BLABBERISTICAL PRESUMPTIONARIANISM

Holy Shit!
I see Tom Brokaw, our Emmy
Award-winning babbler,
our favorite mythomaniac,
blathering:

“It’s not only man’s high destiny, Anderson,
but proof of our immortality as well,
that we have the choice between killing the world
and carrying it out.”

What a supercilious smidgen of blabberistical presumptionarianism,
if oz ever did hear it!

“Cokie, God must have
loved these common folk very much
because he made so many of them.
And, Cokie, I
might add—Anderson, you might
be interested in this, too—
He made a tolerable fine work of it,
if you don’t mind my injecting myself,
I mean my opinion
here.”

The mob ardently projects its self-appreciation,
thinking U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!
Tom Brokaw, Cokie Roberts and Anderson Cooper leading them
right up to that vital message from their sponsors.

Meanwhile, a Texas hang
man, rockin it, confesses he’s not
offended by this idea
of bullying Jesus Christ, that
it might be something to roll on.

MOLOCH

The smell of death

stale from waiting out

this breath between storms 

kills us a bit inside our frailty 

while Moloch

escaping Its bloodbath

lingers without 

guilt surrounding us

DIGNITY

This we have

now that

multidimensional

rising bush

initiating and guiding

this quivered moment

that majestic composition

felt

as this presence

that dawning when

in a company of freaks we-aring

the private splendor reverberating

a big bang perhaps

or that party

awareness of the lamp

shade here on your crowning

achievement

where I’m a little teapot

absent

A PRIMARY EXPLICATION OF

1.

Ideas come from differences.

2.

Or Nature composing

multiple dimensions of

fuzzy space-time.

3.

Sensibility seams a mean

dimension vibrating

strings in all directions

forming an imagined

knot or not-

ness.

4.

Universal topology evolving

ropes replace particles

becoming wavelengths

stringing calculated stains

spreading out torquing

shapes of space twisting

lived time inside unbreaking

something evolving

the subtle elegance of

love.

5.

The uniform point

first one way then another

this situation into that

situation marking time

tuning to different keys yet

missing something…

reduced to emergent ballpark notions

useful at sporting events…

corralling arbitrary vibrations of intentional universes

intentional vibrations of arbitrary universes

arbitrary intentional universes vibrating

the functions of whim and necessity…

diverse membranes forming

unique laws legislating

constant yet cyclical languaging

words that begin without beginning

etymologies grammaring

meaningful and meaningless time

before the beginning and beyond the end…

transitional moments rupturing spatial variations in time…

when the free ends of our open strings

connect elsewhere closing others into loops

we vibrate in all directions…

equidistant from everything…

we’re massless strings of light interacting

energies with other energies stringing

vibrations within each others’ vibration quivering

the one pulsation of:

Ommmmm-Maaaa-Neeeeee-Paaaad-Meeeee-Hummmmmmmmmmmmmm…

6.

A lower energy string is lighter than a higher energy string.

7.

The attractor seams the infinite energy of every string.

8.

You are the finite energy of every meaningful string.

9.

We are the energy of this string.

10.

We do strings of energy that are not ex/ist.

11.

What determines us is the pro/jected move/ness of our imaginary strings and the holographic energies associated with Its secreted light.

12.

There is only the one infinite uniqueness: A string of endless resonant shapes morphing into equidistant places.

13.

Seeing the inside from out here

undisturbed by Its mathematical hints

nudging this dream forward

locating the constant backward

seaming variables trailing every word and world

wrapping them up in their curled-up spaces

finding them deep inside our own extending dimensions

intending the way we’re spooning the universe

mistaking Its passing through for dis/appearance.

14.

This twisted mirror symmetry supplies the energy our string embodies.

15.

Our secret Attraction is much heavier and takes more energy than all the energy we have, so it feels infinite.

16.

A universe of spirits and ghosts exists where energy goes beyond the limits of the potential future histories partly composing us, calling us out, that would swirl us down the drain like a…

17.

The world seems seams of strings playing infinite tunes within the uncertain limits beyond the outside noise.

18.

This one dimensional dancing filament vibrates strings of words.

19.

An oscillating language magnetizing

us apparently electrified into knots

or not…

at home

a violent spark of

acute stillness dropping

seed containing seas

of boondocks loosing

marvels unto itself

confusing arabesque for theory

one more layer of emptiness

draining this tender seam

advancing you

your fingers load

meaning movements un/separated

describing proximity

an embryo

a universe of wolves

sitting politely

liberating their howls

un/hinging their how/lessness

in this bird’s beak

a knot of alertness

refusing to slacken becoming

the uncovered fact of leviathan

a meekness that won’t blink

a thought that won’t think

loving you

reasoning brilliant coherences

imposing survival

                                                                            at home

DUST

--for Randy

Though we unplug

your body from

the machine, our

memories live on. Things

were what they were.

We could have been better, but

loved each other none

the less.

There are more tears

shed in life

than death—ruing

our failures more

than our

facts, which we’d own if

we could only

believe them.

This sorrow

isn’t for our sins,

but the absence

our memory makes more

acute: the sound of

your missing voice,

the space of

your empty body.

As usual, it’s only ourselves

we can think

through, as our selves

seam everything

into us, then

dust.

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME

Congratulations.

Nice one becoming

that idol reaching

out to anyone who would

grab you—

for wearing the idolator home—

a new position for you to try, imagining

yourself some stoned prophet,

perhaps smoking weed with love,

or being that gnat blown by a mysterious wind—

some Johnny Appleseed

from your itinerant quarters, where

my thunder rumbles

your incoming soul—

a here-then now-there untouched

language dishonoring you

as my pearl, knowing

we’re numb with sex—

our interior Jesus forever

resurrecting some intoxicated Christ

obedient to Its fruitful pleasure,

keeps dying and so further multiplying

until he’s sober, stunned and lying

about His Word’s abundance—

harvested, crushed, commodified—

forgiven by father, mother knows

not what she’s doing, nor

do I understand better than she

what you’re doing.

We’re all just trying

to make you happy,

we’re all just trying to live—

sort of, some of the time.

*

So you don’t give a shit, do ya Dad?

*

Mr. Authentic prefers not to

protract his homilies.

Einstein deals

the micro-metaphors of frailty

in his relativistic mathematical formulae—

those deliciously complex variables

kneading his protection, those very

details he refused to interfere with

because he empathized with God,

not Its empty images—

those deceitful analogies

obliterate our quest for significance,

return us to genesis

via every hole

in our scaffold, spraying

potential futures with our DNA—

situations bleeding

bones ejaculating into

each other, braining

our souls, displacing

trust/distrust binaries,

that paranoia where

nothing here

seems this, there—

tomorrow ever cumming—

that immodest slut, Jouissance,

adores you

alone—adoring

the great river, drowning

eagles looning to fly

gladly

ardent serene adoration

great blue

herons pitch their tent

nests against the sky,

ecstatic, feeding

on the catch of this

ocean surging and splashing

inside each chest—

a musical lotion—

composing female wisdoms

whose tits sustain me, whose

milk rivers my interior driftwood—

the cerebral salt of

your liquid breath, carrying

word-like fish, swarming

around my donkey—

searing It.

THEOPHANIA

ANIMA

a babbling wake sounding resurrection in the garden again and again with leaf and feather flowering sounds of steam unfolding each mind’s punk weeding hemp once smoked by those now too dead to embody their desired peace

ANIMUS

purities claimed for burning in the smoke lodge with your mother

SON

that music all day and night fading as we fade when part and parcel of some riotous core informing notorious childish faces rosy with red flower bud illumination kicking ass in a station wagon going nowhere fast needing futile comprehensive inanities likening themselves to each other just to get along echoing pre-war forms of right and wrong sugarcane milling sweetnesses mixing long extravagant magnolia absorptions inside the song with the sky grasping that third kinda chick t’ain’t arn t’at all

DAUGHTER

rocking like that odd apple hanging from the twisted tree in our mind

SYZYGY

antennae tuning our interior weather channels to usable universes playing notes of some midnight train’s distant whistle indicating our vacant seat promising tomorrow’s window ticket tonight feeling the axe view that’s leaving the leaves alone while spilling the sky from its station

EGO

swirl It down the drain like anything else inside the mirror

ATMAN

It weaves your heart,

hiding, effortlessly

mending; discounted,

It seems tepid, yet

loyal, personifying

the divorcee and

celibate.

It tastes

barren yet feels

abundant, according

Its time.

It sounds

underlying calm

smelling Its name.

It takes

a peculiar stance

to ward existence:

Animating those

reacting

intensely, estranged

From their world, submitting

Transcendent beneath

what It cares to bias.

It embodies

feeling amalgamates

thought, allocates

heresy

Speaking from

this side of Mind—

unplanned, cataleptic

& political-

economic knowing

Or not

RECENT FACSIMILES

Love always rises

beneath the sheets

a helpless miracle

counting leaves in the dark,

transcribing grackle

notes those of mockingbird

reaching out

empty mortars need

filling, beggars’ bowls in

the boat of myself, submerged

yet living—transparent

ocean hazy with smoke

full moon my space

occupying time

for the cat’s return

god stealing

that look in your eye

melting

snow in the crowd, washing

yourself of your self, somewhere

inside language becoming

a flower

mute and white

a poem

echoing all

i say flesh-

devising spirit

inside astronomy, oceanic

the interior math of a blank page,

a fallow field

ripe for planting the Absolute

seed germinating light, or not

a tongue unlocks its fear,

kissing sentences into a razor’s edge,

weaving the sun as Sol

weaves the sky asking

what time is why,

penetrating our body everywhere

at the center, sewing

nuts to be watered

with sound elation and

numb validation

b[u]y us, or

recent facsimiles

thereof

THE WIND

The wind blowing through my head

gives the shaman something

To breathe—

A nameless dog

howling, grief

running with Its tongue

Hanging out, dripping and

sweaty,  anticipating

reunion in the wilder-ness

This longing answers.

I’m spoken, an echo-

stealing swine of the mind;

An intelligent piece of pork

boars me open, birthing

itself into my trifle, bearing

mysterious gifts, buried

atop its tusk;

Provoking sobs

fragmented capacity

spiritual recklessness and

profuse scattering of seeds.

I’m a prodigal deadbeat, wandering

ignorant of Thanatos, preferring

the wind and rain that eroticize

this climate,

This lactating Earth milked by her whining child—

In-formed by Its wanting…

AGAINST THE GIVEN GRAMMAR [after KJ]

I lied to you (as a token of my love

[For you I sprinkled the Sierra Nevadas with crystallized corpses]

[For you I bred with Sasquatch in the Tongats]

[For you I fed the tiny elk rutting in the Kigluaiks])

because I know

in this common mass grave

we call Earth

I’ll never be alone

(heavenly crowds will blot out the darkness, thickening

the light, [oddly reticent and worried {like you}]), writing

against the given grammar, reading

every element of style (correctly [a political statement]), seaming

together (in the light [finding])

post-mortum a reason for life, living

the translation (into mystery [what the soil fed]), groaning

in the (mindful) presence (of something), wondering

about nothing (beyond

[Why]

There) is something (not [no{thing}])

I ADORE FERAL THINGS ALMOST TO IDIOCY

Those mugs exposing the sea

disguise its blissful gems,

blessing the solid fuel

flying within them.

Determining holiness,

that stare in their eye like salt

dissolves in their liquid swarm,

sluicing me of my self,

nowhere inside the ego

befalling this muted.

When will the newborn meat be siphoned away to slay the un-swept silence oozing through the fractured constituencies of my heart?

When that playable song of a locomotive’s breath howls some un-signified space.

When tomorrow’s voucher’s pledged tonight.

Where my elusiveness seams a glimmer of love reworking the light.

*

Your incidence seams my apocalypse—

That blankness of lacking,

a delayed mo[u]rning without

direction in the midway human

untouchable,

Insensitivity pursuing what I have.

**

Being nothing,

all breeds stillness,

going subversive

declining

to reiterate us.

***

When this blind earth trembles

like a vagrant in the sway,

burying towns of strangers,

yielding worthy worthlessness, muzzy

but stirring, permitting terror—

lips crack open our themes, error

floating them away, pious furor

ejaculations concede, flaming

Its tower, giving It a taste of lovability.

****

An odiferous potion—

Free of allied malice,

blood-spattered bareness of bowels and brains—

Explodes confusion, becoming our chum.

*****

This precise,

magnificent ingenuity seems a milk-laden Mars,

suckled by Its laughing mother.

******

A visibility

[when our hushed cerebral envoy crouches,

occupied by central secrecies teeming without voices,

while no part of our furtive tongues syntax

the frothing boogie-woogie

that sometimes washes away

the wickedness of precise

loyalty] blooming

this orb, purely subsisting.

*******

Revealing Its embryonic void to beings, human yet not…