [ISM] are the currencies and exchange rates pervading the global marketplace: the financial manipulations, supply and demand existent among traders. The Ism creates currencies and exchange rates, forming hard and soft ideologies that enrich the rich and control the poor the Ism targets. The wealth, in the form of Credit, is equivalent to greed in the form of Profit. And, also, in politics: the intersocietal media [ISM] are the propaganda and education pervading the status quo or power structure of society: the entertaining spectacles, violence and selfishness at work among people. The Ism propagates disinformation, creating hatreds and delusions that enrich the greedy and well-placed while pacifying the rest who are poorly positioned to adequately control their own lives. Power, in the form of a “democratically elected leadership,” is equivalent to totalitarianism in the form of “happy pursuits.”
Good, catching on and contributing: and so, the human psyche—the interstitial media [ISM] are the sentience and natural laws pervading one’s awareness of the world: one’s loves, hatreds, disinterest, fascination, obsession, abhorrence—the desire informing the way one constructs external reality in their mind. The Ism creates greed, delusion and hatred and the simultaneous awareness that these desires are wrong and violate a seemingly ineffable morality. Desire, in the form of one’s perceived external reality and internal feelings, is equivalent to the detachment necessary to survive their frustration and loss.
Macondo, cutting him off, science—the interskill methodology [ISM] is the objective process informing useful and productive thought for the sake of useful and productive thinking: medicine, physics, chemistry—the means of improving human life in measurable terms. The Ism necessitates objective observation, the formation of hypotheses, rational means of testing the factuality of hypotheses, objectively analyzing the results, constructing theories that predict future behaviors, which are then objectively observed, rational hypotheses formed, etc.
Knowledge, in the quantifiable form of peer reviewed inter-related facts, is equivalent to the irrational peer reviewed fact that nothing can ever be actually rationalized or rationally peer reviewed and all attempts at such quantifications that quantify the qualities of precise peer reviews are qualifiably absurd peers reviewed irrationally, perhaps implying certain inverse…
Carlos! Good’s shaking his arm. I got another analogy: War. The intersector mayhem [ISM] is the hatred and violence pervading one’s attempted domination of and dominion over one’s own world: invasion, conquest, empire, freedom, justice, victory, glory—the need to be number one. The ISM begets itself, as one invades and gets invaded, conquers and is conquered, enslaves and gets imprisoned, gets revenge and pays a blood price, wins and loses, is proud then shamed. Violence, Death’s kinetic energy, is equivalent to love’s potential—Life’s latent rebound.
Gerald, if that’s true we must also consider, perhaps, superstition: the intersacred media [ISM] are the ritual behaviors supported by holy books pervading one’s distress over all the above: the facts that the universe is vast and frightening, storm clouds seem always lurking on the horizon, the Earth is alive and dominant over you, both the lack and abundance of money are corrupting, the pursuit of happiness does not lead to happiness, caring is painful, one can never actually know what one knows is true or not, violence lurks behind every bush in its potential randomness. Fear, demonic kinesis, requires a comforting ISM, allowing for an escape equivalent to the terror one must face. One need’s faith in something “holy” as much as one has faith in the existence of something “evil”…
None of these Isms seem moderate, yet they seam middle ways, uncannily or not, suggests Dr. Good, seeming to snap out of his reverie.
The Ism is turbulent, agrees Macondo, focusing once again upon the task at hand, the task of saving the Earth. The Ism is turbulent and therefore full of structure on all spatial scales.
Indeed, says Good. The Ism, as we’re imagining it, is usually far out of thermodynamic equilibrium, and therefore necessarily brutal and frictive, making the sparks fly, you might say…
I think…I think, replies Macondo, how it—I mean that Ism debris—had achieved orbit [revolution and bull markets] and maintained it for billions of years undisturbed [spectacular feedback loops producing satiation if not satisfaction]…Ism debris achieves critical mass via revolution and bull markets, evolving cognitive feedback loops whose emergent spectacles seam necessity to absurdity…
Good thinks of von Braun: His eyes are blazing, but his face is expressionless. He’s so cool.
So, the Earth just happens to be in the Ism’s way, says Good.
And will therefore change, adds Macondo.
But you must never tell anyone, interrupts William Shatner, or someone who looks remarkably like him, who has entered their office unnoticed. He’s accompanied by an older black man with a marked limp, who reminds the good doctors of OJ Simpson. He’s carrying a weapon of some sort, which seems, perhaps, aimed at them.
You must never tell anyone how things are about to change. They have no need to know, and even if they did, what could they possibly do about it?
Shatner seems cocky with OJ over his shoulder. The doctors are not impressed. They simply wonder if they’re part of another psychotropic experiment again. What’d they put in the coffee this time? Do they really think this is going to help them think outside the box?
Who are you working for? Macondo asks.
It’s a state of germ emergency you fool, says OJ.