1/2/11
60 !
60 !
which signifies the freedom of the poet
& a sure sign to seal progressing heptaparaparshinokh
a definition of the destination of the halt of irrevocable
the flash in the flesh of breaking dawn
at 60 man is cooked
has no need nor curiosities concerning personalities
but only quests for aleph-virus poetrys
but only scrypts of poêsiae in pretereternal peace , fullness , evidences
these are the folk who have wedded death ... in life
a folk who has no more time & has banished the inevitable
nor more hopes , no fears ... no ideas of a past or future
only folk with what they know of elastasis & beyonders , only married folk
the roomy afghan field of come come come ... & come again is homeland
with a garden of pomegranites kurdish hot red penny peppers & blue berrys galore , "bleu" gentians at the shore lines , her Majesty in blueShip set a'sail ...
& a frog market with a pond , a funnelling tunnel from tripe to ripe
some mary golds , hot spurs , hyacinthe & bella donna livea plura belle ...
& , by truth & by troth , sancho the servant , saqi , scrybe , & certain proof the don is near
sancho , the self ! ... now is operating apt eager & upright ... talisman & avatar
o! ye of little faith : our wind mills now & guided hands are making wool to wear
covering our purity with whole cloth , modest to the world's endings & we , out of our saving afghan "sûf"
as for the others , there are no more others & yet , marvel ! , i've never sayed two is one
chosen neither this , nor that ... awaiting to be chosen by the singleton barashyt bara plural elohim
pray via my circumsised humAtomic halfway heart & oxygen a key to evolutions of humanity in toto
& practice the silsilah of one good thing leads to another - in vivo - knowing art at last the very hearth of earth , & the final fashion-forming of secret heart , a working conscience
afghanistan
the intrepid insolence of pure resistance , the blood that kils & does not live , the human martyr of our times
herat , mazaar , kabul - the whole HA-Qabala from aleph to tav , preseved & guarded well
& paghman valley , blessings ! triple thanks for providing sufy revivifications : the panjshir where all 5 tigers unisonned & loyally - without compulsion - confluenced perfectly behind our blesséd lion's green & white black banner of properly holy war or wholly enslavements & the bloody flag stained red
60 : the whispering echoes of fresh dawn returning ... the activated ear & the sounding of the silence
home ground established , certified , & sealed
& poetry , finally , one's personal vocabulary , without the gadgets , gimmicks , pomperies or undue gravities ...
for advents the instant when philopena thrives & the tajallis - o! stranger - again accepted !
& life like this will never end & when it does it does not
for aSample : 'ibn saqata , doing the whole job-of-work , was also causing sawdust , something like the rain in the red wheel barrow
his word is widely wahdat al-wujud/shuhud/huddud - one is one is one , the trifurcating wonders of the ways , an authentic signal the closed room is now an open door - how is it so few & precious use it ?
so that ... as io renasco rascals , sleeping on a grave with our dead master & remarkable conscience envigorator - think of death each day & ... live ! - & osmosing in the cosmos mode a certain pith-n gist & wondering : how old is gold ... curiously seriously
meeting yhshwh in the luminous night journey of an eight year old & naked - hardly a bud ! - in the bright decisive vital viral whole qaboodle ... hidden & not secret
good news & heralds of his returning at 20 , southern khalif-narnia ; back down from that man cursing double-cross & consumate a new for all of those reviving , too
gandalf in wisdom's human gray , at 30 , seated 'ponst a public bench , beckoning ... i did not back away !
& then & then & then ... traversed the non-deceasing little deaths , still dabbling in clear english & entirely misunderstood , misunderstanding & just making the mistake of missing any noble aim
& struggling to unify the Self ... afraid with awe & stunned that myselfs might just lose
yet thrust upon the blue planet with an orfan's indelable tag - miss terry & mis-taker ( !) mr some one , procreated & were gone - i knew my very body was my soul
& lived like that , 3 fuses lit & glowing ; thrice-blessed as well , & learned to read the big bright living book of life by learning first to read from blesséd ogden nash
& the rest surely is his story
60 - & the shards are mended , the bardhol of the bards accomplished ! , never ended ! the cancer poems addended & the words i write ... intended
willful , & reaching out for ripe & necessary aspirations to exit from this fat&flat or dunya
& finding them in passions , until compassion , & the calm , refined their subltelties into a braid , a rope to heaven , an angel's tail & never mind
until sheer & immanently transcendental being-essential-love ... struck !
at 60 a man is a man , whatever the forgotten gender , no matter the sects one has been bothered & beaten through , the raw cruel & titillating lapidations - have been young & hairy in chicago , long ago ... yet i remember - & no matter your lost good riddance luggage
& when you are a man you have a voice
for rarely dying daily children ask us ... why , uncle , have you destroyed me ? " a lie !" , "a lie !"
at 60 signifies a genuine silsilah in this world but not of it ; of spirits in the service of organic & modest naturally useful deeds - who would eat his own hunger in a pinch - & of the folk who know the Gift , & the correct origin of the giver , & then , only when "at 60" , are freely giving it forwards & a head - "hu raîs" , & ... a man
which implicates dear reader dear friend dear fellowShippers
the freedom of the poet ...
the unsupected wings , atavistic horns , our tail buds & a full bevy gamut of special yet unlocated sacs ... with the beautiful names of open me & see & be my mystery & grow !
these all have passed , may their blessings be their benevolent & ever lasting absences ; at 60 similarity replaces differences , plural ... & nothing , lost too ! ... & faithful sancho panzo pipes up : now we have One , let us build our stone boat , & make it our ship of death (dazzled with the local lavender emanations) , name it poêsia & set sail !
which knocked our elderly don right off his highhorse , rather ungracefully yet full of natural vigor & a proper dose of gravitas ,
& he , with a grain of ever available salt , groaned , & then , in frail but full intensity , the good don grown all pink within the context , & , like the lights of aurora ... arose !
ogni mattini iô rénasco - each dawn born a new'd
for , at 60 the cup is drained , the dice thrown away (!) & the sea journey alone in company , & not to heavenHell ... but on a straight path , with reliable winds & an accountable compass , through the water (the real miracle of HA-'eretz) of this ocean of poêsiae
advancing our good sacs of the forms & names of every living creaure - compost for the local greenery gardeners - as noah is sayed to have donne ...
turning three times around the mouth a word or words a-waiting the "share" for it might be "me" , it might be the "demon" , but it may be some poetry
which is the "i" & the why of essence-being 60 today ; however wide the years , however deep , or tall ... & we've all had them or still do
& all in the search for a piece of paradise & good manners of sharing with You !
llorenzo gusto – an extract from poësia in a very recent volume whose name need not be mentioned here ... b'slema !
which signifies the freedom of the poet
& a sure sign to seal progressing heptaparaparshinokh
a definition of the destination of the halt of irrevocable
the flash in the flesh of breaking dawn
at 60 man is cooked
has no need nor curiosities concerning personalities
but only quests for aleph-virus poetrys
but only scrypts of poêsiae in pretereternal peace , fullness , evidences
these are the folk who have wedded death ... in life
a folk who has no more time & has banished the inevitable
nor more hopes , no fears ... no ideas of a past or future
only folk with what they know of elastasis & beyonders , only married folk
the roomy afghan field of come come come ... & come again is homeland
with a garden of pomegranites kurdish hot red penny peppers & blue berrys galore , "bleu" gentians at the shore lines , her Majesty in blueShip set a'sail ...
& a frog market with a pond , a funnelling tunnel from tripe to ripe
some mary golds , hot spurs , hyacinthe & bella donna livea plura belle ...
& , by truth & by troth , sancho the servant , saqi , scrybe , & certain proof the don is near
sancho , the self ! ... now is operating apt eager & upright ... talisman & avatar
o! ye of little faith : our wind mills now & guided hands are making wool to wear
covering our purity with whole cloth , modest to the world's endings & we , out of our saving afghan "sûf"
as for the others , there are no more others & yet , marvel ! , i've never sayed two is one
chosen neither this , nor that ... awaiting to be chosen by the singleton barashyt bara plural elohim
pray via my circumsised humAtomic halfway heart & oxygen a key to evolutions of humanity in toto
& practice the silsilah of one good thing leads to another - in vivo - knowing art at last the very hearth of earth , & the final fashion-forming of secret heart , a working conscience
afghanistan
the intrepid insolence of pure resistance , the blood that kils & does not live , the human martyr of our times
herat , mazaar , kabul - the whole HA-Qabala from aleph to tav , preseved & guarded well
& paghman valley , blessings ! triple thanks for providing sufy revivifications : the panjshir where all 5 tigers unisonned & loyally - without compulsion - confluenced perfectly behind our blesséd lion's green & white black banner of properly holy war or wholly enslavements & the bloody flag stained red
60 : the whispering echoes of fresh dawn returning ... the activated ear & the sounding of the silence
home ground established , certified , & sealed
& poetry , finally , one's personal vocabulary , without the gadgets , gimmicks , pomperies or undue gravities ...
for advents the instant when philopena thrives & the tajallis - o! stranger - again accepted !
& life like this will never end & when it does it does not
for aSample : 'ibn saqata , doing the whole job-of-work , was also causing sawdust , something like the rain in the red wheel barrow
his word is widely wahdat al-wujud/shuhud/huddud - one is one is one , the trifurcating wonders of the ways , an authentic signal the closed room is now an open door - how is it so few & precious use it ?
so that ... as io renasco rascals , sleeping on a grave with our dead master & remarkable conscience envigorator - think of death each day & ... live ! - & osmosing in the cosmos mode a certain pith-n gist & wondering : how old is gold ... curiously seriously
meeting yhshwh in the luminous night journey of an eight year old & naked - hardly a bud ! - in the bright decisive vital viral whole qaboodle ... hidden & not secret
good news & heralds of his returning at 20 , southern khalif-narnia ; back down from that man cursing double-cross & consumate a new for all of those reviving , too
gandalf in wisdom's human gray , at 30 , seated 'ponst a public bench , beckoning ... i did not back away !
& then & then & then ... traversed the non-deceasing little deaths , still dabbling in clear english & entirely misunderstood , misunderstanding & just making the mistake of missing any noble aim
& struggling to unify the Self ... afraid with awe & stunned that myselfs might just lose
yet thrust upon the blue planet with an orfan's indelable tag - miss terry & mis-taker ( !) mr some one , procreated & were gone - i knew my very body was my soul
& lived like that , 3 fuses lit & glowing ; thrice-blessed as well , & learned to read the big bright living book of life by learning first to read from blesséd ogden nash
& the rest surely is his story
60 - & the shards are mended , the bardhol of the bards accomplished ! , never ended ! the cancer poems addended & the words i write ... intended
willful , & reaching out for ripe & necessary aspirations to exit from this fat&flat or dunya
& finding them in passions , until compassion , & the calm , refined their subltelties into a braid , a rope to heaven , an angel's tail & never mind
until sheer & immanently transcendental being-essential-love ... struck !
at 60 a man is a man , whatever the forgotten gender , no matter the sects one has been bothered & beaten through , the raw cruel & titillating lapidations - have been young & hairy in chicago , long ago ... yet i remember - & no matter your lost good riddance luggage
& when you are a man you have a voice
for rarely dying daily children ask us ... why , uncle , have you destroyed me ? " a lie !" , "a lie !"
at 60 signifies a genuine silsilah in this world but not of it ; of spirits in the service of organic & modest naturally useful deeds - who would eat his own hunger in a pinch - & of the folk who know the Gift , & the correct origin of the giver , & then , only when "at 60" , are freely giving it forwards & a head - "hu raîs" , & ... a man
which implicates dear reader dear friend dear fellowShippers
the freedom of the poet ...
the unsupected wings , atavistic horns , our tail buds & a full bevy gamut of special yet unlocated sacs ... with the beautiful names of open me & see & be my mystery & grow !
these all have passed , may their blessings be their benevolent & ever lasting absences ; at 60 similarity replaces differences , plural ... & nothing , lost too ! ... & faithful sancho panzo pipes up : now we have One , let us build our stone boat , & make it our ship of death (dazzled with the local lavender emanations) , name it poêsia & set sail !
which knocked our elderly don right off his highhorse , rather ungracefully yet full of natural vigor & a proper dose of gravitas ,
& he , with a grain of ever available salt , groaned , & then , in frail but full intensity , the good don grown all pink within the context , & , like the lights of aurora ... arose !
ogni mattini iô rénasco - each dawn born a new'd
for , at 60 the cup is drained , the dice thrown away (!) & the sea journey alone in company , & not to heavenHell ... but on a straight path , with reliable winds & an accountable compass , through the water (the real miracle of HA-'eretz) of this ocean of poêsiae
advancing our good sacs of the forms & names of every living creaure - compost for the local greenery gardeners - as noah is sayed to have donne ...
turning three times around the mouth a word or words a-waiting the "share" for it might be "me" , it might be the "demon" , but it may be some poetry
which is the "i" & the why of essence-being 60 today ; however wide the years , however deep , or tall ... & we've all had them or still do
& all in the search for a piece of paradise & good manners of sharing with You !
llorenzo gusto – an extract from poësia in a very recent volume whose name need not be mentioned here ... b'slema !
this fugitve freedom
fugitive freedom
the orfan is not maiden
& the half/way heart un circumcised ;
there is a secret in this tauhid ,
unique & universal ...
we never saïd
"the two ... makes One !"
& Death , like the Soul ,
the bud fruit & flower ...
only trifurcating Life ,
braises Sparks & flame
as nathan of gaza
learnt & taught
from rebbe sabataï
in the book
of the ajdahaï khodi , "dragons" ...
in the mentating active breast
of all who arise
in wounded joys .
& the jaguar
bit the jugular
of his belovéd
gazelle ;
juarez begetting
barashyt geronimo !
in his chapelle
of the white whole
via negativia
pantheistique atheism
with al-kimiyah of merit
equitabilities & Grace .
made New - reaLigion
& the heart ... beat ;
while all sensate
creatures went
silent - Sparks
a'flamed ... the moth
of hallaj al-asrar
cremated to virginity .
earth's (HA-'eretz) claim
is tsugnomique corporal blood !
our moon our dried soul dusts ...
the sun - this Spark ;
rising with the Arts
of reciprocal feeding .
created established formed ,
trifurcations & current Process ;
the mystiques dispersed
& the avatar of reaLiving
adventing with irrevocable Dawn
& sancho panza with the don ...
admitted - the evidence
closer than caratoïd !
her lovely loyal body
as if in pure death
transmuted unformed
silence sounding re born ...
a bride of luminous orfans ;
"la fata 'illa 'ali" ,
asad haïdar chirkouh -
w'ogni mattini iö rênasco !
llorenzo gusto - from the collection poêsia : "poets' freedom" .
all writes @ preserved ...
the orfan is not maiden
& the half/way heart un circumcised ;
there is a secret in this tauhid ,
unique & universal ...
we never saïd
"the two ... makes One !"
& Death , like the Soul ,
the bud fruit & flower ...
only trifurcating Life ,
braises Sparks & flame
as nathan of gaza
learnt & taught
from rebbe sabataï
in the book
of the ajdahaï khodi , "dragons" ...
in the mentating active breast
of all who arise
in wounded joys .
& the jaguar
bit the jugular
of his belovéd
gazelle ;
juarez begetting
barashyt geronimo !
in his chapelle
of the white whole
via negativia
pantheistique atheism
with al-kimiyah of merit
equitabilities & Grace .
made New - reaLigion
& the heart ... beat ;
while all sensate
creatures went
silent - Sparks
a'flamed ... the moth
of hallaj al-asrar
cremated to virginity .
earth's (HA-'eretz) claim
is tsugnomique corporal blood !
our moon our dried soul dusts ...
the sun - this Spark ;
rising with the Arts
of reciprocal feeding .
created established formed ,
trifurcations & current Process ;
the mystiques dispersed
& the avatar of reaLiving
adventing with irrevocable Dawn
& sancho panza with the don ...
admitted - the evidence
closer than caratoïd !
her lovely loyal body
as if in pure death
transmuted unformed
silence sounding re born ...
a bride of luminous orfans ;
"la fata 'illa 'ali" ,
asad haïdar chirkouh -
w'ogni mattini iö rênasco !
llorenzo gusto - from the collection poêsia : "poets' freedom" .
all writes @ preserved ...
11/19/10
philopena with a pomegranite !
philpena with a pomegranite : fontus philate
i shall practive philopena
with a pomegranite ;
philantropize with pith of philtre .
& answer phillistines
who've turned philippic ...
accusing that my preference
is merely to philander ! ...
claiming that i under manned her :
"offal" .
my filosophia's philomelic ,
& out flings above the well ...
of fontus philate .
llorenzo gusto¤ via narcissus & the boneHunters all rites @ preserved
i shall practive philopena
with a pomegranite ;
philantropize with pith of philtre .
& answer phillistines
who've turned philippic ...
accusing that my preference
is merely to philander ! ...
claiming that i under manned her :
"offal" .
my filosophia's philomelic ,
& out flings above the well ...
of fontus philate .
llorenzo gusto¤ via narcissus & the boneHunters all rites @ preserved
november
november
the geese fly south .
their black arrow
pierces my hearts ...
but i remain open
like the five petals
of my facing face .
heaven falls to the earth ,
as the new snow
whitens my wide open hand .
llorenzo gusto¤ - via narcissus & the boneHunters all rites @ preserved
the geese fly south .
their black arrow
pierces my hearts ...
but i remain open
like the five petals
of my facing face .
heaven falls to the earth ,
as the new snow
whitens my wide open hand .
llorenzo gusto¤ - via narcissus & the boneHunters all rites @ preserved
t wolfe ... home again !
t wolfe
there is a well , a sun , a grass ;
i see them through the river
in my glass - i see the cold
conspire in the summer's pass .
beauty comes as beauty ... plain !
i've watched the seasons' simple square ,
while looking at the window pane ; the air
is loveliness coming to lick my eyes .
a grass , a sun , a well , & beauty
can be made to disappear - the clear
chill runs under clouds' soft boot ...
the light could only fade .
llorenzo gusto¤ - via narcissus & the boneHunters all rites @ preserved
there is a well , a sun , a grass ;
i see them through the river
in my glass - i see the cold
conspire in the summer's pass .
beauty comes as beauty ... plain !
i've watched the seasons' simple square ,
while looking at the window pane ; the air
is loveliness coming to lick my eyes .
a grass , a sun , a well , & beauty
can be made to disappear - the clear
chill runs under clouds' soft boot ...
the light could only fade .
llorenzo gusto¤ - via narcissus & the boneHunters all rites @ preserved
consequent signs
consequent signs
i shall be careful not to forget
the little i care to remeember ...
this word , that man - temporary conditions ,
& will give way to an other .
i weave one fabric from many fibers ,
who could pin point the main job ?
i shall one day wear my whole cloth
over my shoulders , perhaps i shall not .
the last question contains , i suppose ,
something of the first answer ;
& yet what can be done with so many words ...
are they not as useless as past breath ?
analogy - comparison - gauging : the blue thread
winds out of our either hand , untangled ...
untie a man's knot & you have learned
of his twisted ways , & of his love for riddle .
llorenzo gusto¤ - via narcissus & the boneHunter all rites @ preserved
i shall be careful not to forget
the little i care to remeember ...
this word , that man - temporary conditions ,
& will give way to an other .
i weave one fabric from many fibers ,
who could pin point the main job ?
i shall one day wear my whole cloth
over my shoulders , perhaps i shall not .
the last question contains , i suppose ,
something of the first answer ;
& yet what can be done with so many words ...
are they not as useless as past breath ?
analogy - comparison - gauging : the blue thread
winds out of our either hand , untangled ...
untie a man's knot & you have learned
of his twisted ways , & of his love for riddle .
llorenzo gusto¤ - via narcissus & the boneHunter all rites @ preserved
the child oracle replies to the question of death :
the child oracle replies to the question of death :
the dragons will come to burn you
& pretty soon you'll wake up
& you will be so pretty
& you will have green eyes
& a green hat
& every time you wear your clothes
the red will turn to green
for you are in your home land
you are within without man land
& every one will be faeries
& what the maidens have
is what you shall be dressed about
& you will have white hair
& you will be twenty eight
& all the houses will be twins
& every one in them will be twins
& the homes will be the same color
smoke & every thing will come to the abode
& burn the pipes & the whole house
& burn every one
& it will make the people
turn back a head to new life !
llorenzo gusto¤ - via narcissus & the boneHunters all rites @ preserved
the dragons will come to burn you
& pretty soon you'll wake up
& you will be so pretty
& you will have green eyes
& a green hat
& every time you wear your clothes
the red will turn to green
for you are in your home land
you are within without man land
& every one will be faeries
& what the maidens have
is what you shall be dressed about
& you will have white hair
& you will be twenty eight
& all the houses will be twins
& every one in them will be twins
& the homes will be the same color
smoke & every thing will come to the abode
& burn the pipes & the whole house
& burn every one
& it will make the people
turn back a head to new life !
llorenzo gusto¤ - via narcissus & the boneHunters all rites @ preserved
11/15/10
absolutely nothing in Common ... !
Absolutely Nothing In Common :
( ... briefly strange night before departure ... mu'baraq kurbra !)
1 - a minority of one ...
... having never been & then ... becoming ,
famously unknown as animated dust ...
you can only do what HAS been done ,
& yet the only thing that never changes IS the change !
Once done one's dawn is definite ... summing
three times , two worlds inthrust
to the me of the i whom selfs the one ;
yet every effort made to disenstrange !
It's true the bed is made for sleeping yet
no mattress ever slept & sleep herself
concerns the sun with certainly indifference ...
symbols , proverbs , axioms -- like arms arrayed !
A real struggle of genuine magicians ,
though not quite the ordeal of the tent ,
adventing through the time of old man al-flaton
& lingering auld lang synge ... to ears here in hearing
implies occurance , demands to operate ;
though as objective object just can not exist ...
for nonexisting essence is like eternal time
& if the battle were a waste it's won !
Circles now refer to straight lines meeting .
Coming back to where one never was ... coming
to grips with real birth - memory (later/vital) - & seamless travels ,
coming to rest , to an understanding ... coming-uppances
& -- finally! -- coming out ... stained with a jam of words ,
yet spinning like a pepper wounded derelict tongue
& saying something he himself(s) had never heard ,
& saying it so ! Saying it as shadow said "adieu" , ma belle !
Who hasn't dreamed it , sure as sweet stained glass ,
or ... softly stoned remembering shafts on "Mister Gee's" avon's grave ...
a kind of stout & intinsically good old home styled
all of one's own say – credo : of A oneness of our beings ?
& a sound of writing , or of the very words ;
their various & divers translations , versions , retexts ...
& a mother -- & of the sounding of her silence -- & of dawn
for the blind & the wind no more simple than dumb ;
this sort of language from my insides-out , while
manifesting trifurcatingly in only this instant
of passage , solely upon the threshold , fleeting
as self annihilation but as enduring as the face ,
& -- with the luck of franco-german pedigree
as well as nearly 5 solar revolutions of quite close to perfect
self-anonymity coupled with quite unknowing used
yet brand new parents quite intimately inadaptional --
with authentic to even authorial luck , quoi ... shall
real & living instanter occur with the focused company
of those who will , rare ones who know themselfs
true friends through just one such occaison truly shared ,
who are & who do & who feel the plural of one is One ;
as trifurcating nourishments & even the trillions
of miniscule flaglike flames miraculously & justly
jamming all to gathered into milk & honey as it were
have ended-up , as bushaq the maestro chef implied :
"... Truth/al-haqq , is finalistically in my cooked pudding ." ?
So now we have our salt , & now we have our sweet
& now as jetsun Mila bringing down a melting heat ...
i approach timorously & do indeed like a field mouse
slip through these leafey blades of grass , leaving
for good my furry ensign against the gusting air , a kiss
like a warm cow's ... & his thriced-blessed spiral labyrinth !
This very one i'm idealling with as intentionally adopted
pre-orfan self-willed as good as high-aspired-to proto-pseudo
tending towards common love-of including snow solving
passions-for , er ... words dressed up in if-i-know-ê-sies !
2 - the calm that comes with a cat ...
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrm
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrh
rhmn rr rhm
bsmlla ... qalam ; this is that :
a preface & this IS that ... though 2 , never ONE :
the prime 'Ism... of All – eh !
3 - desultory ... atrabilious ... felicia arabix ...
perfecting intentional errors
so that every time you write a word
you also if you will & might upright
a spectrum of the specks of dust
which whole desultory worlds died for ...
& , when provisional , made to exist
out of - so to speak - a mouth ;
offering the non-existential as law !
poverty , granted ... yet pain or pride ?
the back of the visionary's burro breaks
under the haystalks of exaggeration
or brisks him off & up to farthest away ;
francis jammes took his donkey to heaven
& allowed lavender in contrario to fall
from sea's-edge to the graveyard & each
was right in his way , from the first start .
poetry's as secret as a human grin ...
yet when one's fruits flowers & even leafs
leave at last & not a single green seed remains
the silence of a true tree is indicated , quoi !
so , one's personal vocabulary is organic ?
frankly , it's works better with you to say
a simple merely "no" & be bliss filled idiots ...
yet those who love me well know otherwards .
Although my voyages are my afghanistan ,
& my condoleances kept well-guarded ,
the steps through the full days & the long nights
have been stepped-up by her majesty herSelfs
& this living life – each dawn a newed ! - is one
lone pilgrim in our universes of ten thousand
personally potential demons , of house , of home
& what link one may have saved with the housemouse !
4 - un tombeau pour ashiata shiemash !
1 - âtrio primo : out of the tavern
legominism - or , the speed of silence in a crowded room ,
a sort of cavern if we might , decorated in current evening
& bostered in a huge high sky with a vast space to the mirror ...
yet strange to say it but apparently there's no-one home ,
while the mirror's tongue is telling me i am now in very
good company – when two or more gather , together --
& this is how a precious acquisition entered my living estate ;
of course this bright companion tended to the mouth ,
as if to remind that the way out , is through that door .
to start with a warning & not the bon ton titillations ...
of course the audience would shame a void ! ... to look
at , to even look for ... truely 'tis this not to see ?
to listen not to hear , tasting not the taste & the gamut
from the chapel of the white whole to the hovel , blue
like nowhere else in nature , a face & not the cosmos ?
plumb tuckered out far from the middle earth sea ...
if 27 were the ears , 'twas vincent in his stars
the honored guest , kindtimely i must turn about ;
upsidedown realities are coupled-to the special
source of contemporary unforgetfullnesses ; giving
an apparent fountain of really enriched lifegrowth ...
beckoned , perhaps born orfan just to be , in hush
i kinda disappeared from kith-n-kin & near blinded
began the genuine bible from barashyt to apocalypolis ,
nominatively , travelling , from god's own hell
illico & without detour to my very own - unity
of special sufferings & hammerhead consciousness !
& all for the beck & the hue ! of a passerby auld
lang syne - meeting gandalf the good , the gray ,
in paris was all in the line of safe things , a silsila ! -
the red sulphur & the green clad saint as wine
& jalapeños sufficed as rites of this-too-passing
& the tentmaker of martyred khorosan put me up ...
only ashiata , tsanyang & the good mullah hodja
proved in the certitude of absolute trust & the "yes"
to the supreme "alastu...?" -- rest each one active .
the correct man who knows not will leave a blank ,
the correct woman who knows not will say so ,
while the correct child who knows not may respond without lying ;
& while it's possible & probable to learn anything ,
its opposite , variants ad infinitum & wordstuff ...
it happens one eats grass & drinks pine sap ...
amazingly , no ? , it doesn't change a thing !
the natural storehouse is flourishing , yes ? , or going
nuts & bananas as in eating the caviar tins ; it's been
remarked & commented upon how halving the cake
has solved the minority hesitations concerning statistical
justice ... though now i bid anxiety peddlars a final farewell ...
& remember to remember , not only the scattered limbs
but my bitpart career as circusman & clown , until one noon
a mote of human luminations shone & said : well returned !
almost as usefully comforting as la dame au jardin
des roses , the boston commons on a sunday morn when gray
hair & the circumstances reanimated launcelot & his fair lady !
& once i voted for the lakes , the modest yet stunning presence
of woods wild strawberries & sure enough my favorite -
the fresh encountered bark of living birch , & moss & mushrooms !
& what i've truly learned from all of my few heroes
had this absolutely in uncommon , a reconciling coming
to grips with appearing pretereternal dualality arisen truths !
2 - divertissimo simplissicus ...
one of the twelve labors of herakles is reported to have been
well grosso modo picked at one occaison to actually hoist up
& carry the equivalent weight of the term : the whole world ...
upon his shoulders , as it were , a kind of weighty second head ;
i'm certain few or even none really doubt the actual veracity
of this thinkably quite amazing feat , admitting it not ; with yet
further probing literary footsteps i'd be sure of saying
from a general proto pseudo novo pyschological approach
that the parallel - micro/macro , bien entendu ! - concept
of the solo human vehicle charged to its gulls with imagined
tasks , enterprises , challenges , callings-to finally succombing ,
to put it slackly , to an attitude of - beleaf it or can't - near
perfectly subjectively , oft chillingly if i do admit , self-persuasively
operating "as if" , indeed , one were supporting the entire
long suffering yet enduringly enchanting , needful earth !
i warn my readers of my foursquare oath to real secret .
3 - âtrio 'ayn :
i've read the claims & all the refutations ,
let demolishers with insect shivayaïc egoes
lick meat that's died useless as sunset ...
slept like a drunken babe sunk in scrutations
of bodyless scripture , 'til pink dawn arose
& i a new ... what loves thou well shall never forget .
4 - is american a poetry ?
arab & "other" persian chroniclers , historians , compilers ,
for aSample , in their infintie collections known as "tabaqat" ,
or - for a first one word in english indication - layers ...
have rendered with often their praise , sometimes a form
of brilliant & often hilarious mockery - costing heads ! -
whole categories of their illustrious chosen ones ... great
jurists , outstanding "philosophers" - more heads dropped -
vast addendums of the poets - yep , more heads ! - human
heads , publicly speaking , have never been in short supply
in such an contrees as 'twere theseabouts & long times too ... -
while our own predelections come-n-GO amongst the friends ;
& the primary approach in this massive kittencaboodle
is one within dates , or so-called generations - if we shall -
& others include , in brief , considerations , along various guidelines ,
of assigned merits ... certain obvious juxtipositions & near
non-sequiturs play their roles & the sheer quantity of tomes
written later to explain these , er , lists , is equally phenomenal
so once be counseled then decide perhaps to clearly select ;
to round this off the groupings often happen grouped around
a certain family , a "school" , doctrine , brotherhood or other
historically - nor shunning "l'image juste" & well-equipped
to include legend in all of its petulant legitimacies , magic
often un-named yet operant still , or why read ! - verifyable
social , religious , cultural , artistic or , say , clan ,
as well as a pertinent selection of the publically available
literature - the future , even "back" then , is now , eh ! -
chosen , of a certain , to include possible entries leading
most highly hopefully , no kidding anymore , not this way
any way , not now nor here , nor audience too boot ...
leading to the door & out ... they say there's a field ! take
leave of one's senses if one must , but like balaam's ass
please leave the self quite out of all of this ; the layers
are conscious choices made concerning conscious chosers ;
yet consciousness needs help to pass through parchments .
fortunately , as the real wet river going undergroud &
we could say quite subconscious yet will , & nevertheless ,
arrive alive & liquid on the other side ... not exactly a clot
of engendering sperm , nor dried onion soup , but since
the sole difference ever in the entire universe is "i" , analogies
from "ana'l-haqq" to overwhelming analgesic abuse
have permissions - like jehovah's witnesses at the doorstep -
to state the essence , give a taste , share a bloodcleansing blessing
& in five minutes symbolically turn realities feet over heads ;
& this poor poêsiae good as totally unaccomplished , if like i ,
none but not a one had read them ... nor my heroes nor me !
so , maybe this too , en passant , is just another list ...
a manner to fix attentions & the memory ,
& yet the treasures , the joyful wounds
i've gathered from the poets' open fired arms --
& how forget the rare ones who really have ! --
may prove my presentation of them trinketry
when distributed to the great audience
& leave indifferences , yawns & un-"i'd" reading habits ...
to but mention already half the menu's
been messed-with & not a newed in my part life !
& what answer would i dare give to grandpa
& all of my family uncles if clearly asked :
"could you point to one person wholly & say
life would be better , really , for that one
if "only" or this once if maybe or an other perhaps ,
that is -- sharing one's true riches with who else ."
& it might be a pertinent , even a good , enquiry
& -- bien entendu , les amis -- enters my reply !
in fact & act : to LIVE ... before you die .
5 – hunkering down ...
no difficulties in america
to read the major classics of our past ,
yet with a touch of phasmagorica
i'm sure whole masterworks are lost ;
i'm not sure which , & yes the total earth's
a turning wasteland , today's thoughts(!) a massed
crust of maggot movings on global grids ,
& entirely based on holocaust ...
upon eonic heaps of long & short
term layers of death & rot & debris cast
naturally from the very end - down ! -
& who knows forever 'cept cousin ghost !
which i believe should remove some un-necessary lustre ;
quite figuring organic light illumined its organ ,
& genuine gold can only be imitated , or , frankly , fooled
while truly thirsty voyaging visiters have known empty cups , to beat !.
llorenzo gusto¤ : from poêsia – tome 4 – the blue hut : chapel of the white whole – all rites @ preserved .
( ... briefly strange night before departure ... mu'baraq kurbra !)
1 - a minority of one ...
... having never been & then ... becoming ,
famously unknown as animated dust ...
you can only do what HAS been done ,
& yet the only thing that never changes IS the change !
Once done one's dawn is definite ... summing
three times , two worlds inthrust
to the me of the i whom selfs the one ;
yet every effort made to disenstrange !
It's true the bed is made for sleeping yet
no mattress ever slept & sleep herself
concerns the sun with certainly indifference ...
symbols , proverbs , axioms -- like arms arrayed !
A real struggle of genuine magicians ,
though not quite the ordeal of the tent ,
adventing through the time of old man al-flaton
& lingering auld lang synge ... to ears here in hearing
implies occurance , demands to operate ;
though as objective object just can not exist ...
for nonexisting essence is like eternal time
& if the battle were a waste it's won !
Circles now refer to straight lines meeting .
Coming back to where one never was ... coming
to grips with real birth - memory (later/vital) - & seamless travels ,
coming to rest , to an understanding ... coming-uppances
& -- finally! -- coming out ... stained with a jam of words ,
yet spinning like a pepper wounded derelict tongue
& saying something he himself(s) had never heard ,
& saying it so ! Saying it as shadow said "adieu" , ma belle !
Who hasn't dreamed it , sure as sweet stained glass ,
or ... softly stoned remembering shafts on "Mister Gee's" avon's grave ...
a kind of stout & intinsically good old home styled
all of one's own say – credo : of A oneness of our beings ?
& a sound of writing , or of the very words ;
their various & divers translations , versions , retexts ...
& a mother -- & of the sounding of her silence -- & of dawn
for the blind & the wind no more simple than dumb ;
this sort of language from my insides-out , while
manifesting trifurcatingly in only this instant
of passage , solely upon the threshold , fleeting
as self annihilation but as enduring as the face ,
& -- with the luck of franco-german pedigree
as well as nearly 5 solar revolutions of quite close to perfect
self-anonymity coupled with quite unknowing used
yet brand new parents quite intimately inadaptional --
with authentic to even authorial luck , quoi ... shall
real & living instanter occur with the focused company
of those who will , rare ones who know themselfs
true friends through just one such occaison truly shared ,
who are & who do & who feel the plural of one is One ;
as trifurcating nourishments & even the trillions
of miniscule flaglike flames miraculously & justly
jamming all to gathered into milk & honey as it were
have ended-up , as bushaq the maestro chef implied :
"... Truth/al-haqq , is finalistically in my cooked pudding ." ?
So now we have our salt , & now we have our sweet
& now as jetsun Mila bringing down a melting heat ...
i approach timorously & do indeed like a field mouse
slip through these leafey blades of grass , leaving
for good my furry ensign against the gusting air , a kiss
like a warm cow's ... & his thriced-blessed spiral labyrinth !
This very one i'm idealling with as intentionally adopted
pre-orfan self-willed as good as high-aspired-to proto-pseudo
tending towards common love-of including snow solving
passions-for , er ... words dressed up in if-i-know-ê-sies !
2 - the calm that comes with a cat ...
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrm
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrh
rhmn rr rhm
bsmlla ... qalam ; this is that :
a preface & this IS that ... though 2 , never ONE :
the prime 'Ism... of All – eh !
3 - desultory ... atrabilious ... felicia arabix ...
perfecting intentional errors
so that every time you write a word
you also if you will & might upright
a spectrum of the specks of dust
which whole desultory worlds died for ...
& , when provisional , made to exist
out of - so to speak - a mouth ;
offering the non-existential as law !
poverty , granted ... yet pain or pride ?
the back of the visionary's burro breaks
under the haystalks of exaggeration
or brisks him off & up to farthest away ;
francis jammes took his donkey to heaven
& allowed lavender in contrario to fall
from sea's-edge to the graveyard & each
was right in his way , from the first start .
poetry's as secret as a human grin ...
yet when one's fruits flowers & even leafs
leave at last & not a single green seed remains
the silence of a true tree is indicated , quoi !
so , one's personal vocabulary is organic ?
frankly , it's works better with you to say
a simple merely "no" & be bliss filled idiots ...
yet those who love me well know otherwards .
Although my voyages are my afghanistan ,
& my condoleances kept well-guarded ,
the steps through the full days & the long nights
have been stepped-up by her majesty herSelfs
& this living life – each dawn a newed ! - is one
lone pilgrim in our universes of ten thousand
personally potential demons , of house , of home
& what link one may have saved with the housemouse !
4 - un tombeau pour ashiata shiemash !
1 - âtrio primo : out of the tavern
legominism - or , the speed of silence in a crowded room ,
a sort of cavern if we might , decorated in current evening
& bostered in a huge high sky with a vast space to the mirror ...
yet strange to say it but apparently there's no-one home ,
while the mirror's tongue is telling me i am now in very
good company – when two or more gather , together --
& this is how a precious acquisition entered my living estate ;
of course this bright companion tended to the mouth ,
as if to remind that the way out , is through that door .
to start with a warning & not the bon ton titillations ...
of course the audience would shame a void ! ... to look
at , to even look for ... truely 'tis this not to see ?
to listen not to hear , tasting not the taste & the gamut
from the chapel of the white whole to the hovel , blue
like nowhere else in nature , a face & not the cosmos ?
plumb tuckered out far from the middle earth sea ...
if 27 were the ears , 'twas vincent in his stars
the honored guest , kindtimely i must turn about ;
upsidedown realities are coupled-to the special
source of contemporary unforgetfullnesses ; giving
an apparent fountain of really enriched lifegrowth ...
beckoned , perhaps born orfan just to be , in hush
i kinda disappeared from kith-n-kin & near blinded
began the genuine bible from barashyt to apocalypolis ,
nominatively , travelling , from god's own hell
illico & without detour to my very own - unity
of special sufferings & hammerhead consciousness !
& all for the beck & the hue ! of a passerby auld
lang syne - meeting gandalf the good , the gray ,
in paris was all in the line of safe things , a silsila ! -
the red sulphur & the green clad saint as wine
& jalapeños sufficed as rites of this-too-passing
& the tentmaker of martyred khorosan put me up ...
only ashiata , tsanyang & the good mullah hodja
proved in the certitude of absolute trust & the "yes"
to the supreme "alastu...?" -- rest each one active .
the correct man who knows not will leave a blank ,
the correct woman who knows not will say so ,
while the correct child who knows not may respond without lying ;
& while it's possible & probable to learn anything ,
its opposite , variants ad infinitum & wordstuff ...
it happens one eats grass & drinks pine sap ...
amazingly , no ? , it doesn't change a thing !
the natural storehouse is flourishing , yes ? , or going
nuts & bananas as in eating the caviar tins ; it's been
remarked & commented upon how halving the cake
has solved the minority hesitations concerning statistical
justice ... though now i bid anxiety peddlars a final farewell ...
& remember to remember , not only the scattered limbs
but my bitpart career as circusman & clown , until one noon
a mote of human luminations shone & said : well returned !
almost as usefully comforting as la dame au jardin
des roses , the boston commons on a sunday morn when gray
hair & the circumstances reanimated launcelot & his fair lady !
& once i voted for the lakes , the modest yet stunning presence
of woods wild strawberries & sure enough my favorite -
the fresh encountered bark of living birch , & moss & mushrooms !
& what i've truly learned from all of my few heroes
had this absolutely in uncommon , a reconciling coming
to grips with appearing pretereternal dualality arisen truths !
2 - divertissimo simplissicus ...
one of the twelve labors of herakles is reported to have been
well grosso modo picked at one occaison to actually hoist up
& carry the equivalent weight of the term : the whole world ...
upon his shoulders , as it were , a kind of weighty second head ;
i'm certain few or even none really doubt the actual veracity
of this thinkably quite amazing feat , admitting it not ; with yet
further probing literary footsteps i'd be sure of saying
from a general proto pseudo novo pyschological approach
that the parallel - micro/macro , bien entendu ! - concept
of the solo human vehicle charged to its gulls with imagined
tasks , enterprises , challenges , callings-to finally succombing ,
to put it slackly , to an attitude of - beleaf it or can't - near
perfectly subjectively , oft chillingly if i do admit , self-persuasively
operating "as if" , indeed , one were supporting the entire
long suffering yet enduringly enchanting , needful earth !
i warn my readers of my foursquare oath to real secret .
3 - âtrio 'ayn :
i've read the claims & all the refutations ,
let demolishers with insect shivayaïc egoes
lick meat that's died useless as sunset ...
slept like a drunken babe sunk in scrutations
of bodyless scripture , 'til pink dawn arose
& i a new ... what loves thou well shall never forget .
4 - is american a poetry ?
arab & "other" persian chroniclers , historians , compilers ,
for aSample , in their infintie collections known as "tabaqat" ,
or - for a first one word in english indication - layers ...
have rendered with often their praise , sometimes a form
of brilliant & often hilarious mockery - costing heads ! -
whole categories of their illustrious chosen ones ... great
jurists , outstanding "philosophers" - more heads dropped -
vast addendums of the poets - yep , more heads ! - human
heads , publicly speaking , have never been in short supply
in such an contrees as 'twere theseabouts & long times too ... -
while our own predelections come-n-GO amongst the friends ;
& the primary approach in this massive kittencaboodle
is one within dates , or so-called generations - if we shall -
& others include , in brief , considerations , along various guidelines ,
of assigned merits ... certain obvious juxtipositions & near
non-sequiturs play their roles & the sheer quantity of tomes
written later to explain these , er , lists , is equally phenomenal
so once be counseled then decide perhaps to clearly select ;
to round this off the groupings often happen grouped around
a certain family , a "school" , doctrine , brotherhood or other
historically - nor shunning "l'image juste" & well-equipped
to include legend in all of its petulant legitimacies , magic
often un-named yet operant still , or why read ! - verifyable
social , religious , cultural , artistic or , say , clan ,
as well as a pertinent selection of the publically available
literature - the future , even "back" then , is now , eh ! -
chosen , of a certain , to include possible entries leading
most highly hopefully , no kidding anymore , not this way
any way , not now nor here , nor audience too boot ...
leading to the door & out ... they say there's a field ! take
leave of one's senses if one must , but like balaam's ass
please leave the self quite out of all of this ; the layers
are conscious choices made concerning conscious chosers ;
yet consciousness needs help to pass through parchments .
fortunately , as the real wet river going undergroud &
we could say quite subconscious yet will , & nevertheless ,
arrive alive & liquid on the other side ... not exactly a clot
of engendering sperm , nor dried onion soup , but since
the sole difference ever in the entire universe is "i" , analogies
from "ana'l-haqq" to overwhelming analgesic abuse
have permissions - like jehovah's witnesses at the doorstep -
to state the essence , give a taste , share a bloodcleansing blessing
& in five minutes symbolically turn realities feet over heads ;
& this poor poêsiae good as totally unaccomplished , if like i ,
none but not a one had read them ... nor my heroes nor me !
so , maybe this too , en passant , is just another list ...
a manner to fix attentions & the memory ,
& yet the treasures , the joyful wounds
i've gathered from the poets' open fired arms --
& how forget the rare ones who really have ! --
may prove my presentation of them trinketry
when distributed to the great audience
& leave indifferences , yawns & un-"i'd" reading habits ...
to but mention already half the menu's
been messed-with & not a newed in my part life !
& what answer would i dare give to grandpa
& all of my family uncles if clearly asked :
"could you point to one person wholly & say
life would be better , really , for that one
if "only" or this once if maybe or an other perhaps ,
that is -- sharing one's true riches with who else ."
& it might be a pertinent , even a good , enquiry
& -- bien entendu , les amis -- enters my reply !
in fact & act : to LIVE ... before you die .
5 – hunkering down ...
no difficulties in america
to read the major classics of our past ,
yet with a touch of phasmagorica
i'm sure whole masterworks are lost ;
i'm not sure which , & yes the total earth's
a turning wasteland , today's thoughts(!) a massed
crust of maggot movings on global grids ,
& entirely based on holocaust ...
upon eonic heaps of long & short
term layers of death & rot & debris cast
naturally from the very end - down ! -
& who knows forever 'cept cousin ghost !
which i believe should remove some un-necessary lustre ;
quite figuring organic light illumined its organ ,
& genuine gold can only be imitated , or , frankly , fooled
while truly thirsty voyaging visiters have known empty cups , to beat !.
llorenzo gusto¤ : from poêsia – tome 4 – the blue hut : chapel of the white whole – all rites @ preserved .
title poem : undeviatingRivet : eGO ! - from narcissus & the bonehunters ...
The Un-deviating Rivet : eGo...
I -
Poetry comes-from ... relief OR confidence ;
perhaps not fully-armed leaps-out
of Father's blook-soaked brains ,
nor like a giant-city-celebration
metamorphisizes “metropole” to “god” ...
for a single night of common cannon fodder ...
but ... some-thing both akin -- yet alien --
to each these mythic images
IS adhered-to through-OUT : Poetry ;
though that poetry be imagistic isn't my concern ...
nor if it rhyme ... but a kind-of , er ... Third Key !
I called this once wayBack the “Gratitude
Of GO!” ... and went along that Way ...
part -- out-of-trust ! -- and , partly to relieve .
Adding bars from the IN-side ...
is certainly one hell of a common “method” ;
popular & efficient , too , for what it's worth !
Yet ... Third-poets HAVE insisted birth's
NOT coming IN ... to any “where” ;
but OUT of cosmiChaos ... a Pure Gift
in a Pure Land for Pure Spirits and the rest is ,
well ... just what in-justly “we” ARE doing : Hell .
“Though ...” saith saintly timid HH in his
“loneWolf”-mode : Not ... for All ; amen !
-- II --
“Relieve” ... was NO relief ,
and trust -- a crime :
“Confido Confodi !”
Sheer un-belief !
Sheared like a leaf
from an un-grown Tree ...
yet freely dosed with Time !
OneSelfs ... eternally ...
Good(?!) grief .
-- III --
Sometimes the fools don't understand you're fooled yourSelfs ...
and take your crazy exhorts for insaniies ;
but “truth” -- isSelfs -- was never MADE for Poetry ...
though , if I lie , I bless the Holy Ghost !
In France I bless “Those whom I loveth-well !” ...
for here -- the “blessing” -- hurtful on the tongue ;
authentic as the wounded fatal heart ,
the Royal Grace -- IS , local benedictions !
In this I am persuaded as the Wind
has Her Directions & Her Sense-of-Fur !
-- the seventhSense of ... Tiger-in-Human --
and in how-so-many lilac/Rare Blue Cups ?
The mouthy myriad of meat , and ... Her Names ;
She -- one of the “4 Miracles” -- Water
& Wonder & ALL of this , as Wife :
Our(!) ... masterNest of mischief AND the Scent .
Though -- here , in Prime ! -- IS the mercyMadness .
The masking of the ... un-making ... of a ... man .
The metamorphinic thunderBolt maladie ;
total ashes of the everLast lasting one : self-s ...
-- IV -- (but , “NO sleep”...)
My last un-willing Testament's .... my meat ,
a few retarded loveLays & these thoughts ;
to “poetries” , then , I think I'll leave a poem ...
to pay-it-back ... for all their own !
A meager tribute , but then ... how's a bone
to furnish marrow when the flesh is gone ?
I'd strip my veil and render up my mask ,
pseudo-silken tatters of -- what ! -- Heart ...
in various disguises , known as pump ,
as ceremony , surely ... & of pomp .
The circumstances were occaisonal
and ... the Great Trick : To GO beyond ;
as folly-Freddy chortled to his self(s) ...
ten thousand fragments neither here NOR there !
The “terror” IS incumbaent in the breast ...
“Border-Crossing” , as ... un-deviating Quest ...
though , goals be damned , and their so-said “souls”
un-terminating witness-runes on froth ...
electro cardio graphs OR toddlers' paint ...
the fingers counting sacred hazardSpots
and -- like that living legend -- crisis-maimed
in consolation's ever un-named Book !
All writing is kaleidescopic -- or , NOT ! --
and in my written history the Mute
is given purple ... declared as fact ...
that royal puppet-bastard son of pride ;
for who could judge the very real ,
the genuine essential jist-of-pith ...
the truly un-debated ... Truth ; or He-the-poetry ,
that re-born maker of his own insanity ?
The marriage of smoke & happening ,
if understood , would certify the Quick ...
could justify non-interventions ,
verify the un-dread gentleHand ,
and just might lead a my-so being into ...
becoming ... process ... intimately glad ...
or somersault or sabotage or grace
the sur-legitimate submission under Time ...
“our” not so-Great soEver so-Subjective-Ô !
Our words subjected ... à priori ... to Acanthus .
Each one , “to theirs'” -- and how the hell
explain and what WILL change (that isn't !) ?
After all -- the sum of transformations
precisely equals a timeTotal Rock !
It's nothing-new to learn there's nothing
new -- nor under Sun -- nor understanding ;
which , whether from the goat's
lack of a birth-guarantee ... or the onion's
philosophically un-wrapping “life-time” ...
or maybe EVEN Shris Smart's Cat ,
or often-mentioned David's Ship ;
or in this here-such symbol gamut
skipping as bare feet on barren soil --
wingèd ankles of young girls or boys --
and every touching with their fertile wet
and warm white wonder to this Earth ...
a startled atom or be-dazzled clod ,
bumps , breaks or be-wails confounded “birth” ...
while sealing this strange splendor
like a sliver in a hamFat fist ;
the holder , who -- with fingers clenched --
and heart in ruckus , cries “Hosanna !” ...
or “Eureka !” ... or the litany of private sight
is always and in THIS -- unique -- Time ,
for once -- as , sort-of , Thomas told --
beginning to begin his not-end Ending !
Stabbed-through ... and this -- the glory --
known-as-well-as , mortal agreements ;
a sort-of sinister pact with the whole
barrel of Apples eden-pluck't , or grown
in upper-lower Michigan ... though French
fruits have never else betrayed the Spirit ...
“our” Third & Final thrusting Force ;
which , in its ghostly absurd agonies ,
IS fitting parEnigma for the Lovers & their Dead !
Ruminations matter as little as bird
feathers congrgating outSide of the Hut --
for aSample -- OUT (!) in the Spring ; for instance ,
say , “Odysseus & the Mixed Reviews” .
Item : The Whole Damn Show ... ours !
Un-relenting . A non-deviational random
'ISM... “Yes , Mother , I made my bed ... but ...
-- V --
Ideas run like mice
through idle heads ...
like veins upn cadaver's neck ...
like subdued rats
run havoc in the pantry ;
like herds of horses
racing the blade of a storm ;
like sap up into the bird-infested
nesty titillating branches ...
like water for the dust-absorbed ...
or folly -- out through Poem --
that very snail-invaded Mind !
And it's far easier
for a man to enter
the realm of heaven ...
than it is to pass back OUT ,
of any Needle's Gate ...
- llorenzo gusto - from narcissus & the boneHunters , tome undeviatingRivert : eGO ! all rites @ preserved !
I -
Poetry comes-from ... relief OR confidence ;
perhaps not fully-armed leaps-out
of Father's blook-soaked brains ,
nor like a giant-city-celebration
metamorphisizes “metropole” to “god” ...
for a single night of common cannon fodder ...
but ... some-thing both akin -- yet alien --
to each these mythic images
IS adhered-to through-OUT : Poetry ;
though that poetry be imagistic isn't my concern ...
nor if it rhyme ... but a kind-of , er ... Third Key !
I called this once wayBack the “Gratitude
Of GO!” ... and went along that Way ...
part -- out-of-trust ! -- and , partly to relieve .
Adding bars from the IN-side ...
is certainly one hell of a common “method” ;
popular & efficient , too , for what it's worth !
Yet ... Third-poets HAVE insisted birth's
NOT coming IN ... to any “where” ;
but OUT of cosmiChaos ... a Pure Gift
in a Pure Land for Pure Spirits and the rest is ,
well ... just what in-justly “we” ARE doing : Hell .
“Though ...” saith saintly timid HH in his
“loneWolf”-mode : Not ... for All ; amen !
-- II --
“Relieve” ... was NO relief ,
and trust -- a crime :
“Confido Confodi !”
Sheer un-belief !
Sheared like a leaf
from an un-grown Tree ...
yet freely dosed with Time !
OneSelfs ... eternally ...
Good(?!) grief .
-- III --
Sometimes the fools don't understand you're fooled yourSelfs ...
and take your crazy exhorts for insaniies ;
but “truth” -- isSelfs -- was never MADE for Poetry ...
though , if I lie , I bless the Holy Ghost !
In France I bless “Those whom I loveth-well !” ...
for here -- the “blessing” -- hurtful on the tongue ;
authentic as the wounded fatal heart ,
the Royal Grace -- IS , local benedictions !
In this I am persuaded as the Wind
has Her Directions & Her Sense-of-Fur !
-- the seventhSense of ... Tiger-in-Human --
and in how-so-many lilac/Rare Blue Cups ?
The mouthy myriad of meat , and ... Her Names ;
She -- one of the “4 Miracles” -- Water
& Wonder & ALL of this , as Wife :
Our(!) ... masterNest of mischief AND the Scent .
Though -- here , in Prime ! -- IS the mercyMadness .
The masking of the ... un-making ... of a ... man .
The metamorphinic thunderBolt maladie ;
total ashes of the everLast lasting one : self-s ...
-- IV -- (but , “NO sleep”...)
My last un-willing Testament's .... my meat ,
a few retarded loveLays & these thoughts ;
to “poetries” , then , I think I'll leave a poem ...
to pay-it-back ... for all their own !
A meager tribute , but then ... how's a bone
to furnish marrow when the flesh is gone ?
I'd strip my veil and render up my mask ,
pseudo-silken tatters of -- what ! -- Heart ...
in various disguises , known as pump ,
as ceremony , surely ... & of pomp .
The circumstances were occaisonal
and ... the Great Trick : To GO beyond ;
as folly-Freddy chortled to his self(s) ...
ten thousand fragments neither here NOR there !
The “terror” IS incumbaent in the breast ...
“Border-Crossing” , as ... un-deviating Quest ...
though , goals be damned , and their so-said “souls”
un-terminating witness-runes on froth ...
electro cardio graphs OR toddlers' paint ...
the fingers counting sacred hazardSpots
and -- like that living legend -- crisis-maimed
in consolation's ever un-named Book !
All writing is kaleidescopic -- or , NOT ! --
and in my written history the Mute
is given purple ... declared as fact ...
that royal puppet-bastard son of pride ;
for who could judge the very real ,
the genuine essential jist-of-pith ...
the truly un-debated ... Truth ; or He-the-poetry ,
that re-born maker of his own insanity ?
The marriage of smoke & happening ,
if understood , would certify the Quick ...
could justify non-interventions ,
verify the un-dread gentleHand ,
and just might lead a my-so being into ...
becoming ... process ... intimately glad ...
or somersault or sabotage or grace
the sur-legitimate submission under Time ...
“our” not so-Great soEver so-Subjective-Ô !
Our words subjected ... à priori ... to Acanthus .
Each one , “to theirs'” -- and how the hell
explain and what WILL change (that isn't !) ?
After all -- the sum of transformations
precisely equals a timeTotal Rock !
It's nothing-new to learn there's nothing
new -- nor under Sun -- nor understanding ;
which , whether from the goat's
lack of a birth-guarantee ... or the onion's
philosophically un-wrapping “life-time” ...
or maybe EVEN Shris Smart's Cat ,
or often-mentioned David's Ship ;
or in this here-such symbol gamut
skipping as bare feet on barren soil --
wingèd ankles of young girls or boys --
and every touching with their fertile wet
and warm white wonder to this Earth ...
a startled atom or be-dazzled clod ,
bumps , breaks or be-wails confounded “birth” ...
while sealing this strange splendor
like a sliver in a hamFat fist ;
the holder , who -- with fingers clenched --
and heart in ruckus , cries “Hosanna !” ...
or “Eureka !” ... or the litany of private sight
is always and in THIS -- unique -- Time ,
for once -- as , sort-of , Thomas told --
beginning to begin his not-end Ending !
Stabbed-through ... and this -- the glory --
known-as-well-as , mortal agreements ;
a sort-of sinister pact with the whole
barrel of Apples eden-pluck't , or grown
in upper-lower Michigan ... though French
fruits have never else betrayed the Spirit ...
“our” Third & Final thrusting Force ;
which , in its ghostly absurd agonies ,
IS fitting parEnigma for the Lovers & their Dead !
Ruminations matter as little as bird
feathers congrgating outSide of the Hut --
for aSample -- OUT (!) in the Spring ; for instance ,
say , “Odysseus & the Mixed Reviews” .
Item : The Whole Damn Show ... ours !
Un-relenting . A non-deviational random
'ISM... “Yes , Mother , I made my bed ... but ...
-- V --
Ideas run like mice
through idle heads ...
like veins upn cadaver's neck ...
like subdued rats
run havoc in the pantry ;
like herds of horses
racing the blade of a storm ;
like sap up into the bird-infested
nesty titillating branches ...
like water for the dust-absorbed ...
or folly -- out through Poem --
that very snail-invaded Mind !
And it's far easier
for a man to enter
the realm of heaven ...
than it is to pass back OUT ,
of any Needle's Gate ...
- llorenzo gusto - from narcissus & the boneHunters , tome undeviatingRivert : eGO ! all rites @ preserved !
time to choose a plant : pretereternity !
Time To Choose A Plant - Pretereternity
totally betrayed ,
& no revenge in sight ;
entirely in loving & yet
have fled that "lumière d'Or" ...
& an other quotedien way
for sun to shine "on sinners alike" ;
"jehovah"s" presence for local
adoration - "cul-de-sac" cult's sake .
no buddhist ... save buddha ;
yhshwh of nazareth , the essenian
- the one that inspirited/ired the unique christos ...
& , the holy prophet - CHOSEN BEFORE barashyt !
may Allah's protection & mercy be with Him
the younger "ghazali - chosen - , Amir Shaib
- the chosen - shah massoud - may his secret
thought be infallibly protected ! his "memory"
(when we "play at being the-gods ...!) revive & inspire !
'amin
muslim (=human creature & maybe "plus" ?!) chosen
one's , a thrill to merely invoke , include rifai' ,
yasawi , kubra (!) ... up to Sirhindi's job-of-work -
concentrations contractions clear "niyyah" & , gulp , choke .
"qadassa alahum sirrah"
reaLigion is the realigious affections
of iô rénasco fellowshippers node Rascals ...
& ounceless of the least heresy & "safe-ware" of NO compulsions !
& SUFY - our talis(hu)man , not fetiche ... "our"
next-to-best manner to appreciate personally moving oxygen !
oof ! & , we at iô , bonafied orfan one & one , loyally
re-membering our (rather , er , large - some 111 texts) proto-
literary rather modest , purely & naturally , so ... i'm oathing ...
we Rascals bring no great "truth" (we share it , bien sur) , "we"
author & offer to dare sharing-the-care , we like to beleaf
in authentic Uniqueness , Individuality & Total Reconciliation !
which helps to expain not only the massive quantity but absolute
necessity to spend - paying interest , the truth-tax , quoi ,
is how we might iô inspiritedly "therm" this recurring Event -
what someone else in the noisy majority might call , the night ...
well , my second "metiér" is , gulp , Smoker Of Dreams ...
& the merest mention of some sort of "fame &/or fortune -
heck , WITH a Name like nobody or some butterfly
yet to be born - has , for almost 50 years now , when iô
was en-grained into me by yhshwh (no offense , please :
JUST THE ACTS ! taken it no further than that , a mere
- this too ALWAYS passes mode ! amongst the worlds
of the "rest" , my gratitudes for this usefull life-wide
simple expression , which just loves to hug up to my
also nearly long-lifed relationship with , simply , Jetsun
Milarepa - nagajuna atisha & asanga each evntually
brought me into the far-outer , yet who's i to plaint ! ,
genuine beginning placement - recall , ONE STEP is ALL ;
out of the fat-&-flat ("our" world) & follow that pointing
finger to your base of THE basic stationary - halt ! - lieu
of your pre-installed Rope Ladder ... though then : UP !
& my fool's bank is my pocket when dressed - why would
a naked member of the humaNuclear Family need money !? -
& , knowing "me's" one knows if i have no financial debts & ,
let's say it for the sheer fun , a euro penny in the trouser
pocket , well , i no longer SAY "rich" , but this modus operendi
concerning "money" just can not be of my much concern ;
yet really quite conscious , & i have ceased all vestiges
of "le poête maudit" , & though Life IS the Gift Supreme
& Unique (and , of course and "god" , well , welcome & why not !)
& i consider my "poêsiae" , my freeChances Rascal musicae ,
"our" entire 27-limbed IÖ outfit onGOING Enterprises
as perhaps (if it is !) my only possible gift-i-"make" ... johnny
lennon is an honorary member , along with Ingrid , Shah Massoud
hanna politskaya , awn sung siu ki , bruce lee & ARMAND ROBIN
happen to participate , though strictly as honorary substitute
Rascals ... we welcome Friends & Theirs . "so that ... went down"
to our stone boat and will mention , as ending , this'n'that .
reaLife , reaLearning , reaLove & REALizing - fiable memory
a non-negotiable default setting device , so , if in hot ice or
froZen ice ("I's") contact your cosmic-Pact Provider - ar-Razq -
or put aside 2 GOOD years of intimate priority experiential
HA-Qabala ( one viable source ONLY : sirr carlos suarés & not
the painting artist , in this occurrance) which i testify operates
so spectacularly & benevolently i wouldn't understand why all
don't enroll ! ... except that reaLearning IS always mortal ,
& partial "control" , along with entering ambivalent & non
avoidable interferance from each of we rare participant's
nafs-al-ammara & speeds - even DARKNESS has , alone , surpassed !
not for all unless the Sayed's Tradition is strictly applicated :
impeccable correction in choosing this location , this Moment ,
AND the people/pupils intending to become inolved ... so i now
animate in "default" configuration my passing through the day ,
the life , the living & shdowless night & especially the folk : none .
& these IÖ "reaL...s" are AS IF ... unwritten . impossibly so ,
not a languish or linger in "my" Ideal City (razed - then ... reconstructed)
preventing our felowshippers from expression , not censored ,
& a confessor might not be far off declaring , sorry , "i can not" .
though - "when two or more come together ..." a "miracle"
advents , the states & stations of Presence & Observance , quoi !
that "when" dis-covers , unveils , to all of those-who-Will ,
TOGETHER ... the diversity of poly-pretereternal Unity .
for aSample (try to tell a rock , in particular : "you're NO sufi-ist" !)
the linguistics , acoustics , signifyers & their FORM of manifestations ,
have never forgotten the dungball-rollers ... & our , gulp , work
when well accomplished is OURS , too ; if nothing else
these friendly lines addressed to the unmet-yet-stranger
especially considering the "cyberean" angle are quite suitable
DUNG.com(mon) for any honestplanter ... & illustrate down
to imaginatie dimension our real task : earth worm antics !
llorenzo gusto : from poêsia - tome 4 , the blue hut (chapel of the white
whole - farangistan) all rites @ preserved !
totally betrayed ,
& no revenge in sight ;
entirely in loving & yet
have fled that "lumière d'Or" ...
& an other quotedien way
for sun to shine "on sinners alike" ;
"jehovah"s" presence for local
adoration - "cul-de-sac" cult's sake .
no buddhist ... save buddha ;
yhshwh of nazareth , the essenian
- the one that inspirited/ired the unique christos ...
& , the holy prophet - CHOSEN BEFORE barashyt !
may Allah's protection & mercy be with Him
the younger "ghazali - chosen - , Amir Shaib
- the chosen - shah massoud - may his secret
thought be infallibly protected ! his "memory"
(when we "play at being the-gods ...!) revive & inspire !
'amin
muslim (=human creature & maybe "plus" ?!) chosen
one's , a thrill to merely invoke , include rifai' ,
yasawi , kubra (!) ... up to Sirhindi's job-of-work -
concentrations contractions clear "niyyah" & , gulp , choke .
"qadassa alahum sirrah"
reaLigion is the realigious affections
of iô rénasco fellowshippers node Rascals ...
& ounceless of the least heresy & "safe-ware" of NO compulsions !
& SUFY - our talis(hu)man , not fetiche ... "our"
next-to-best manner to appreciate personally moving oxygen !
oof ! & , we at iô , bonafied orfan one & one , loyally
re-membering our (rather , er , large - some 111 texts) proto-
literary rather modest , purely & naturally , so ... i'm oathing ...
we Rascals bring no great "truth" (we share it , bien sur) , "we"
author & offer to dare sharing-the-care , we like to beleaf
in authentic Uniqueness , Individuality & Total Reconciliation !
which helps to expain not only the massive quantity but absolute
necessity to spend - paying interest , the truth-tax , quoi ,
is how we might iô inspiritedly "therm" this recurring Event -
what someone else in the noisy majority might call , the night ...
well , my second "metiér" is , gulp , Smoker Of Dreams ...
& the merest mention of some sort of "fame &/or fortune -
heck , WITH a Name like nobody or some butterfly
yet to be born - has , for almost 50 years now , when iô
was en-grained into me by yhshwh (no offense , please :
JUST THE ACTS ! taken it no further than that , a mere
- this too ALWAYS passes mode ! amongst the worlds
of the "rest" , my gratitudes for this usefull life-wide
simple expression , which just loves to hug up to my
also nearly long-lifed relationship with , simply , Jetsun
Milarepa - nagajuna atisha & asanga each evntually
brought me into the far-outer , yet who's i to plaint ! ,
genuine beginning placement - recall , ONE STEP is ALL ;
out of the fat-&-flat ("our" world) & follow that pointing
finger to your base of THE basic stationary - halt ! - lieu
of your pre-installed Rope Ladder ... though then : UP !
& my fool's bank is my pocket when dressed - why would
a naked member of the humaNuclear Family need money !? -
& , knowing "me's" one knows if i have no financial debts & ,
let's say it for the sheer fun , a euro penny in the trouser
pocket , well , i no longer SAY "rich" , but this modus operendi
concerning "money" just can not be of my much concern ;
yet really quite conscious , & i have ceased all vestiges
of "le poête maudit" , & though Life IS the Gift Supreme
& Unique (and , of course and "god" , well , welcome & why not !)
& i consider my "poêsiae" , my freeChances Rascal musicae ,
"our" entire 27-limbed IÖ outfit onGOING Enterprises
as perhaps (if it is !) my only possible gift-i-"make" ... johnny
lennon is an honorary member , along with Ingrid , Shah Massoud
hanna politskaya , awn sung siu ki , bruce lee & ARMAND ROBIN
happen to participate , though strictly as honorary substitute
Rascals ... we welcome Friends & Theirs . "so that ... went down"
to our stone boat and will mention , as ending , this'n'that .
reaLife , reaLearning , reaLove & REALizing - fiable memory
a non-negotiable default setting device , so , if in hot ice or
froZen ice ("I's") contact your cosmic-Pact Provider - ar-Razq -
or put aside 2 GOOD years of intimate priority experiential
HA-Qabala ( one viable source ONLY : sirr carlos suarés & not
the painting artist , in this occurrance) which i testify operates
so spectacularly & benevolently i wouldn't understand why all
don't enroll ! ... except that reaLearning IS always mortal ,
& partial "control" , along with entering ambivalent & non
avoidable interferance from each of we rare participant's
nafs-al-ammara & speeds - even DARKNESS has , alone , surpassed !
not for all unless the Sayed's Tradition is strictly applicated :
impeccable correction in choosing this location , this Moment ,
AND the people/pupils intending to become inolved ... so i now
animate in "default" configuration my passing through the day ,
the life , the living & shdowless night & especially the folk : none .
& these IÖ "reaL...s" are AS IF ... unwritten . impossibly so ,
not a languish or linger in "my" Ideal City (razed - then ... reconstructed)
preventing our felowshippers from expression , not censored ,
& a confessor might not be far off declaring , sorry , "i can not" .
though - "when two or more come together ..." a "miracle"
advents , the states & stations of Presence & Observance , quoi !
that "when" dis-covers , unveils , to all of those-who-Will ,
TOGETHER ... the diversity of poly-pretereternal Unity .
for aSample (try to tell a rock , in particular : "you're NO sufi-ist" !)
the linguistics , acoustics , signifyers & their FORM of manifestations ,
have never forgotten the dungball-rollers ... & our , gulp , work
when well accomplished is OURS , too ; if nothing else
these friendly lines addressed to the unmet-yet-stranger
especially considering the "cyberean" angle are quite suitable
DUNG.com(mon) for any honestplanter ... & illustrate down
to imaginatie dimension our real task : earth worm antics !
llorenzo gusto : from poêsia - tome 4 , the blue hut (chapel of the white
whole - farangistan) all rites @ preserved !
11/14/10
11/11/10
the ALePh-Virus in the Blood !
The Aleph Virus In The Bloody Breath :
reaLigion is the realigious affections
of iô rénasco fellowshippers node Rascals ...
& ounceless of the least heresy & "safe-ware" of NO compulsions !
& SUFY - our talis(hu)man , not fetiche ... "our"
next-to-best manner to appreciate personally moving oxygen !
oof ! & , we at iô , bonafied orfan one & one , loyally
re-membering our (rather , er , large - some 111 texts) protoliterary
rather modest , purely & naturally , so ... i'm oathing ...
we Rascals bring no great "truth" (we share it , bien sur) , "we"
author & offer to dare sharing-the-care , we like to beleaf
in authentic Uniqueness , Individuality & Total Reconciliation !
which helps to expain not only the massive quantity but absolute
necessity to spend - paying interest , the truth-tax , quoi ,
is how we might iô inspiritedly "therm" this recurring Event -
what someone else in the noisy majority might call , the night ...
well , my second "metiér" is , gulp , Smoker Of Dreams ...
& the merest mention of some sort of "fame &/or fortune -
heck , WITH a Name like nobody or some butterfly
yet to be born - has , for almost 50 years now , when iô
was en-grained into me by yhshwh (no offense , please :
JUST THE ACTS ! taken it no further than that , a mere
- this too ALWAYS passes mode ! amongst the worlds
of the "rest" , my gratitudes for this usefull life-wide
simple expression , which just loves to hug up to my
also nearly long-lifed relationship with , simply , Jetsun
Milarepa - nagajuna atisha & asanga each evntually
brought me into the far-outer , yet who's i to plaint ! ,
genuine beginning placement - recall , ONE STEP is ALL ;
out of the fat-&-flat ("our" world) & follow that pointing
finger to your base of THE basic stationary - halt ! - lieu
of your pre-installed Rope Ladder ... though then : UP !
& my fool's bank is my pocket when dressed - why would
a naked member of the humaNuclear Family need money !? -
& , knowing "me's" one knows if i have no financial debts & ,
let's say it for the sheer fun , a euro penny in the trouser
pocket , well , i no longer SAY "rich" , but this modus operendi
concerning "money" just can not be of my much concern ;
yet really quite conscious , & i have ceased all vestiges
of "le poête maudit" , & though Life IS the Gift Supreme
& Unique (and , of course and "god" , well , welcome & why not !)
& i consider my "poêsiae" , my freeChances Rascal musicae ,
"our" entire 27-limbed IÖ outfit onGOING Enterprises
as perhaps (if it is !) my only possible gift-i-"make" ... johnny
lennon is an honorary member , along with Ingrid , Shah Massoud
hanna politskaya , awn sung siu ki , bruce lee & ARMAND ROBIN
happen to participate , though strictly as honorary substitute
Rascals ... we welcome Friends & Theirs . "so that ... went down"
to our stone boat and will mention , as ending , this'n'that .
reaLife , reaLearning , reaLove & REALizing - fiable memory
a non-negotiable default setting device , so , if in hot ice or
froZen ice ("I's") contact your cosmic-Pact Provider - ar-Razq -
or put aside 2 GOOD years of intimate priority experiential
HA-Qabala ( one viable source ONLY : sirr carlos suarés & not
the painting artist , in this occurrance) which i testify operates
so spectacularly & benevolently i wouldn't understand why all
don't enroll ! ... except that reaLearning IS always mortal ,
& partial "control" , along with entering ambivalent & non
avoidable interferance from each of we rare participant's
nafs-al-ammara & speeds - even DARKNESS has , alone , surpassed !
not for all unless the Sayed's Tradition is strictly applicated :
impeccable correction in choosing this location , this Moment ,
AND the people/pupils intending to become inolved ... so i now
animate in "default" configuration my passing through the day ,
the life , the living & shdowless night & especially the folk : none .
& these IÖ "reaL...s" are AS IF ... unwritten . impossibly so ,
not a languish or linger in "my" Ideal City (razed - then ... reconstructed)
preventing our felowshippers from expression , not censored ,
& a confessor might not be far off declaring , sorry , "i can not" .
though - "when two or more come together ..." a "miracle"
advents , the states & stations of Presence & Observance , quoi !
that "when" dis-covers , unveils , to all of those-who-Will ,
TOGETHER ... the diversity of poly-pretereternal Unity .
for aSample ... plurum in unum !
llorenzo gusto - from poêsiae x 4 ; salutations & rememberaances .
reaLigion is the realigious affections
of iô rénasco fellowshippers node Rascals ...
& ounceless of the least heresy & "safe-ware" of NO compulsions !
& SUFY - our talis(hu)man , not fetiche ... "our"
next-to-best manner to appreciate personally moving oxygen !
oof ! & , we at iô , bonafied orfan one & one , loyally
re-membering our (rather , er , large - some 111 texts) protoliterary
rather modest , purely & naturally , so ... i'm oathing ...
we Rascals bring no great "truth" (we share it , bien sur) , "we"
author & offer to dare sharing-the-care , we like to beleaf
in authentic Uniqueness , Individuality & Total Reconciliation !
which helps to expain not only the massive quantity but absolute
necessity to spend - paying interest , the truth-tax , quoi ,
is how we might iô inspiritedly "therm" this recurring Event -
what someone else in the noisy majority might call , the night ...
well , my second "metiér" is , gulp , Smoker Of Dreams ...
& the merest mention of some sort of "fame &/or fortune -
heck , WITH a Name like nobody or some butterfly
yet to be born - has , for almost 50 years now , when iô
was en-grained into me by yhshwh (no offense , please :
JUST THE ACTS ! taken it no further than that , a mere
- this too ALWAYS passes mode ! amongst the worlds
of the "rest" , my gratitudes for this usefull life-wide
simple expression , which just loves to hug up to my
also nearly long-lifed relationship with , simply , Jetsun
Milarepa - nagajuna atisha & asanga each evntually
brought me into the far-outer , yet who's i to plaint ! ,
genuine beginning placement - recall , ONE STEP is ALL ;
out of the fat-&-flat ("our" world) & follow that pointing
finger to your base of THE basic stationary - halt ! - lieu
of your pre-installed Rope Ladder ... though then : UP !
& my fool's bank is my pocket when dressed - why would
a naked member of the humaNuclear Family need money !? -
& , knowing "me's" one knows if i have no financial debts & ,
let's say it for the sheer fun , a euro penny in the trouser
pocket , well , i no longer SAY "rich" , but this modus operendi
concerning "money" just can not be of my much concern ;
yet really quite conscious , & i have ceased all vestiges
of "le poête maudit" , & though Life IS the Gift Supreme
& Unique (and , of course and "god" , well , welcome & why not !)
& i consider my "poêsiae" , my freeChances Rascal musicae ,
"our" entire 27-limbed IÖ outfit onGOING Enterprises
as perhaps (if it is !) my only possible gift-i-"make" ... johnny
lennon is an honorary member , along with Ingrid , Shah Massoud
hanna politskaya , awn sung siu ki , bruce lee & ARMAND ROBIN
happen to participate , though strictly as honorary substitute
Rascals ... we welcome Friends & Theirs . "so that ... went down"
to our stone boat and will mention , as ending , this'n'that .
reaLife , reaLearning , reaLove & REALizing - fiable memory
a non-negotiable default setting device , so , if in hot ice or
froZen ice ("I's") contact your cosmic-Pact Provider - ar-Razq -
or put aside 2 GOOD years of intimate priority experiential
HA-Qabala ( one viable source ONLY : sirr carlos suarés & not
the painting artist , in this occurrance) which i testify operates
so spectacularly & benevolently i wouldn't understand why all
don't enroll ! ... except that reaLearning IS always mortal ,
& partial "control" , along with entering ambivalent & non
avoidable interferance from each of we rare participant's
nafs-al-ammara & speeds - even DARKNESS has , alone , surpassed !
not for all unless the Sayed's Tradition is strictly applicated :
impeccable correction in choosing this location , this Moment ,
AND the people/pupils intending to become inolved ... so i now
animate in "default" configuration my passing through the day ,
the life , the living & shdowless night & especially the folk : none .
& these IÖ "reaL...s" are AS IF ... unwritten . impossibly so ,
not a languish or linger in "my" Ideal City (razed - then ... reconstructed)
preventing our felowshippers from expression , not censored ,
& a confessor might not be far off declaring , sorry , "i can not" .
though - "when two or more come together ..." a "miracle"
advents , the states & stations of Presence & Observance , quoi !
that "when" dis-covers , unveils , to all of those-who-Will ,
TOGETHER ... the diversity of poly-pretereternal Unity .
for aSample ... plurum in unum !
llorenzo gusto - from poêsiae x 4 ; salutations & rememberaances .
the Errors Of The Situation - llorenzo gusto¤
... the Errors of the Situation ...
poêsiae : llorenzo gusto¤ - a way forth
-1-
"Why, indeed? Who wants to know! Well ... letsGOthen ...
O
Hatred, and anger, aren't even remotely related in reality. One is a terribly heavy human emotion; the other is often no more than a flash. One leads to a kind of butterfly Effect; the other is merely the butterfly herself... en passant. To end this comparison; I am in the midst of the frightening madness of hatred; while, She, is simply mad. Almost invariably; like the weather here in eastern France, grey on grey. Grey city, grey faces, even the wine is called "gris de lorraine" , for example! What truck have I with this, myself, a Boy blue? Without forgetting, hatred is not anti-love!
O
Though, poetry, can be. When it must. As in, to save a life. As in, mine! For instance, as I write these lines, I give them all the concentrated anti-loving that I sheerly can! For your protection, for my survival. And, hell, why lie; when you know damned well what's going on! It's not what you say, but the rot in your heart, that tells me the truth of your life, your feelings for me. I am a poet, god damn it, and I do know how to read the human heart. My own, for instance, rotten as hell! And television, does it not clearly show us this? How the well-off occidental humans have almost, to a man, themselves proved, even if they don't confess it... but they do see other humans as characters, objects or subjects, anything but real, similar humatomic beings. And not abstractions. Poetry, when it's good, is just the contrary. I should know!
O
Good poetry can not be made. It is MADE THROUGH US like the havoc made though an island chain, when the gale winds roar over. In itself, it is not art... but only a bonafide artist can handle its powerful passages. And, generally, not for long! It rips you asunder, like it did to Rimbaud. Only, Rimbaud, understood; and got out of it. At 19, he threw it all up... and fled. Trakl, Garcia-Lorca, and Dylan Thomas did not. And all died direct... because of their poetic obstinations. And they are no less legends than Arthur Rimbaud. What to make of it?"
georges nikos-tchérviç¤ - io renasco !
-2-
When I awaken to find life
around me is in ruins...
and there is no life...
Who could blame me if
I'd rather fall... back to sleep?
No witness, thus... no crime!
-3-
The Holy ghost, indeed, and that's WHERE poetry comes from. Granted, the POEMS... come from the fingers, the brains, the very mouths... of... people! I recognize the "conspiracy" before me. It is the same wall that every wind of liberty has smashed itself upon for the whole parade of human, of its mostly NOT, history. It's not the I, as a self, am reborn... it's just that poetry is an eternal Being, herSelfs , and her words are written in the heart without a date!
-4-
It's evident a poem
is not a 'group of words
from which the removal
of even one
would ...' blow it all
to smithereens...
like the knot of lamas
in a literary equivalent to Tibet
as once beloved G.I.G. declared !
When they blew apart
it took the top
off my brains uncapped
my very thoughts
and threw my heart
around in my breast
like a rugby ball ;
when f(r)iends from lack
of heroi(sm)n do likewise...
well, so do I .
I'm all for freedom ,
like I've said it's what we call
conditional on earth,
as art is the essential condition
of that black sheep cumulus
whose flash of lightning bolts
would best become described
in some lone and wandering,
bootless, in the rain, if
you will , walker of the ways .
The finest drug isn't
one at all but the ancient and unmoving eternity
of forest path through ferns and other youthful
marvels made in michigan america
where poets ARE MADE (and almost made to!)
and yet not born... who
the hell remembers being born ?
Though some smart 'alec said
that what has happened to the gods
is no one's god-damned business but
"I can tell you one thing the devil
ain't borne o' no mother...
and he DOES recall his udder (!) birth !"
In fact, that's all he's really apt
at performing, lucifer and his cohort
of flies ! more of a circus dog
than a menace to bonafide mankind .
I mean! is any man kind? or you .
Is any unkindman person qualified to tell
me what is genuine or false...
what essential and what chaff...
the truth of words
and the silent lies where old dogs
occupy the fate of village idiots
and fences, which from removing
a single stake
WILL NOT ruin their inherent
and authentic structure !
A lot of bunk gets written
in the protean forms of poems .
I prefer tepid suicide notes
for example
and only really sissy verses
can't be modified...
since their entire existence depends
on the authors' breakfast,
and I put this plural for all of your
obvious reasons...
I've heard you call it poetry
and have performed the trick
sometime after your last slice
of dead pig meat
and the dried fig you'll open lunch with
which of course, like god
in his heavenly (that is ; drunken) stupors,
is certainly not my affair
though I have a boy
who repairs air-conditioning equipment
and some nut told me
it's hotter than hell
"down there" and heck...
maybe we could do
something about it ?
-5-
Honor...
or, the inner illumination of an act !
And, when on her or in her I'm all agitation
'til, I swear... it's a real sigh sucking fact...
your honor as an endless lover is over
and gone and you'll never come again !
Farewell .
Or...
a dishonorable lack of discharge .
The wishing well of every desert bone .
A place to keep your son
when you want him to grow up
like yourselfs,
a place where even women's blood
is kept
for the missing in action
while their milk
refers back to the age of Gobi .
Which means a lot of horrible
people wanted death to ravage
Ruanda, Afghanistan, Chechynia and Bosnia
as random in the sense of hardly
"a complete list" a'samples
of man's present day temperament...
which really ends up saying
poems are what you read
at last
and ... if you really do
(and this depends on BOTH!)
... remember ?
Though not as a past, but better
a genuine present,
your own presence the better described .
Isn't this? then, also an honorable
correct
human occupation... as well ?
Judges .
-6-
I'd like to write my final testament .
This earth was pretty nice and for some 20 years
it fit so well I didn't even notice that I was alive !
I truly ... wore it OUT !
I've tried to say what I meant
but every word got changed to tears
and human speech became a kind of slangy jive
we passed from mouth to say an ear in love ;
and all we tried to share with others
turned in/itself into a kind of propaganda .
Ô peasant hordes, just look above,
to see the bombs dropped by your brothers
better off than you, say, in Uganda,
richer than the folk in Kosovo,
prettier than all those Afghan girls,
smarter than those dirty Chechens...
something to aim at, and then blow
the head off of, all that fragmented flesh
that whirls to end up like hamburger
in unAmerican kitcherns !
In my opinion
those who love so much to kill
whatever moves, or isn't in their bank,
are not a tiny terrorist blood-thirsty group ;
but the authorities, for instance,
those who send the bill for the Chinese
bullet, or Texas governors who thank
their re-electors, then get down
to beef cadaver soup and lift their glasses
for a kind of paternal toast : We know
that life is hard but some of us still bother
with the ugly business of security, and
it ain't no fun to inject women with poison,
but by the Triple Horns of the Holy Ghost
we swear in honor and humility before
our Christian father... We've murdered maybe,
yes, but it was for the glory of your Son !
-7-
I know that none of this is poetry
but only the ugly pain of all that's me .
And sky is blue and ocean filled with salt ;
but most I know... it's all my fault .
-8-
It's near mid-June and I am close
to some unknown conclusion .
I'd love to claim at last the rose
has bloomed but that's illusion .
-9-
Life's rolled over me like a bulldozer
and broken me into a hundred man
searching fragments complete with gravity ;
though I'd a minimum of ambition
and respected states as much as Jesus
did I could not mend the shattered pearl
at the center of my soul/dripping mind .
It's like you've got everything left to lose
and simply no control over the game ;
or at the Ball with Fernando Pessoa
and the fat Lady isn't going to sing
and , anyway , you'd always expected
your Cavalier would be just plain old Ezra !
And , for once , noOne could find the damn DOOR .
-10-
.. the devil's grip
is when the strangulating hand that hides in darkness in our heart
unclenches its black and bloody fist
the better to squeeze me by the neck
and drag me down
towards what in human language is named death.
Yet, doesn't kill me off.
Though when it comes you can not know
it won't!
It hurts like hell
and the aftershocks are long and almost sur-unbearable
and no one
not a single other human kind,
can come to any aid at all.
-11-
And contrary to what many think, words are hardly the friends of the poets but of their academic "interpreters" and other literary hangers-on. For poets have no friends, but only people have friends; and these friends are not those we wish to build our Citadel Of Light with. In fact I.R. considers words to be in the public domain; like community cattle herds behind the shared barbed wires ! And when the poet must express the word god, or the word cunt, or fuck, or heroin or beauty or any of its beastly attributes... well, then, he will. And we at I.R. will not flinch, nor shall we censor words only because a lot of people are just downright afraid of them; afraid enough to nearly blow a gasket, piss their frocks, get a gun out, and... destroy the source of their irritation. And the poets are rather easy to ruin, to silence, to jail, torture and kill. Mostly, without a good god-damned pipe out of the common folk! Folk who still have absolutely no original idea why the poets keep it up at all. Why not, in these cases, just remain quiet? The poet does entertain the right to silence, though it's at the consequent expense of self-condemnation, and hey, we've done the bully boy's dirty job. We, however, shall speak out. We give you our ... collective Iô Rénasco words!
-12-
Because I do believe her body is...
her soul ; I love to line by pink outline
describe her mouth,
those lips,
that small fat tongue
and the sound
through her throat
when she is swallowing the white
saliva she makes probably
while... thinking of me!
And, I really do
hope one day we meet.
-13-
I like squirrels and I like dogs
but Chester is neither
and I am tired
of seeing him act as if he were both!
Standing on his hind legs
and wagging his bushy tail.
-14-
The best would be to leave a list
of symptoms for some high-falutting freudian assistant
ambulance driver to read on his way
to accidents...
I'd rather had an english master
candidate to do the job of work upon my name...
but whoever it is should know :
I was born in michigan
but that's no reason to say so...
I was brought up orfan
but we don't need to say it...
now my middle body
which I mean : intestines stomach bladder and my sex ;
I mean it hurts
I mean it feels all twisted... up, and out, and into knots
and it's not so much a pain to scream aloud about
but a no longer recognizing one's own inner life !
Thus, very prone to doubt ,
the bitterest sauce
to a very acrid sense of self deterioration
from one stinking instant
to the very long, next .
In reality
when you give up your life
you die .
Just what we're all doing...
and, all of us in one hell of a hurry...
though... not to die ;
and that's the way we like our lie .
Sweet laceratingly photogenic saturated ;
the very stuff we rot our very selfs with...
and, when without it... watch out the kith-n-kin !
Nobody is very pretty to see
when chopping to pieces the spouse ,
though, maybe it was the devil's own madHouse...
and maybe he didn't... equal a mouse...
but this still remains the kind of thing
you don't do in public .
Unless... in america...
the beautiful .
-15-
I am making preparations for a summer burial .
Summer is indeed the sweetest month
the month of oranges in april apples
in october
michigan
a state of spirit special for an exiled married man
who's just come out 'of asylum'
for orphic poets and their orphan pals their crystal
fine
lines
over the broken, shredded backs
of their cainBred either hand .
And storms down upon them from denmark
and my kindred sister growing pale in sweden
while Penti Holappi's yellow flag
blows over finland where they did stand up to the russian brutes
what other word is there ?
they tried to steal a land and didn't hesitate to kill...some of them were killed
stupidly
far from their peasant homes in the motherland...
and we look to the east
the places of Milosz, of Klima and Istrati...
and see nothing but a pink cloud
floating languidly over the razorsharp enseignes of the new capitalists
in their billion dollar nightmare...
and, there is no west... to be seen, at all !
So, like Walter Kaufmann said : if we want
new poetry we'll have to... make it !
And we, at Iô rénasco, understand the use of Carlo Suarès :
there are no impassable walls in the universe...
and : sheer existence is a total mystery, and always will be .
Example : in poetry we build no fences
and if we come upon one... ruin it illico !
The unique law, is - the poet's talent conjugated with unKnown gift -
and the only poem
is the best one he's ever written .
And... no other .
Anyone who tries to pass anything else off as poetry
is a pimp and a pox on the human community
and time will not judge him... but
forget him entirely and forever .
Life herself is too good to tie-up in... Rules & the Police ;
we think equally highly of poetry
and intend just that : rebellion resistance and... the occaisonal Breath !
-16-
O ! Maniac ...
I tried so long so hard
to find a word
to really say the unutterably utter terror
of this... and every, situation !
I came up with... demoniac .
But now it comes quickly to me..
the word I'm wanting is
amoniac .
Then, heart attack .
Black .
-17-
Erato saw what Terpsichore turned into
when transformed by me into a kind of song ,
and so began to leave me all alone .
The sun still rose but it was fake and watery
and only showed me that my soul was shadow .
Voices talking but their words were hollow .
The central light is lost somewhere in blood
& the labyrinth or life is built in meat !
-18-
In Praise Of A Famous Land !
Of course no one today awakens from his latest night
to fling aside the blanket rush to dress and run out to the light
of god's own blessed cunt, that great black ball of golden fur,
suspended in the heavens of a Vincent Van Gogh and quite sur
realistic replica of image mother life in all her concentrate ;
though in such cases absolutely no one's ever really late ! Gulp ...
The mystery of accidental beauty on the pulsing earth
is pasted to a person from the very crack of his first birth
until, say, three or four years pass in northern Michigan
and our young hero's big enough to wield a gun
and go out like the shooting stars to have some fun,
and finish what a murder-god or demon has begun :
the massacre of rainbow dreams assassinating children
with that ubiquitous and public seducing diamond grin
which every politician priest or god damned policeman
greets his victims with... a sort of sweet mother Mary
masquerading as dawn in the form of a smashed orange .
And has the sacred fist of some quite totally unknown
and so-called human entity had yet the crushing ecstasy
of seeding your un-numbered face to ocean salt ?
To taste the sperm of Jesus in your salivating mouth
or lick the testicules of church aggrieving papal puppets,
or ram the splintering unvarnished raw wood cross
up deep into your holy guts where all souls are stocked
and what you call a new model of the world waits in boredom...
indeed this catalogue of banal and quotedian events
is printed in America the land of sleeze and greed
where this same brain learned well in schools the basic creed
of hate and hurt and all in broken English grammar...
indeed you don't agree, well, where's your bloody hammer !
Freedom of speech is an obscene myth or else yourself,
you do it in hiding, far from the chattering kids
and their proverbial innocence, why I knew a man
in good old USA who with an admirable regularity butt
fucked his oldest boy, something like eight years young,
and the man had his kicks, granted, but all three of his sons
are dead, all before thirty, and yet their happy daddy, who
didn't hesitate to rent his kid to migrant Mexicans, is living still
in the grace of god and his protestant religion in the midst
of dream-consuming fellow citizens, you want to know his name ?
It's you ! Wake up ! You'll go to heaven, no doubt,
and your trio of sodomized babies will die of joy at your reassemblage,
mark my words Mister "E"... your wife was in on all of this,
her tears were very real, your daughter helped you help your boys
up off the barn dirt floors of your agricultural affairs,
and all the neighbors will weep and gnash their false teeth
when you too, poor fellow, fly off in smithereens to your just reward .
On earth, it's kill AND be killed . Even babies murder their moms,
I should know . Mine was a very banal copy of them all . Miss-Terry !
And so that makes me, I suppose, a spokesman for the whole
country which I represent with my honeySweet songs, my sense
of impeccable humor, my public cocksucked president and his drug,
as in fantastic fame, addicted wife... how many other men
has she gotten down to work upon, the plumber, say, a male
secretary or maybe for discretion just her photogenic dog ?
I'm not an expert but merely your basic fellow writer and the facts
arrive too quickly for me to get them all a hundred percent perfect .
No matter ; my jist is clear and my subliminal penis grows erect
at the mere mention of matricule moss ... as in sun, as in moon, as in pepper ,
as in bonny lucy tossedback down to LIE ... t'il wreck't .
As in the vast dripping spongeLike vaginal American Dream ;
the very veins we slit for no better reason than to see
if in fact the heart is still in operating business, my god, a man
needs a beating pump in order to beat his peers, to rape young girls
is quite a serious career, and what the fuck to do with all offspring ?
Well, there's a war somewhere sure, or a local riot, or a nigger
to lynch, heck in Texas they kill you just to get, well, re-elected !
Now, that's a mighty proud and lovely land, cosmic hell
made at home, handmade if you like, in all varieties and even
shitflavored for the dreamy tons of trekking tourists... always
satisfied, or else, well, you don't get your money back, you don't get
back the wasted time, and no, dad, you can't unfuck the boy
you crucified with all the typical and marvellous ingenuity,
the knowhow, that celebrated United States of AmeriKKKa aptitude !
(with the T factions , inevitable , usa-taliban-american , coocoo-clans ...)
(my friend was Russell ... if one really wants to know ?
and this is not a poem not a dream ONLY his/our HELL)
And this, as ugly as it is, is my equivalent of a testament .
Not one word untrue, not one feeling left unfelt .
They say the first time a guy gets screwed a tiny tear,
without actually falling, does coagulate at the far corner
of one's left eye ; but don't ask me the reasons why .
Little brothers fall here to lie & die ... dad is in denial & dead !
If there really is a secret to the great western success story
I suggest, quite solemnly, we simply ask the fathers, such as
Mister "E"... how in hell there's heaven fucking up the kids !
Then, perhaps we could get back to composing odes to joy
or hymns to a happier life, something say in red and white and blue,
something wrapped in clitoral pink ribbons, something hinting
of dead pig meat saturated bowels, something wholly American,
that is, totally human, entirely real, authentically genuine, that is,
ressembling a single tiny teardrop, almost ready to finally fall .
And maybe, this is NOT enough, but... for now... that's all !
-19-
Every poet has a kind of private light
which he calls day, but it is really night .
-20-
In the giant grip of just another day
my metallic tongue is silent
in the chapel of this first floor
universal planetary consciousness
going currently under my own name .
And wonder if exactly not the same
experience occurs in some six billion so
called human selves the whole earth round ?
Granted, we all do share the same sun
but there are a thousand tiny forms of life
and most are made to make their members
shaped, as it were, in homogenous uniformity .
Which as an honorary poet I consider
just about the opposite of passion pulsing self ;
freedom does imply an intellectual distance
and demands, in reality, acceptedly relative
isolation... to hell and back with truth !
So I swallow my lack of any true saliva
and follow these linguistic bones across the vomit
green sand of my intimate desert, the only path
a man might forge ahead upon, the fineness
of his spirit's blade his only guide, and it does take
will, and it does take genuine caring, it even needs
a hot hand down from heaven to stroke his cheeks
and wipe the salt from my still unopened morning eyes .
-21-
What are the limits
of poetic discourse
or discourtesy ?
If we imitate
a seasodden corpse
or the body of Christ Jesus
it's like lambs at
the market in Dakar
awaiting crepuscule's meshoui...
and the intimate limbs which
give compassion to collapse
are still called ecstasy
only not by the kids in rave limbo
or the poets in the new life raft
while the ultimate is gone crazy !
And the seashsore growing distant .
-22-
Is it also now an act of god
that drains me to the pure marrow
of my greatly sorry soul/self ?
For outwardly I remain to look
at a world I will instantly forget ;
my eyes throbbing
and the whole earth
gone into a rummage sale mentality .
How is it human meat herself
becomes so quickly all polluted ?
The defeat and even
the daily pain are entirely private
and if I'm in sheer damnation
then only in hell will I be recognised .
-23-
Ion 'chenot' (!)¤
When I take meta-spiritual cocaine
let's get this plain
I smoke that demon crack
or I go back
to shooting in the vein.
A light that's black
and bright
hits me with all its might
that I might die
and know damned why.
This is how the sheep
turns into ram
and I can only weep...
then put to sleep
the who of what I am.
-24-
What new to say about my state
except for instance ain't so great .
-25-
Every generation I believe a tiny group
though in fact they might not even know each other
of humans concerns itself with poetry ;
the results of their activities have more to do with accumulation
of precious knowledges dealing with the intimate dimensions
of this ubiquitous art than they do with merely the joys
of sheer discovery... though surely they do this as well !
More than masterful cantation they involve survival .
We spoke of wind and sails and Jonas far from home ;
and how dreams in fact are alternate lives .
(Your lusted-after 'realitys' don't touch the ankles of my shortest dream !)
And when we close our lips the storms arise from the void .
The mystery is certainly included in our mouth
and when the total human tongue goes silent
and the very blood that beats our bloody heart
is beaten into royal pulp our words are trapped in experience ...
and time herself collects like dust at the base
of our spines where a soul slumps in semi-ruins
and bards are chanting hymns to fatal yesterday .
The requisites for what today is really poetry
are properly unknown and in the scale of relative
mortality are nearly equal to the way we treat our children ;
true art has no excuses for being good moving inspirational
or else it's useful as say in the use of cemetary stones .
-26-
Personal poetry obviously starts with me
and it's I who put the yeast into the bread
though yesterday a pigeon died upon my bed
and sure I'd love to sail off on the sea
upon the hydrophonique Ship tommorrow !
(and it's probable we will borrow
from Doc Williams not only the wheelbarrow
but the real marrow just as well) Or harrow
heaven on a high horse bent for hell ...
its wheel broken and the way is not narrow
but the Pilgrim is thirsty and the well well
that's a hole 'nother story ! Hardly .... shallow !
-27-
Poetry's a field where men might play
a kind of linguistic chessboard
where the squares are round
and all the colors veer to grey
a type of grassy lawn where women lay
down not only their heartlong arms
but all the legs they'll ever muster
and for fifteen seconds life is surely Good !
Llorenzo Gusto taught us all the rules
and also how the really nice guys lose
not only their gals but the very shadow
of what they almost call their meat
and vegetable souls and don't even know it .
Ludique as drowning horses in the sea .
-28-
Life is not the only luck a fellow claims
nor peach trees merely apples of the dust .
It seems like God has closed its eyes
and gone into a kind of two thousand year limbo .
Which makes it easy to talk about free will
but then who amongst us truly freely would
admit defeat or give his girl to the Devil ?
Candidates for a free fall and a hard hit
on the asphalt surface of a long suburban life
are legion and they're quite anonymous ;
what's the intimate real name of a kiss
when not only the head but the man's cock
has gone off to early paradise ? Who knows
when we shall get another whacky chance ?
-29-
Sometimes we wake up in a frothy sweat
and dawn is not a rosy onion but the skin
of a nocturnal snake who's actually quite nice
to know on a rainy night but in the sunrays
all we see's an endless row of mirrors
and in the center of each one an empty place
where once at birth we had a possible face
but little brothers are sometimes born to die
well before their elders and their mother Marys
cry out half humiliated half in rage and half
of all the private sources we shall never cite .
I even had my own and once a day
I roll into a ball and pray to deeper powers
please turn me next into a kind of cloud !
-30-
Clearly the sun has not risen once again
and all the northeast peppered under rain
and all our wives ahead for Italy
or maybe just the ultimate south sea ;
a girl's got a trio of godly mouths
and her life consists pretty much of how
and when and with what she stuffs them .
Who is almost academic and the end
of human destiny alone shall show the proof
of an eternal love a kind of life created
double from the start and at the beginning
of what we call the great adventure of death
we probably are as ignorant as lizards .
And though thirsty we crave the desert sand .
-31-
My hope has been a type of desolate
not dark but nearly empty monument
to what I'd call a pretty useless life ;
despair has done not one ounce better .
And though the peasants are made for cake
and a modern man watches his butter
it's not written in the Bible that we have to eat
nor pig nor goat nor cow why not just wheat ?
If not a total liberty at least the crown
is rather made for a special human head
I mean the one whose light is undiminished
indeed refreshened in the midst of storm .
And my body a very particular and warm
yet often weary spot to get nailed to ;
and if it's true we're better off without them
in the meantime let's GO have a war !
-32-
How could I be more serious ?
And , are you REALLY ... curious ?
I need a job some hope , and money ,
and I guess it might sound funny
to ask to get paid
for such verses as I've made
but to be blue and american and true ,
why that's just what I'll have to do !
I could be an enormously tiny editor
and publish regular promises to my creditor
that is my maker mister god ('il miggliore fabbro ...' - better "makar" ... al-Makr , sheer !)
and pay my debts a bit each even month , the odd
ones are reserved for diving to the deep bright flash
of the living adventure of a soul in human flesh
or getting betrayed dying off GOING broke ...
though , reader , I 've still got you to share a joke
or have an imaginary (h)op(e)-yum smoke or tell
my secret common language problems to , or tell to GO to hell
and mean it though mean/heartedness is not
a really very hot
item in my list of short characteristics ;
and I confess my meat itself addicts
itself to oxygen greek beauty
and a lack of socially/defined , or sub/moral , duty .
Though , when the song transforms to scream ,
and the green sun herself avoids your dream ,
and the kittens them itsy-pussy self/some softnessess
have off to Italia where all the lawlessness
of genius once so difficultly congregated ;
a half/millenium of time thus aggregated
has had poets champions and villains and tonight
's composed of quite original Adams , Eves , a round red light
disguised as an apple hidden in a half/human heart
and the real authentic garden hardly set apart
but at the central root of absolutely every bud ,
where cascades fountains pumps and cups of blood
are treated to the agitated animation of an "I" as me
in awfully wonderful natural Acts of Prime Chemistry
but after fifty years of genuine un/publications
and 2000 crossed ... it's time for anti/abdications !
-33-
An immense enterprise of description
begun two Nights ago in circular
and still notEnding in an uncontrollable
Spiral ... AIEE! 'ogni mattini IÖ rînasco !' ...
-34-
The fifth day of the third month
of the Year 2000... I
don't know who I am...
though, who gives a damn!
Yet, now it's done, the dry
winter... and spring is nigh...
and all the tiny seeds
explode a heart that bleeds.
But mine is nothing new...
it's waiting just for You!
It hurts...
like blood that spurts,
or wings that can not fly!
Who knows the reasons why?
-35-
Words have a tendancy to come out of a man
to fill the nearest space of least resistance ;
it's like a pouring of the empty in the void
though emptiness be filled with multiple self-claiming selfs
and the vacuum's really all us hollow men
whose meat is perfumed with the shadow of our souls .
I quote a lot of experts in my poems ,
men and women who, themselves, allow
the words to make them make their poetry their own ,
and, in this way, the way of wonders married to a globe ,
have turned themselves into the very mothers
of the hidden heart which suffers all life being !
Some days are overflowing massacres of silence
and the music... as sweetly rare as suicide, or love reborn .
-36-
I will not play the innocent
though all my crimes together
do not weigh an April peach ;
the worst I've frankly done
is hurt and hurt again myself .
Now spring has slipped once more
into the oozy non/existence
of time turned into March intoxication ;
we can die from overdoses
of sun and if we drown in the ocean
with an island in sight...
and what has happened to the light
of seven years and out after
midnight in the eucalyptus stand ?
I have been attacked and rarely
riposted in fact my literary
unknowingness will be a shadow
under which a hungry soul
has lingered and anonymously loved .
-37-
A kind of rainbow
or was it just an errant
butterfly which in my eyes
has unstrung the sack of stars
and now in blue explosions
flashes all the way back to birth
and pre-yonders (!) accompanies
the skinny heart
of a quite fat/headed poet .
Is it true dad , is it ?
It's freedom folly and submission
son and all the rules of grammer
will not turn the whirlwind
into authentic womanly emotions ;
last life I was a communist
or maybe just a'common cyst ...
and my fate was fire
at the crack of dawn
and all the human hopes
entangled in braids of blackish hair !
A kind of chinese onion
puzzle if you will and the garden
is allegoric which means
it exists only in the sense
of a kind of moral lesson ;
and my father's father was a type
of monkey which is a way
of allowing science the place
once reserved in the shade
of golden superstitions .
At first glance it seems
strange so much is based
on such a flimsy evidence
as words their wee selves !
And we are founded on a kind
of mobile cloud of rather pink light
where the least tomato could be
the greatest devil and storms
invariably linked to what we don't
still call the missing sex .
It all so adolescent easy
just to get a hard/on ;
and the nipples with their cosmic
intimations of green milk
are like the snow/flakes sent
from heaven but they are not cold !
Unless that girl has signed/up
for a group migration
and the very idea of penetration
is cavern/dated yet still apt .
Not for nothing are the ten toes
tied intimately to the two testicles
and going bootless in the april mud
a kind of sophmoric circumscision
where ovaries are yet equated
to a mess of lukewarm omelettes
and the original indications of birth
calculated not in pounds or minutes
but with the insouciance of growing fat
our children replace us with circles ...
everybody's favorite stories
are autobioghaphical ;
the crowning instants at 17
have their echoes in hand/grenade
explosions at the age of 36
which blow irredeemable holes
not only in the north/east mistrals
the size of renegade algerians
but also blast a tunnel narrow
as impaling stakes and leading
to the heart of hell
through the back door of my woman's
obliterated center and direct .
The next disaster programmed ;
and when we have at last finished
counting the stars and giving each
a number for a name ( see A. Clarke !)
perhaps it's like a man's ten/thousandth
fuck with the self same loving girl
and universe , like we , recyclable ?
-38-
It all depends on who
has drunk from the well of forgetting ;
the audience is not available ,
and no body cares about nobody .
Anonymous people die
with very little ambient animation
by the thousands by the day
and every night is punctuated
by the nearly isolated hordes
right now struggling with last breaths
and other difficult almost unpronouncable
and yet inevitable as ... No more dawn ! ...
those celebrated taxes
some poor beggar/poet never paid ,
and yet I'd say he pays his humble dues
as if in spite of twenty years
of battle with the devil's grip
and thirteen in disgrace
and more than forty months dry
as a camel knuckle
some brief eternity on the sahara sand
this pre/cadaver isn't just exactly
sworn to silence
nor allegiant towards any cult
yet only affiliated , through Hassan ,
with Ashiata Shiemash
and with his Messanger intrigued
and since , like Omar the tentmaker ,
has time for science , in his case
HA - Qabala , and a time for
the physique and the female and tulips
and his famous Cup of Wine , a time
for verses and his ryme , ahhh , Sufy !
Now Nishapur is orphan
and my mouth like the Rose of nancyEuropette
is opened to announce
a Resurrection ... in meat and bone and blood ,
not of Jesus , nor Khayyam
but a mere cypress ;
33 years hence , I mean
the width of years, full years , and not
their so/called length ,
shall earth re/echo and a woman
with something like my face
shall appear in the village
in the valley in the alps
and after nearly/seducing an 18 year/old
local beauty leans over the circular lip
of the well with the waters of forgetting
and for a second vaguely remembers Pessoa
and her Grandfather's red bandana
and all that serpentine savanna/hair
and instead of lifting the dipper and sipping
jumps barefoot into the abruptly milky
'bruptly ruby suddenly saving wellHole waters
saving both poet , and ... rupting ! ... their Honor .
She was once known as
the youngest baby
the freshest jalapêno
and was not a serbianWoman !
And nearly all of my basic
impulse to write and to try
to make it a kind of personal
hopefully some/what universal
as anglo/american can be in my mouth
poetry arises from( since it IS you !)
knowing three years out of five
uniquely , in a lot of senses , You .
I rarely if I ever write in boredom .
However never really ever having
had a long/term reader I content
my self with repeatedly turning the page ;
my strategy is hazy but it GOES like this :
I agree to growing older on condition
that my isolation is fruited with peaches
from Michigan October and lots of books
of poetry from everybody everywhere
the sort of thing you could decently read
aloud at their multiply lonely funerals
and put a little dignity into the hard dirt
that in 14 billion years or so will disappear ;
what will not vanish then , we idiots , is just
that ... the apparently , immediately , invisible !
I , for one , did not drink of that liquid .
I also kept the kids
a good distance
from the hounds of hell ;
and she ... as well .
Though living with a gourd
a canteen
a dark bottle
a mere champagne glass
a simple spoon
to a not so simple hypodermic needle
is a kind of modern/Greek
drama a kind of dangerous blessing .
In deed , a truely inteeresting -ouch- chinese year !
-39-
Nobody gets out of here alive...
Pilgrim! Give up all hope, and advance...
Insensata cura dei mortali...
"gather stones, and nevermind!"
-40-
The panicSpring :
It's so much easier to spit on the paper
than it is onto someone's face...
but poetry is not an art of expectoration
so much as one of holding one's breath .
We all remember the deepsea diver
who rose too quickly to the surface
and the soul he lost in the sea
was refounded more in primal salts
than in the normal passage to moon dust .
He didn't literally explode but the cells
in his brains most emphatically did ;
we can only hope it happened at such a speed
that time, itself a form of dying light, lost
its own version of cosmic consciousness !
When this event occurs at a stroke after midnight
we can often call it merely nightmare
and switch back off the light of our electrical
meats, put the heart on hold, maybe rise from bed
to piss, or maybe put your penis in your girl,
and get back to the pseudo-business of death .
In mid daylight it's equivalent to drama ;
the banal running over of a loyal housemouse
heading in a hurry back to his big mama...
Sophie trying ô so hard to wisely choose... Antigone DYING !!!
the police bullet in the back of the neck
of the young man in his neighborhood...
the local fair where the yokel fairies flock
to find pretty kids to take back to their pads
and take them like a crack junkie takes his flash ;
a tiny tear at the far edge of the left eye
apparently the jig is up and anyway who says
the entire universe is not a type of fountain ?
And who says that pleasure is a kind of evil ;
that to suffer a child makes you one mother
fucker of a man... and, if not you, then who ?
We've all got many years behind us
and a myriad pile of sins ; most of them, granted,
dusty and just about as banal as concrete in Chicago .
The point is that drugs, and sex, as all
our daddies in all of our rich rancho santa fe homes
invariably intoned : Shall be thy ruin... son !
Yet, strangely enough, it seems still most men
have not only raped their own shoddy brains but spent
a hell of a lot of not always hard earned money on access
to female nipples, and so, what's new ?
THIS Milk is spilled , al-mulk w'al malek killed to nought mawt !
Jesus is still rotting away in effigy on that
goDamned shameful human-lineated cross My god
indeed, can it be you HAVE FORGOTTEN US for good !
-41-
Certainly, in a relative manner, a thing
of beauty is forever joyful, and there is no thing
actually aptly termed a woman for this woman is
a human being thus a process not a fact , in fact
an act all in herself wherein shall agitate many
a strange fish come all the way out of seaslime
to inhabit a house with a toilet a lady a dog .
Not one instant of their terribly short existences
do they feel the imperative necessity to meet
an angel ; and though they run across a dozen
daily like the hidden 'khidr' they go unrecognised .
My god... but son-of-a-bitch we must give thanks
for something so big even the darkest cumulus
cloud's a mere ant's domain, that is, in comparison,
and the tv screen is the closest you'll ever get
your holy loving lips to the sex you'll never have !
Sure, sex is life, but love is a sort of dope
and should be shunned by the sheepheart exemplaires
amongst this splendid multitude of sheer humans .
Yes, believe me, your loveliness depasses all .
-42-
Leaving aside Texas, and its cromagnonesque puppet leader,
I think Florida where people would sell pieces of "little Lillian"
as others do the Berlin wall, (or cans of Green Mountains air,)
should be voted the shittiest state of the disunion this year .
My solution is final, and no crap : NUKE Fidel & Cie. !
While we're at it why not San Francisco rotten with homos,
or New York City that polluted perishing queen of crack flash ?
But please spare Microsoft or the whole world would stop .
-43-
It's true our ambition at Iô Rénasco
is to lose ourselves as nearly completely
as possible and still remain terrestrial ;
IF ... (!) poetry is known in advance it's not
only a mere shard from the impossible past
but drags humanity back and not ahead .
My God my god but my own orgasm
was once a point of absolute reference
and life herself painted up like a rainbow
out on a picnic in an oak grove
where squirrels are not shot simply dead
but the words themselves become indeed
the very objects they are subjected to .
Who can say we really might yet dis/appear ?
-44-
Lachrimopyrotechniks send beloved bodies
off on a journey to hell oneway and are quite sincere
in certain circumstances separation is a nearly
mortal wound but heck I'm talking a kind of true love .
All stripping down to essentials
will be not only embarrassing for the majority
but as painful as any guy could ever stand .
And usually he melts down and normally
there's not a mouse in the house of a good damn
who cares unless the cheese rations are augmented !
It's impossible to genuinely waste time
but meat can be mistreated and children are not
only the bright future but a sort of emotional
anchor we fashion in the pride of our own unpity .
-45-
How far from the seashore
were the last words
that we heard from Roy ;
while Maryann got accepted
into a business school
and has gained seven kilos
since the American
left the valley
in search of a sandy beach
invariable sunny days
very unsilent yet natural nights
and his pal
off on a quest for the ghost
spirit of Pessoa/Reis !
All of this having the good fortune
to pass in the imagination
or in the mouth
and not into the imploding
for example intestines
of a betrayed man
who effectively is right
but has in fact thrown away
some fourteen years of his fortynine ;
and his wife about gone
for Italy and for good
and the kids grown up in four
quite quadrafurcating manners
and much of it simply indigestible
for a suddenly qualmy father
and his career
as the successor to Ezra Pound
in apparent shambles .
And to be logical if not inspired
no the ocean is not really near ;
not that Claude's enquiry
was entirely false
but the time I've spent
away from that Alpine Valley
is of the same order
as that of a tomato
on the ground split open
awaiting nothing more than a squadron
of hungry ants , perhaps
but I'm not in the south either
and the mere act of writing words
is so close to that
of stroking your either breast
and finding you glad
when my own lips remember
this crescendo here
or that whopping normal
joy
at just being in a rowboat
with nothing but land
in sight
and no care for the fishes
and no real wish to amaze the peasants
by taking a stroll across the surface
of my own Grandfather's Lake...
something crystal
or just play'in yellow
and stark as a bee's barb
on the upper lip
which is made only to hurt
and for the whole rest of a life
we don't forget
something in us still misses
well those tiny kisses and then to bed
mama sleep with me a little
I am not afraid
but proudly six
and happy my own mother sleeps
in our own house .
Now I know well yesterday
and well know enough tomorrow
will indeed come
and will indeed become
and yet is still almost not yet here
and yet still a secret and we're still young
but actually the house
has burned down and the green
gone to blue
and frankly a grown man
husband of thirty years
and father to four grown children
who hasn't worked a day of his life
and who has all the bad habits
and who has broken all of the laws of the land
and though he would is far too weak
and puny and ridiculous to break those of heaven...
asking for no mercy
and deserving no more
than the let's say human dose
which I grant
is a big and ugly lie and very stupid of my part
to even pretend at equality of terrestrial destiny
so...
I cut short the blab
crave a cigarette I'll not have
and sit back uptight to have a long sip
of tepid tapwater .
My dream...
to open a bach-to-bhakti-bike shop .
! Wheels ... & Barzakh non-Stop !
-46-
Again again again and once again
I open up my eyes and now a new
dawn's risen and the universe shattered
once more into some six billion I's .
It takes a lot of light to fill such night
saturated holes who call themselves
the genuinely human souls aboding earth .
This might be what they mean by multiple
birth experiences and sleep herself
a kind of pre/inititory death where dreams
are equivalent to God and my mother
Mary couldn't know all this she was too busy
making seven children enter earth before
she "plumb" took the kaleidescope out of her head...
and ending up dirt in south America .
Now I await my moment with patience
and continue to voyage like one
of the primary or is it basic founding
colors of a spectrum made in our solar system
across the earth of course but also into
the mouth the belly the bowels and the genital
upheavals somehow begining the start
of this sheer mystery doted with five fingers
on either hand and mostly made in two
models what we name the male and mostly You ;
I know it's not high poetry and the only real
religion I ever practised with abiding pleasure
which is shared and otherwise not present
though masquerades in some drug encounters
but we're not here to raise the dead nor kid !
It isn't simply university/defined vocabulary
or the fixity of subject/object affiliations
nor is the great goal fashioned to make dunces
out of prunes and the real sacs a man's equipped with
are the glands and hormones and those serpentine
messangers if we will our very pattern... "geniales" !
Knowledge of atomic structures isn't necessary
to appreciate the intricate involvement of detail
in the construction who knows what creation
itself consisted of I said the building of the very
mass of matter which is dead or dying light
into the uncountable starlike points of brilliance
also known as facts which dominate and animate
this greater daily body of my very own I call
for now in English/version palpable universe .
I almost said sufficient just to eat some LSD .
But as a goofy maverick journalist I try
to keep a clear line between my personal
and untouchable sensations and the let's say
vulgar events which merely happen in what
most of us still insist on calling real life .
But heck I've got lots of them why once
I stepped off the plank near the shores of Tahiti
and drowned and another time I won
the ascension of the Alpe d'Huez in the Tour
and for a few weeks was private secretary
to Alvaro de Campos in pre/present Lisboa
and I loved a peasant girl from France and had
a bevy of children all of them from the two sexes
and left her with two babies in a state of agitation .
I'm still not equilibriated though approaching
fifty with wounded stiff ungraceful Tiger steps
still wondering when I'll get down to the edge
of the well in the village in the valley in the
mountains where they tried falsing it with salt
for Its water was that of utter forgetting
but the common folk directors and the tourists
drank it anyway and I'd be a fool to not !
Explaining oneself to starangers is easy enough
if they've got your eyes Natalie your breast
and neck and the way you talked to me afraid
of everything you said and me upon my knees
between your thighs on the bar stool
and that black rose glowing like nuclear charcoal
when a boy stumbles on the fire of his own guts .
It's these flames I wanted to lick
when out at midnight hugging the eucalyptus
trees on the golf course of Rancho Santa Fe ,
I still believe with Grandpa's Lake
in Beulah Michigan the most magical locations
upon a planet I evidently endorse and intend
to reside upon for as long as oxygen
which is as good for a poem as it is for a lung
enters and exits from where I feel a tiny potent
god has made her nest in the shade of my
muscular yet quite fool/hearty central pump .
Our spirits obviously being that light
struggling to get back to the sun and beyond
like the shorthaired mousey boy on his bloody
knees whispering sweet Jesus to the tattered bark .
-47-
I'm about as efficient
as a fig leaf
in hiding my organs
of progeniture and sex and love
and of evacuation
though anyone who's lived
25 some years around fig trees
knows damn well the peasants
use the white milk sap
to remove warts
and everything about these plants
is abrasive uncomfortable irritating
except for its trunk
and branches which in fact
themselves are soft enough
to break
under one's own masculine weight
and fall to the red hard dirt
twisting one's neck ;
poetical experience perhaps
but decidedly unelegant
and hardly... well... productive .
in fact , another false bible !
-48-
1
In 4 lines today
this is what I have to say :
I woke up anew
missing You !
2
From dawn to night
a sole analysis...
for, if I'm right
it's sheer paralysis .
3
Though if I sleep again
my nightmare's apt to move ;
even if she just begin
snorting and stomping hooves ...
I stand erect with light
prepared to honor Her
but if I lack in height in/sight
I yet remain a memory/member
with a name & number
of the male minority .
And the fat bees bumber
to a real absorbed sorority
and find the wax
and the weave of a world
without modern war and facts ,
like honey , warped and whirled
like Maulana's semi-
automatic single/minded
adepts whose emblem I
too have adopted as unblinded
as quartz in the Sahara ;
as Lot the morning after ;
as Abe regarding Sarah ;
as Jesus without laughter
though not as humanity ...
plural as in fact in/singular ;
re-animated flashes of insanity ,
quite, indeed ; aSample : Fingular !
From the poet to
the teen/age masturbator ,
behind the sun to the very ghetto
of whole hands and alligator
like eruptions in full
sincerity and profound desire .
From fingertips to toes a bull
spirit slumbers and when I die Her
own fox hearted soul
will kill a rabbit or squirrel ...
while ... the meat grease on the orange coal
whistles and forest ferns uncurl
like virgin leaves brushed
upwind from my widow's burial
with pink smoke and poppies crushed
into the wine of rather basic aerial
renditions of the act
of self/sensations ...
this extreme and fragile fact
of pre/death initiations !
4
Pre/visionary now pretereternal images
when every event
occuring to an adult
results from cowardice ,
often unadmitted .
But my true ambition
was to retrace the steps
(to emulate if you will)
of that legendary German master philosopher
Ludwig Hohl .
But first I had to get to Europe ;
my own father said to be German ,
and mother French
and the compass in the rosy nest
of my halfway human heart
has apparently pointed to Provence ;
at times even in the jolly way
of Ford Madox Ford
and his really wonderfully
reading Paradise ;
a kind of non/obligatory
and very minor
yet valid and "chaud" ! , model
and a type of memory
a half a sleep .
Yet how to explain
the existence of any universe ?
Creativity and sex are associated
in the popular mind
with art pleasure sin .
It's a rainbow "made in spain" , gee ...
with a pot of glue & sorry - gloom - at the end
and you gotta pay
the postage as well ;
why embark ?
Whatever happened to poetry
impassioned even
opinionated
and poets with names like
cummings Pound Graves Dylan
Thoman Berryman to pick on English ;
continental colleagues make
this age quite golden
in the gamut
of man as a bag full of sacs
his skin a rag , a tattering fading envelope ...
his hair a brush
and his cock having little sense
suffered quotedian inflation
and the crash
and this type of poem is designed
simply to share an opening
in the mere fabric
of common language .
Not to educate the kids !
-49-
My 50 years established
In the annals of the passing years...
A life, self-edited, and published
as one page per day appears
before... whoever reads such intimate
yet absolutely common
tales which illustrate
these stories from the merely human .
So, I invite you all to have a look
at what we call the man... some poet's book .
There's Lazarus...
he's like the lizard ;
with his very hazardous
adherence to his child-wizard...
which will cost him double .
Though for us it's fine
if all the trouble
takes place in Palestine .
What really happens, is normal .
And now I'm formal !
I've seen summer coming on like a wheat field
rolling over the western horizon
and the entire congregation of crows uprises in a veiled
tumultuous cloud of dust crammed with once and future human
bodies... themselves... as yet in a state of unlovely chaos !
Yet it is from here, and this, the dervish of our soul
who throws daily routine into permanent ruins, and, who'll toss
ten thousand midget shades of man in their whole
pathetic nakedness directly into the moon's mad snout ;
the alternative is discipline, as in... the radish or the knout !
-50-
One day, as I was sitting in my room, and didn't even know it... for I was dreaming at that time (or, lack of time ; for to dream implies just this, the total lack of any time reference based on what ever logic !) that I was lying in my tomb ; yet I didn't know, then, if I were indeed dead, or, as we say, still amongst the living !
Though, my one ambition was clear . I had willingly entered my final resting place, even if only in reverie, in order to be instructed on the proper methods to employ in order to write some really memorable, world class poetry ! I'd heard there was a teacher in that domain who just might, and this depended on me, I was sure, be able, and willing!, to help me .
What he was like I can only say : Like the wind, abruptly halted ; like snow, melted ; like a shooting star... shot ! And what he taught me was, somewhat, the following ...
-51-
... Waiting for a Third millenium :
Excuse me, but
aside from froll-liking with my spring
saturated girl,
or strumming half-presently the orange notes
of my guitar ,
there isn't just a lot of otherwise to do
if one is not an adept or convertée to a sect
or maybe mere computers ;
after all we're collectively getting old and numerous .
With population growing younger over all ...
Which is impolite to say
and pehaps, in a way, incorrect as well ;
at least it's hardly diplomatic .
My entire life
which apparently did not end a whole hell
of a long long time ago
has been out on a mission ;
like my omnifavorite lone pilgrim
out there
in here
on his voyage in a universe amongst
ten thousand devils ;
not even master Rumi's thousands forms of mind ;
nor the hundred names of a now reborn God ;
nor ten good men somewhere
down here on a blue planet planting a flag ;
and that one... Martin Buber's YOU...
still missing in a lot of action
having absolutely nothing to do either with a
new model of the universe
nor an institute for the harmonious developement of man
nor even Catholic and far from Polish ;
it's still me and I'm still puzzling over
just what the heck are the people
who will soon be living for, virtually, ever !
unquote . GOING TO FIND TO DO NEW ?
When you didn't know, you "left a blank ;"
today you stick a guy in there,
or his gal , or "just" an other banal venal penal lie !...
or even just merely the both of them,
and the end result, as whosohow-when sayed :
well, no body likes to smell its own mortal
environment when just that meat is rotting and time
itself is equal to the fading shadow of your own
almost-soul, hiding there behind your very human
entirely PHYSICAL heart - a sort of eighty-ninth note
for those who have had the ambiguous lot
to have experienced consciousness in the midst of all this dying light,
this matter itself, this stone this tree stump, this sand .
Not only a marvel, authentically tested
in the genital intelligence of the testicles,
tightly & totally entwined within formal body Brain ! ,
but confirmed in the tender science of her womb .
The astrology of sheer love
and not a god damned lie (straight "line" !) ever told
by nature . Tigers do not betray,
they accomplish ; Judas himself
could not do, decently, more .
And a gift ; perhaps ?
Let's say instead of ceding you a million bucks,
a year ; an upkept home of choice ; the pet you really need ;
sex love & and happiness intensely true ; repeat, INSTEAD :
Condemned to suffer, grow old, and die,
why not ? like a dog out of Kafka's guts ?
Would you just say : Yes ! Do I have a choice .
What's in it, after all, today,
for an unmediatic hero ? And, yes,
we do have a choice ;
though it isn't usually our name .
Like the shadows , that comes after... or doesn't .
-52-
&
here the many talk about reality
which is real enough
but certainly does not equivalate ,
though if it's true that money talks louder than words
then perhaps money is a kind of song or poetry
from the single dollar to the epic megabill !
A million dollars understood as a vast symphony
and cash transactions the musical notes
of a very great nation ,
capitalism is indeed the tune that we are trotting to !
The whole movement taking place
between B sharp... and B flat
as if they were the base command
and William Shakespeare our reference thereof .
Though if A were for analfabeta
we wouldn't be here at all
and the mere lack of a little poem
would have in its modest way transformed
somewhich the very atoms
of a planetary humAtomic fellow .
I know that I repeat myself
but all my art's eventually a sort of fugue
I now constate in what we term a retrospective survey .
C's a perfect mortal key to all that's poetry . (Ghimmel , or ... get this , Gamma !)
Its ambiguity and raspy entrance
in the palpitating ears of a local amateur
have made it a favorite of the seagoing poets
who see the island of their own ego
as some kind of secure foundation
for all of what are nominated futures .
(Unique Hayy Ibn Yadzan ... bien entendu ... 'cepted !)
Just as a man is built of blood and bone and meat
so are my phrases crafted with our shared verbs
our nouns and in particular our pronouns
which each one pronounces aptly as their mouth
announces a black sail on the horizon
and so it's time to take a very long
and who knows how long remembered...
leap into the bloody heart of earth and its art - éretz , hayy !
It's not for nothing movement
is the absolutely signature of anything divine
this side of universe of course our sun
in all its labyrinthine clarity does honor
to this evidently necessary Act of existing .
And the nearest we ever arrive to the center-noble
of our System Go is going in well there's no secret
to the farthest we can get towards the precise
spiritual point where a woman's heart-shadow
and its incumbent probable soul
meet and merge with the womb of her belly
and the ovaries are not so much public
as they are occaisonally published in recycled flesh !
If we have names it is not we
who have invented them and our heads
are likewise gifts of a practical unknown origin
all orfans indeed
all lost in a cosmic chaos that ressembles
at times a veritable life in America
but there are ten thousand discombobulations
and the crossroads are littered
with two thousand retroactivating rotting
diurnal glimpses
into something else that issues out of a self
same creature who here goes under the common
designator : She .
Is this a macho ploy
or some horrendously mild
foray into sexual politics ?
Probably not ;
but is money not a kind of music ?
Are girls for sale
anymore than boys always have been ?
And as long as the melody lingers on , gee
whiz and all the other octave mates
whose very structure is another marvel
of almost bourgeois exactitudes, heck if
you want to talk about reality
just remember your jump off the ramparts,
your credit card,
all the memories of your life passing in parade
as you drowned in sight of that sinking
private pile of deserted sand, & recall célan , apollinaire , the seine sliced oped like a vein in the neck
under the foot , not of abdel qadir jilani , but of ... brothers in arms , on the other sides of the sun !
remember do-re-mi and how there's a pair of pauses
in the horseback mountain of the gamut, gosh
I even thought I'd sing a tiny lullaby
and therein offer to buy all of your money
and I'd give you all I've got in my own pair
of awfully lonely testicules
to get there in time in my green boat
and bring you back to the mother Alps
where after your four children
you at last, that is, She... will sip a few times
at the lips of the well of forgetting
it all and for always yet not dead
in fact quite like the present situation
which as they say is well
under control .
In this sphere
this space
this corner of a universe
perhaps
I've come to learn
it seems
just about only this : Idealism
and I mean our snappy Don and Sancho too
for one aSample
is in my mouth as chocolate as we'd wish
yet after crying on it - the pure basic dirty melting metaphysics of yum yum ...
I think it's been more than a dozen years
the salty attack of my own sweet brains
has blown out a hunk of my soft heart tissue
and I do agree it hurts and hell
is all akin, or
hope is harmful in my total spectrum .
Faith betrayed , for ... Confido Confodi , all trust is traitor ...
Love ? Oh yeah , just like that ? i must'a got latest lost !
-53-
&
there's a couple matters
I'd be more than glad to clarify ;
for first there's democratic poetry
and then... America .
I'm sure that few of us agree
that poems once
like peaches and those Kansas wheatfields
and the earthblue skirts of growing girls
were more than magic
and like all good drugs
could make a fellow really fly ;
or cry or sigh and often wonder why .
A guy like me for instance
nothing but a mediocre no-one
with hardly any past
no presence whatsoever
and a highly dubitable future
could suddenly find himself
in my tennis shoes and torn teeshirt
a kind of tiny god...
and the garden was great
and those oranges of dawn
that echoed as yet unomenously
with the name of Federico Garcia , Gabriel Peri , Robert Desnos whose heart hated war
were at hand and the mere thought
of sex
would give this little tyke
a fine hard-on
as the term then was pudiquely applied ;
and my own hand the only cunt
I could jimmy up !
But this is adolescent froth and foam
and in my later teens I tried
those sacred substances
and liked them quite a lot
and found the orgasm largely consoling
and the poems of Rimbaud and yes
our own irrascible Ezra and Dylan
and that gem of gems The Tempest ; Johnny Berryman's 11 Adresses to God , sublime , his finest ! ,
all was sayed and all remained to be donne .
Fucking tripping poetry&music were the trio
of divinities upon which my own threesome
fabricated with a head a heart a spine
rested, when at rest, and moved when moved .
Who's the instigator of it all
is one of our key questions
but it's not an answer answers anyWhat .
We confess to silence ignorance and lonely
dreams
of furry kittens
corrosive acids and
the mindless madness of musical intoxication...
with the worm of word
lifting its slimy head out of the mess
to toss a couple of rhymes
off into the rather sticky yellow wind !
Shucks galore ... huck Finn'd ... broken orphan dolfin .
! Who could this not animate , perhaps default ?
-54-
&
now that made in America means
that no one's born a poet but
and no one rich and beautiful though if
you've got the dough
we'll bake your cake man .
And will cut chips
of lemon rind
for garnishments in taste
and eyes
for beauty is the mirror
of a modern mind
and when it isn't
better head for life alone
in a tiny rock hut
in the suffering land
of dry throats and barrels of red wine
no wonder hunger
is still one of the five marvels
of wholly variable mankind & kin .
I didn't say the apes
and haven't often lived in any caves
nor dragged a girl back bedwards
when the hunt is over
and our antique fireplace is down
to embers and the lee-heavy eyelids
fall . It's like Adam and that fat
grey worm he mistaked for a rib ;
but it's not every day one
wrestles with the mother
of all our earthborn mothers !
Fatal combats
do not always end
in death ;
and lately the propaganda mills
and all the billyboys
in this green dump
have proclaimed that reason
doused with internet and television
is indeed an apt bedfellow
for a heap of potatoes
once also known as peasant
pancakes
and the least of us
one hell of a pantheistic
legion of quite apathetic chess
hounds !
Which implies a maximum of commas barks
and bites and peons to be flung
to a glorious ruin
like opium poppies about to be pricked - or gamma rays zapping brain !
The adventure is forever
at the very beginning and sorry
experience here counts for nothing
and in fact is useless baggage
which is better left
at the portals' garbage bin ;
only the heart
and its place as the seat of art
made on an earth
still not totally American
and its shadow
which is evidently the best candidate
for a possible soul
a man of roots could barely dream of
and that lingering dust
on the tail of the bird of authentic
gusto packed and peppered seaman's verse !
A gift ; as for the rest... asleep .
I swear it's me .
And please, do get it through your head
I almost said fucking
god damned
I'm not like you
and if American
must be the last, or maybe the first...
is it the only ?
-55-
Once he told me Clancy
don't try nothin fancy...
you're fine just as Harkham
and that's who/what I am .
As near as close kin
I've got here two children
who fall in no cults
as various young adults ;
I'm not a judge
except for Michigan fudge
and the wheatfield hair
of Her who's my Fair !
So I rest simple ;
call a pimple a pimple
and never forget
I can't get out of debt .
I owe the equivalent
of a thousand bucks spent
like a complete idiot ;
I really fuckedUp !
Who do I confess to ,
convey my distress to ?
Not catholic , yet I rhyme
my sole solution ... time .
For all that's hurt and bled
but still isn't dead ,
and don't halt to suffer
it's all that I might offer .
An end to bother .
Now I'm twice a grandfather .
Two more adventures to live
and two good reasons to forgive ....
and yet I still have not .
For all the central's still a knot
and I'm still off on a trip
once also known as Devil's grip .
The very same .
I recall the appearance of the name
and the attack and swear that now all is
a kind of nausea'ic paralysis .
I've sworn to get out .
But I doubt
even brother Jesus on his cross
had scant love for loss !
It's come alove again
or become what has been ;
a calm terror in perspective ...
or else, why yes! , rectification .
(From the tiger to the rose thorn...)
no creature is born
with no capacity to wound ;
and no instrument untuned
all the time be it Pan's pipes
or our Master Rumi's tripes
or even God's good humor ...
which echos aptly human !
the book of errors ... coming .
-56-
It's hard to write anything at all new, fresh, original. If you read books you see how the others have written about just all & everything. What's left to be done? I'm not kidding, I don't just want to repeat the greater, and our lesser, dead! if you don't read then what you do write just might be, and probably is, a re-doing of the already done, as well.
So, just what to do, indeed? A serious, curious, dangerous, question!
The answers, of course, for there shall be ô so many, are in fact the very things we do write. What we can control, then, is publishing, what you'd like others, your equals?, to read. Which is what I'm trying to do in IÖ RE. Of course, what nobody can know, à priori, is the experience of real Transformation I am presently going through. For the past month or so I'm like a man being stripped, though down to what, even I have no clear idea. I'm just, as we say, apparently along for the ride. Very strange, very.
I know my relationship with poetry is downright unnatural; I'm obsessed by it, by its poets, by their life stories, their literary "evidence" and occaisonal close analysis of it; but mostly I'm fixed upon its invariable failures. Both the human wrecks as well as their often equally ruined poetic exclamations, written and oral. Two tongues on this earth, says Hassan, the one we write with and the other one we speak with. And, obviously, we write to... while we speak, ideally, with. The choice is simply with which one do we wish to try to communicate; or, with what specific mix?
Poets, are inspired, or... they're not! What, poets or inspired? Why, both. If they're not they're not and we don't read them, at least not long. If we do read them, so they are, but, so are we as well. This is poetry for us, this to & fro from one human heart to an Other. Without this reciprocal nourishment there'rd be no reason for us to read. In this case we would stick to talking, and leave writing to the wooden headed. But, when we do read, and we read quite a lot, we are not dupe. We know that all poems are static, are not conversations, or even speeches, and that's it's impossible for a poet to pass on more than the linguistic dimension of his inherent, felt, poetical experience. The reader, often himself a poet, must provide the correspondingly sufficient, adequately prepared, terrain... in which to actually receive the Body of the offered (published) poem!
Just as the religious spirit has never shied from using poetry for its own hallelujahs, poets of other "denominations," from those with none to the most convinced retro-surréalist, have just as often taken some jewel, some drop of honey, found in some religious doctrine, dogma, or document... and slipped it, sometimes openly, sometimes surrepticiously, into their own to be published canon. This is all in the rules of the game, and let us share. With science the relation has been both more chronologically short as well as definitely more hesitant. Except of course for the early twentieth mostly European movements which could all be grouped under the tri-nominative... Futurist/
Modernist/Expressionist, tendancies. An ambiguous adventure at its best; really naive and nearly Facist, in it more somber manifestations.
But it's in relation to its so-called Mother Art, Literature, that poetry is actually, as happens with many a mother-infant situation, the most maltreated!
Yet, is poetry a child of human literature at all? Or is it that poetry, of unknown origins and probably forever, has chosen language, and the arts of literary manipulations, operations, combinations... in order to, well, incarnate? And, this, but only through certain, and not just any, individuals, whom we now term poets? I am convinced. What is of vital importance to me are not the poems, so much as the poetry. One poetic bolt, for instance, could generate a hundred, all totally different, examples of poem. And does. Where do these bolts come from? No one knows. Can we provoke their apparition? Perhaps, but subsequent survival can not be guaranteed. See: Rimbaud, Trakl, Hart Crane, Mayakovsky, J-J. Rabéarivolo... and a thousand other poet suicides, outcasts, misfits and loners. Most of them beatified in heaven, if such places exist, but hardly more than passing, flea tortured gutter dogs. Ask Franz Kafka!
Ask Armand Robin. Though how do you ask a dead man anything, since he's been dumped into the communal boneheap, as nearly anonymous as he was at birth? His papers swept into trash bags; how many YEARS of work, work, as says Ludwig Hohl, that only he could have done and... and no one else, neither you nor me nor the village schoolmaster. Nor could ridiculous, crotchty old mister Frost and his made in the American dream... tennis game. Is this why there are hardly anymore real poets left in the States? Could anyone really say if this is, or isn't, the fact? Maybe not; if they could... the answer would once again be, The proving texts! Send us a copy, when you will, of the best poetry being written, say, these past 5 years... if you know of any, that is!
Or we could ask Jean-Paul de Dadelsen, but he dies young with cancer eating his brains, and only wrote one book, and didn't even finish it at that. But... we here think, it's a masterpiece of French 20th century literature, of marvellous, full bodied and full of feeling, poésie!
And we will listen to his answer, his poems, as well as Robin's... and dozens of others probably nearly unheard of in America; as many of them still are in France! And Georges Perros, Réné Daumal, Joë Bousquet, Robert Desnos... the very sounds of their names thrills us and their poems... well, let yourselves be the judges.
As for my own... experience, well, I shall have to come back to this. The words are lacking and the mind, tired. I shall go to bed. In bed I feel at least I still have a life, to live; to dream, maybe, but with living dreams. It's not so much I'm a coward, and don't often get accused of such, but I admit to lacking energy... and desire, and a will to go on waking up into a world that is irrevocably changing. Irremediably turning tighter, smaller, darker and less and less familiar. Is This, the great unknown? I don't know. All I know is that man is never really ready... for anything that happens to him. But then again, I am ready. Ô so, damnably so. Thus, if we must then, let us go... et, Basta!
-57-
A man's mental life, for me, is like having a sack thrown over the head!
It's like a house in full sunlight where one turns on all the lights, and closes the shutters, declaring: Here, is the light! Then, when that house burns down, on account of a sur-saturation of electrical power, its very inhabitants cry out: The whole world is coming, or, has come, to an end! And those who don't believe them, maybe because they know better, I mean the poets!... become their enemies! Just like that.
It's all so shitty it could make you weep.
Now, I've been trying, all my conscious life, to identify these little points of light, as night has come or it will. But also I've sought the sun. Funny I never just stepped outside, like uncle Ezra suggested, and raised my head to the wide blue heavens. But kids have a tendancy to more than just follow their parents, they think they have to downright imitate them. Thus, every generation is lost in advance, and by sheer definition! In this the poets are no better off, they tend to sink along with all the rest of us!
You see, I don't know where to place myself. I'm a member of the human race, and a poet! Like Gusto, I take my chances. But Gusto is the single one of us Living out of doors! At best, the rest of us are but well minded believers, though the real choice remains ahead. Either one accepts the present situation, or one is terrified by it. Acceptance, equals the ice cube before the candle; in melting, its water will extinguish eventually, the very flame that illuminates it, in an artistic sense, that creates it! Terror, is but another method of acceptance; today we call this accepted daily dose of terror... Reality! Bravo. No, only a poet can really escape. But it will cost him, well... everything!
And no divinity that mankind has ever invented, will be able to save him from this... not even an iota!
In our confusion and our darkness, in our sheer terror, we are capable of turning anywhere, just as long as we think we'll find, or some expert has claimed we shall, what now, and for the miserable last 2000 years, we have come to term... salvation. If only they knew, and some of them surely do!, that the only real salvation in operative existence is to be found in the Actual circumstances in action. Though, saved from nothing more than man's own mediocre, misdirected and ultimately damaging, sophmoric, mental self-manipulations. Another kind of Facism indeed, nearly invisible, thus nearly the most malicious of them all!
So, no more: Let there be light's... but, Let us be capable of Seeing the light, let us have Eyes! Well, we have the eyes, and, if we don't, it's clearly our own fault. Little good this does, to know, eh? But, if we don't, woe upon us and... Ecce homo! And this is why, then, I'm so literally possessed with the phenomena of poetry. The light is there or it isn't. The music, as well. If we can't hear it now, we probably never will. In these cases, evidently greatly majoritary, I have only my goodbye, good luck, farewell... though fondly enough. For the others, the few, I say... welcome.
If day is a river, the night is like the sea. And when the river waters enter into their mother element, it's both a birth... as well as a death. And the ocean is like the night, endless, endless and spiced with hints of salt, of desert islands, of saline graves and impeccable bones! Who looks for a puddle when one can leap into the briny, healing, churning sea-depths? Why, European man, for instance, and the little American cousins, for instance, as well as the Rest of the world coming around, for instance... and that's who!
For instance, Primo: Man's not born à priori equipped with human soul. Unless we recognize the mortal flesh, the very body itself, as being in true reality the seed, and nothing more, of this potential something, soul! To live forever... why, this is a joke, and a very bad one. Only darkness, silence, emptiness... and the infinite sea-swells, go on forever. Meat is condemned to rot. And all men with it. But poems are made of a finer stuff, and poems might endure. Of course, it IS all relative, as Science's most Modern "poet" Albert Einstein, pointed out, at about the same time as Guillaume Apollinaire of France, with his Zone, and T.S. Eliot in England with his Wasteland,
Joyce in Ireland with his Ulysses... and Valéry with Monsieur teste, Rilke in pre-belligerent German with his Duino elegies, were All providing us with matching creative poetical outlines of humanity's new understanding of his universe, himself! So, is there anything, in this domain, left to be done? You bet you; I.R. is the proof!
-58-
But the poet, if he is anything, is a man of his Word. And literally! This is the problem. He's someone who tells the truth... and when he doesn't, his lies burn him. Painfully, deeply... invariably with bitterness in the breast, and ashes in his mouth. Yet, the truth has burned him no less deeply, no less with acid aftershocks, and no less destructive to his very life. And this... is poetry!
-59-
Why is it so nearly impossible for me to even approximately express my true feelings, my real situation... in my poems? When, after all, I write them essentially towards this purpose! They are failures, then, as evidently I am. My trouble might just be that I want to say Shit, to everyone and everything. I feel, as they say, fed up. Though, a hundred times worse than this pale term can convey. One thing's clear, in prose I feel more a garden slug than a... darting sparrow, for instance. Instead of music, I make rhymed gadgets, so to speak. Shit, so to speak crudely, direct and correctly. Alas. And yet, in spite of my own self-estimates, I go on.
What to say? Poetry is the blood of my body, the heart of my soul. I don't mean only poems... but, poetry. And, I don't know why. What's the most frightening, the most sheerly exhilarating, for me, is, I don't WANT to know why! I could easily be crazy. I'm, difficultly, not! The depression affecting me, is that of the fly feeling itself being wound up in web. In insect time, this smothering process can last a very long time. Something like drowning is said to... by the survivors. But I'm, curiously, not dead yet. And I definitely don't consider death to be a common experience, as in birth, and taxes. Why, I never was born, I'm too poor to have paid any taxes, but... I sure as hell have a heavy job of work left to do, as I lie dying. Though lying, that's something at least we all share, and are all more or less good at. But just wait for death. That's when we'll find out who the real men just are! Cherry. And, who aren't! But Hassan knows this better than I.
Hassan thinks that time is the missing link between light, and matter.
But, as he also says, That's, an Other matter!
We've all, at ir, wondered, Why? we are nine . That is, have ruminated, there's hardly another word for it, on puzzling ourselves with the, if any, so-called significance of such a digit. Which sounds vain, vague, useless. Why seven, indeed? And, so far, the only phrase we can agree on, in good English prose, is... (for) This IS the number that we ARE. And this is a poetic/linguistic manner of, say, squaring the circle. Isn't it? We do lack a theoretical mathematics adept; though Hassan and G.N-T. are capable of primative models and both can play chess, apparently, very well; so well in fact, that both have beaten Llorenzo in this shakespearean arab nights mysterious and downright marvellously compelling game-duel-dance-hunt-war-over a chess board. Something only they have done, and rarely, and no one else I have seen, or heard of. Yet Llorenzo doesn't give a fish piss for higher mathematics; he "lives with" it, like he says he does with cancer, aids, alheimer's, heroin addiction, crack cocaine that rams a man's personal light back into his skull as if from a sledgehammer blow from which he will never really recover, with his wife who's fucked the visitor while He was off to work... and, strangely enough, ever since that end-March burning sorrows, he's gone off to work no more. And it's not just because he's dead. After all, he still gets dressed, he still has milk and toast for breakfast, he still jerks his little dog off the floor by its long golden tail... arf! arf! No, for a dead man, he gets along just fine here. You'd almost say he was at home in the quotedien human element, and damn it, he is! Just as we all pretend to be. But shit fuck cunt cock there's a thousand forms of mind as Rumi told us back in Turkey in the old days, when Shams-uddin brought the golden sunlight to the musky perfume drop and married them inside the first of all our human heart. Called Adam. And ever since, we are alerted to the possibility of the human "form" being introduced into the cosmic play of earth and evolution as an equation of : Consciousness is in the blood; the heart circulates consciousness throughout the human mass.
The first being capable of constating this, consciousness of consciouness, as it is, is named, Adam. In the language from which this first being's name is literally extracted from, Hebrew, we learn that -dam, is blood. The understanding of this is massive, and indeed is itself a part and partial of the real and really living heart of HA-QABALA! While the A- before the blood of -dam, is Aleph, or, the never ending never beginning universal flux, with lightning rapidity as well as pin point accuracy, larger than any sight, smaller than any eye could see,aleph, itself a merely movement, then a cosy rest. And so a symbol of the overly powerful, incredibly quick, coupled to the contrary and quantitatively equal lethargy, yes, nigh unto death. No death for aleph, aleph is not born, and as to its use to men, well it's about as useless as life. And all of its partisans who know no more themselves how to live it. I don't mean dragged across the terrain of your entire existence along behind some covered wagon, railroad train, or autobus... goDamn it I don't mean living a dying death, but dying totally to oneself in order to finally recieve, for the second time, your certificat of innocence, good-will and a healthy sense of rigorously tested loyalty... to leper care, to shooting Hitler, to stopping BIG CANCER BUSINESSES from destroying generations of youth, irreplacable children, in all of the dirty, obscene, irreligious (often under cover of a "church") herd manipulations we submit to at any given instant.
Poetry helps in two ways. It brings the rot to the surface for the few who will see it, and you will; and bravo! While simultaeously allowing the poet to vacate his place in the assembly line and come roaring back with a burlap sack full of wooden sabots. Throwing them into the cog wheels trying to turn the conveyor belts; thlank tthlut liprock buck... hisssssss. Another poet bites the dust. He's gone. No matter, he never was. It was all of you poor vain idiots, his family and his friends, who invented him, manipulated him, ordered him around and then had him dumped into a dank hole, trussed up like one of her Majesty's many monkeys. Crying to get in, crying to get out. I've stopped crying, a long time ago. I had to, the way I've felt for some thirteen years I haven't STOPPED WANTING to cry, no I haven't. And so, I don't. Could I, cry again? I'm sure I can, though I'd rather it be by joys... the only ones that can save me still from a total shipwreck and the ones who can do this for me with me through you... is precisely Who I still must find. I'm for starting over again. But, only if totally so. Myself included in the has-beens, as it was back then in the up&coming! The rollercoaster, the screams and those belly burning absolutely silences; And, that's aleph; that is as it begins to get mixed up in all real life, indeed into the very ideas we entertain about life. Aleph is in the question, What is aleph. Aleph is in the answer. They are not far from the veins in your necks, beating, pumping, feeding the meats that makes us each a bonafide candidate for some symbolic soul. There are no others. If your body is not the seed of your soul then you'll live on without one, and die without a soul as well. And who cares; or, is it, gives a damn, more likely? One clear light shows me that Ludwig Hohl is a thousand times right per diem; it's true, there's not a single other person on the earth, living, having lived, or yet to live, and this without a sole exception, who could... do exactly that work which I alone am competant, and destined, to do. And how many other workers say exactly what I have? Is there a godamned one? It's curious, the more serious I get, I get the feeling I'm talking less and less loud, as if aware already, while typing these very words, for a potential reader's gamut of reactions. A sure sign of fatigue. Everyone's gone home, to eat, to love, to drink, to watch TV and to sleep. Just like me; only I'm a poet. My dream is the world I pretend to share with you. At night I awaken, to find myself a veritable pillar of the universe; and that's MY real life... though, hardly a bit of any of you are ever there. Frankly, I like it better this way. No, not yet mad, but my madness is merely your blindness towards the apparition of the 999 other forms of world. Anyone who thinks I play with numbers should be ready to state the name of the game. I DO play; and when I'm serious I'm serious. This is totally clear to totally clear people. Between us at Iö, this is how we have to be, have come to be. Though we do largely prefer becoming, to being; and become, to be. For "those who are not," which is an ancient initiatic formula describing the first initiatory level to which aspirant poets strive to attain. And not, obtain. For the same linguistic, metaphysical reasons. A poet, then, if we are following, willing to follow and to go on... is one who is not. Sure thing! Though go and try to tell it to our peers. Ambulent cadavers, exquisitely so. Just as Breton or some orther, Sir real!
-60-
&
it's february 23 the year 2000
&
as Hassan says
it isn't always easy
to be married 30 years
and still...
stay alive.
I talk for two.
Those who see me as a partisan
of sexual discriminations...
dont;
they don't see a god damned thing
unless it's the near end
of their screaming
cock!
Hell, I like my love
as well as any
of my fellows, but...
I don't make love.
Is this confession?
Voyeurisme?
Is this po-e-try at all, I mean
like burning bacon
red wheelbarrows
and those ice cream cones?
Am I un père indigne?
You bet I am.
And since I far prefer to insult
someone very near to me
than write to mister X,
I'll wait to tell him
to his face.
For me, the front line
of his soul.
Some people
choose to be fat
and some to go to heaven.
And neither one
is missed on a lean mean earth.
The real one
and not
the american dream.
And, poetry
isn't
what you have to say,
but What says it through you...
and the accuracy of saying
you HAVE to.
Or you'll die.
But, heck, Who's already dead!
-61-
So... it's March 11, 2000...
and life, herselfs, is on the rebound .
Time to get back to the Blue house, and
all those south France : trains to be found
returning from the east
while others roll away to Italy .
At my very least...
get down to poetry !
Now, europe'n all
grow massively purple
as that great vein
of blood channels to our brain
the whiffs... of spring .
We'll get out to sing
of pansies in the rain,
with this refrain :
Time is ripe
and we, while merely modern tripe,
shall sail away upon the agitation
of the sea... of our imagination !
-62-
Ten days later... the status quo !
I say my pater monsters and await the tread
of tiny thoughts marching through my head
where evidently angels are in dread
and every third idea's turning red .
Though I pretend I do not know .
-63-
The purple fingers of your mouth have thrown my name
upon the windy fragments of a north france fading dawn ,
and as the new sun down upon the new born sparrows
flings its flower cunning rays and whispers heat upon damp earth
the good news of my nomination fills a table strewn with cups
and brings my fellow citizens to lift their still unopened eyes
to heaven and to call, in unison, "it's been two thousand years
and your time is up, sweet Jesus... now come down to us to heal !"
Our turn arrives to shelter and to feed you and to find a girl
for your own family, perhaps a hunting dog, and a new suit
of clothes it's not so much you're out of fashion as plain dirty .
Spring showers bring a bath and the naming of your replacement
has even now begun to fill what the heart of man considers bloody
made in modern discombobulations damned unassuring news !
Frankly, poetry has never been a mere abortion .
Today, for instance, it's a burning fist
prepared to back accusations of murder in the first degree,
and lies, black lies from the broken foetus of midnight;
ready to take on the whole fucked up world
if it must, and if it mustn't, well... it will just for hell .
Poetry today will work for the highest bidder .
If it's the dream, well then, let's stuff our faces
with the amniotic acids of prebirth and early death .
If reality, why then it's a parched cunt
put into prison to free america from dangling offers
of paradise when only an inferno really fits !
And it's not that I'm a bonafide expert at this business
but the first sunbeams equal a total collapse of good sense .
I've interviewed the man who paints his children
burning in their bedrooms while his wife lights up
the barbeque and enters into private meditation ;
her american ambition is to be a buddha and to eat
blood puddings on the patio beneath the jets
which carry drug dealing diplomats back home
to their suburban houses trimmed in pink
where kitty litter gathers the dead fragments of light
to the inner thighs of the last woman's daughter .
It's time for a gift and since time is dying
we'll give them meats we've ripped from pig bones
and a bright ribbon to bedeck their daily bowels with .
Life is in her jubilee and the celebration gets personal ;
in a million years this dust shall laugh... anew !
Now I find that poetry
is all I've ever thrown away ;
like night sucks day
out of the shadow of a tree
and spits the soul-bud out with glee .
It's, I guess, a kind of play
wherein the words we almost say
nearly describe what we DONT see !
Where absence equals wisdom .
And pleasure is a type of pain
and even when the dark cocks come
back to the nest
from out of the rain...
and only the devil gets any rest .
-64-
I have learned that talking and touching
are the verbs that really make a marriage
viable, and with fidelity sleep at night .
That makes day, anew, worth waking to .
And if I have some sort of my own
testament in verse it's only self made poetry ;
words are common where the warm hands lack .
My personal breath is polluted
with vocabulary and my mind hungover
with dreams that stink of gin manure
and the daily soul... a fading shadow .
A kind of international program for beggars
and the nice guys do finish first .
So let's all stand up and get shot !
-65-
If light were really what we call the dying meat of God
and dawn a kind of word to wake man up with...
then it truly wouldn't be so fucking odd
that life herself as sun describes a mortal myth ;
some fifty years ago I ruled a continent
but every god damned day that passed I lost a piece ,
now I've got a tiny island filled with geese
and all the home I've left is one small canvas tent .
A king without a kingdom ain't so sad
unless that realm is now reduced to soul .
Some men are born like that, and the wide whole
horizon's a kind of future where the weather's bad
and even the girls have sailed off back to where
they came from . And I'm alone, and the light is rare .
-66-
God has no memories ;
eternity is timeless .
Thus, all his poetries,
are rhymeless !
-67-
It's worse than what I thought
and getting more that way with every passing dawn ;
it's just that I have got
to metamorphosize a tiny pawn
into what it's never really ever been...
that is into a bright newborn and potent Queen
whose presence on the board renews the game
and gives me power so that I might claim
to be the latest black King wielding total force
where all or nothing is the standard course !
Which means the object is to dominate
by ruining the other side with check and mate ;
which means that life herself's a match of chess
and we're the little peons in this mess
or maybe castle lords or bishops or a knight ,
whose jobs are simple and their fates a fight
which happens as it were within the rules
and even if we've always played the fools
it didn't mean we automatically shall win...
in chess as not in life we merely rebegin !
-68-
Most of what we write as poetry
is merely letting out our semi-precious lies ,
akin to all orgasms made by solitary meat ;
the wonder is we rarely disagree .
It takes a lot of really iceblue sighs
to keep a man informed with almost human heat .
Girls want lots of diamonds and when they fuck
except the virgin ending very first time
they do it for one reason only that is
they do it to get something out of the man
and it isn't always a little ball of viscuous sperm !
Nor frankly the grunting music of the guy .
To truly tell the children of the truth ?
That every mother's made in vast America !
And though we've been created all to die
and when we're hungry hesitate never to kill
it's not the sort of icecream bubble gum future
any woman will be honestly offering to us .
If females are exactly equal to their men
it's just a pity though a crime if not !
But to feel the intimate authenticity
of a genuine gift of all embracing love
is surely more than one small body can expect ;
at best it's wham bam thank you mam why not ?
My point is simple but it's not suburban pink .
Clitoral manipulations are it seems in vogue .
Vaginal passion is a kind of thirst for snake
and if the garden's empty why not the fingers ?
An apple's fine but only if its image worm
has titillated woman's ego to its kinky thrills .
A high opinion of these wretched marvels ?
Man screws wife and the house is filled with tears
and diapers and the breast deforms with milk ;
I'd like to kiss the very vision of this act !
Or was it lick her asshole till she screams
and all domestic affairs kicked into place !
Come on be a pal and squeeze my balls ;
the left one for a girl cause it hurts best !
Make me think that all existence is the real
and really high-faluttin' crown of the universe .
But keep you thighs open and your mouth shut ;
the price for paradise is near a million bucks .
-69-
Well once again you get just what you want ;
and terribly precisely at the crack of purple dawn .
Categorically speaking it's possible to state
that women have a love affair with pure hate !
-70-
Translating genuine authentic life/experience
in English words approximating almost real
and really painful truly hard/knock situations
is what we might call a job of work for who
might make such goals his personal ambition ;
I for one admit I do not know a single one !
It's not it isn't easy anyone can scream .
And maybe one day poetry will be reduced to this ?
A heap of pinkish stones enlaced with sponge
and brains or blood or balls are all the same
after a short but one/way voyage in the grave ;
we all end up beginning never once again .
Yet were it possible to flee this self/same life
experience and feel alone like a sycamore leaf
converted to the heat/soft summer asphalt
where the four illuminated lettuce heads attract
an angry knot of inter/stellar visitors in their
low ages that is our children and the hot horse
chestnut trees in painful southern France...
such is the frame from within which I operate .
To get it straight a poet father self/imposed emigrant
from California loyalist and honest with respect
to money drugs and sex AND legendarily in love ;
An able tender entertainer vowed to truth !
Thus what essentially should be remembered .
Though if the heart is really in a state of tatters
and the chance of help a cup of salt poured down
the inhumid throat of a hopeless cage mortifying
penultimate song/bird masquerading as whale wing
why we indeed have fled that cog/wheel Karma .
But only for an instant only here in poem
might the mix of marvellous with maybe/soul
be consumated it's a final suite of honey/culling free
fall fully reciprocated animal endearing thrusts
with corresponding sounds of moo-sex punctuating
basic rhythms associated intimately with bliss
and though drugs some of them for some of we
sometimes have also orgiastic episodes visions
incredible responses to remarkable and often
otherwise forgotten actually primordial requests
and a thousand and one other forms of kind ...
they are taboo illegal dangerous ... irrevocable as love .
I'd say I'm very/tired . Yet I suffer less and less
and have started to miss nocturnal rituals to be
unciphered and decrypted in carnal delecto with You
who art the very cherry of my belly and a bowl
of rather spicy rice included with the saké and the bed ;
a dream a delire a drop in the controversial bucket .
And like Marie-Antoinette my collegues give the people
cake and celebrate their obscure names among themselves ,
and are no longer even capable of aping their greater dead ;
yet such superfluous considerations gather less pollen
than dust and their grammatical equivalents lose magic
gaining superficial parts of market voices be goDamned !
Impossible literally factually except in dream or drug
induced transformations or perhaps an afternoon going
into my girl's gratitude like I said it's all pink inside
though the light emanates from the currents of blood
and not the nervous system of the human eyes ...
for good sense alone can take us no further .
-71-
And we hear the hot rumors
in the early august afternoon
of prodigal babies being born
and the really personal parts of france
have grown thick and heavy and old
with cancer at least of the mind .
The country's never been so rich
and I'm dying from lack of employment ;
it seems every joy resembles every other
while sorrow is never so real
as when it happens in absolute solitary .
Though the modern fathers are dispersed
and I don't just mean across the earth
but in the dirt and rock garden of their own
local versions of the palatable pink secrets
of an entirely original human anatomy !
-72-
I've beaten back the barbarians once more
but the real enemy is still within my land .
I was born to be a king but abdicated early ,
but destiny is stronger than mere man made decisions
and my own return though preciously semi/secret
is immenant though I await again October .
I cannot see the roots
I've got to be a man
I've never seen my son
and rarely been back home .
A man would need wings a guardian angel
and a string of opals around his waist
and his girl with her iowa wheatfield ;
the aleph/tav of all his wretched love !
sayed & donne !
**************************************************************************************
llorenzo gusto - the errors of the situation : october 2010
poêsiae : llorenzo gusto¤ - a way forth
-1-
"Why, indeed? Who wants to know! Well ... letsGOthen ...
O
Hatred, and anger, aren't even remotely related in reality. One is a terribly heavy human emotion; the other is often no more than a flash. One leads to a kind of butterfly Effect; the other is merely the butterfly herself... en passant. To end this comparison; I am in the midst of the frightening madness of hatred; while, She, is simply mad. Almost invariably; like the weather here in eastern France, grey on grey. Grey city, grey faces, even the wine is called "gris de lorraine" , for example! What truck have I with this, myself, a Boy blue? Without forgetting, hatred is not anti-love!
O
Though, poetry, can be. When it must. As in, to save a life. As in, mine! For instance, as I write these lines, I give them all the concentrated anti-loving that I sheerly can! For your protection, for my survival. And, hell, why lie; when you know damned well what's going on! It's not what you say, but the rot in your heart, that tells me the truth of your life, your feelings for me. I am a poet, god damn it, and I do know how to read the human heart. My own, for instance, rotten as hell! And television, does it not clearly show us this? How the well-off occidental humans have almost, to a man, themselves proved, even if they don't confess it... but they do see other humans as characters, objects or subjects, anything but real, similar humatomic beings. And not abstractions. Poetry, when it's good, is just the contrary. I should know!
O
Good poetry can not be made. It is MADE THROUGH US like the havoc made though an island chain, when the gale winds roar over. In itself, it is not art... but only a bonafide artist can handle its powerful passages. And, generally, not for long! It rips you asunder, like it did to Rimbaud. Only, Rimbaud, understood; and got out of it. At 19, he threw it all up... and fled. Trakl, Garcia-Lorca, and Dylan Thomas did not. And all died direct... because of their poetic obstinations. And they are no less legends than Arthur Rimbaud. What to make of it?"
georges nikos-tchérviç¤ - io renasco !
-2-
When I awaken to find life
around me is in ruins...
and there is no life...
Who could blame me if
I'd rather fall... back to sleep?
No witness, thus... no crime!
-3-
The Holy ghost, indeed, and that's WHERE poetry comes from. Granted, the POEMS... come from the fingers, the brains, the very mouths... of... people! I recognize the "conspiracy" before me. It is the same wall that every wind of liberty has smashed itself upon for the whole parade of human, of its mostly NOT, history. It's not the I, as a self, am reborn... it's just that poetry is an eternal Being, herSelfs , and her words are written in the heart without a date!
-4-
It's evident a poem
is not a 'group of words
from which the removal
of even one
would ...' blow it all
to smithereens...
like the knot of lamas
in a literary equivalent to Tibet
as once beloved G.I.G. declared !
When they blew apart
it took the top
off my brains uncapped
my very thoughts
and threw my heart
around in my breast
like a rugby ball ;
when f(r)iends from lack
of heroi(sm)n do likewise...
well, so do I .
I'm all for freedom ,
like I've said it's what we call
conditional on earth,
as art is the essential condition
of that black sheep cumulus
whose flash of lightning bolts
would best become described
in some lone and wandering,
bootless, in the rain, if
you will , walker of the ways .
The finest drug isn't
one at all but the ancient and unmoving eternity
of forest path through ferns and other youthful
marvels made in michigan america
where poets ARE MADE (and almost made to!)
and yet not born... who
the hell remembers being born ?
Though some smart 'alec said
that what has happened to the gods
is no one's god-damned business but
"I can tell you one thing the devil
ain't borne o' no mother...
and he DOES recall his udder (!) birth !"
In fact, that's all he's really apt
at performing, lucifer and his cohort
of flies ! more of a circus dog
than a menace to bonafide mankind .
I mean! is any man kind? or you .
Is any unkindman person qualified to tell
me what is genuine or false...
what essential and what chaff...
the truth of words
and the silent lies where old dogs
occupy the fate of village idiots
and fences, which from removing
a single stake
WILL NOT ruin their inherent
and authentic structure !
A lot of bunk gets written
in the protean forms of poems .
I prefer tepid suicide notes
for example
and only really sissy verses
can't be modified...
since their entire existence depends
on the authors' breakfast,
and I put this plural for all of your
obvious reasons...
I've heard you call it poetry
and have performed the trick
sometime after your last slice
of dead pig meat
and the dried fig you'll open lunch with
which of course, like god
in his heavenly (that is ; drunken) stupors,
is certainly not my affair
though I have a boy
who repairs air-conditioning equipment
and some nut told me
it's hotter than hell
"down there" and heck...
maybe we could do
something about it ?
-5-
Honor...
or, the inner illumination of an act !
And, when on her or in her I'm all agitation
'til, I swear... it's a real sigh sucking fact...
your honor as an endless lover is over
and gone and you'll never come again !
Farewell .
Or...
a dishonorable lack of discharge .
The wishing well of every desert bone .
A place to keep your son
when you want him to grow up
like yourselfs,
a place where even women's blood
is kept
for the missing in action
while their milk
refers back to the age of Gobi .
Which means a lot of horrible
people wanted death to ravage
Ruanda, Afghanistan, Chechynia and Bosnia
as random in the sense of hardly
"a complete list" a'samples
of man's present day temperament...
which really ends up saying
poems are what you read
at last
and ... if you really do
(and this depends on BOTH!)
... remember ?
Though not as a past, but better
a genuine present,
your own presence the better described .
Isn't this? then, also an honorable
correct
human occupation... as well ?
Judges .
-6-
I'd like to write my final testament .
This earth was pretty nice and for some 20 years
it fit so well I didn't even notice that I was alive !
I truly ... wore it OUT !
I've tried to say what I meant
but every word got changed to tears
and human speech became a kind of slangy jive
we passed from mouth to say an ear in love ;
and all we tried to share with others
turned in/itself into a kind of propaganda .
Ô peasant hordes, just look above,
to see the bombs dropped by your brothers
better off than you, say, in Uganda,
richer than the folk in Kosovo,
prettier than all those Afghan girls,
smarter than those dirty Chechens...
something to aim at, and then blow
the head off of, all that fragmented flesh
that whirls to end up like hamburger
in unAmerican kitcherns !
In my opinion
those who love so much to kill
whatever moves, or isn't in their bank,
are not a tiny terrorist blood-thirsty group ;
but the authorities, for instance,
those who send the bill for the Chinese
bullet, or Texas governors who thank
their re-electors, then get down
to beef cadaver soup and lift their glasses
for a kind of paternal toast : We know
that life is hard but some of us still bother
with the ugly business of security, and
it ain't no fun to inject women with poison,
but by the Triple Horns of the Holy Ghost
we swear in honor and humility before
our Christian father... We've murdered maybe,
yes, but it was for the glory of your Son !
-7-
I know that none of this is poetry
but only the ugly pain of all that's me .
And sky is blue and ocean filled with salt ;
but most I know... it's all my fault .
-8-
It's near mid-June and I am close
to some unknown conclusion .
I'd love to claim at last the rose
has bloomed but that's illusion .
-9-
Life's rolled over me like a bulldozer
and broken me into a hundred man
searching fragments complete with gravity ;
though I'd a minimum of ambition
and respected states as much as Jesus
did I could not mend the shattered pearl
at the center of my soul/dripping mind .
It's like you've got everything left to lose
and simply no control over the game ;
or at the Ball with Fernando Pessoa
and the fat Lady isn't going to sing
and , anyway , you'd always expected
your Cavalier would be just plain old Ezra !
And , for once , noOne could find the damn DOOR .
-10-
.. the devil's grip
is when the strangulating hand that hides in darkness in our heart
unclenches its black and bloody fist
the better to squeeze me by the neck
and drag me down
towards what in human language is named death.
Yet, doesn't kill me off.
Though when it comes you can not know
it won't!
It hurts like hell
and the aftershocks are long and almost sur-unbearable
and no one
not a single other human kind,
can come to any aid at all.
-11-
And contrary to what many think, words are hardly the friends of the poets but of their academic "interpreters" and other literary hangers-on. For poets have no friends, but only people have friends; and these friends are not those we wish to build our Citadel Of Light with. In fact I.R. considers words to be in the public domain; like community cattle herds behind the shared barbed wires ! And when the poet must express the word god, or the word cunt, or fuck, or heroin or beauty or any of its beastly attributes... well, then, he will. And we at I.R. will not flinch, nor shall we censor words only because a lot of people are just downright afraid of them; afraid enough to nearly blow a gasket, piss their frocks, get a gun out, and... destroy the source of their irritation. And the poets are rather easy to ruin, to silence, to jail, torture and kill. Mostly, without a good god-damned pipe out of the common folk! Folk who still have absolutely no original idea why the poets keep it up at all. Why not, in these cases, just remain quiet? The poet does entertain the right to silence, though it's at the consequent expense of self-condemnation, and hey, we've done the bully boy's dirty job. We, however, shall speak out. We give you our ... collective Iô Rénasco words!
-12-
Because I do believe her body is...
her soul ; I love to line by pink outline
describe her mouth,
those lips,
that small fat tongue
and the sound
through her throat
when she is swallowing the white
saliva she makes probably
while... thinking of me!
And, I really do
hope one day we meet.
-13-
I like squirrels and I like dogs
but Chester is neither
and I am tired
of seeing him act as if he were both!
Standing on his hind legs
and wagging his bushy tail.
-14-
The best would be to leave a list
of symptoms for some high-falutting freudian assistant
ambulance driver to read on his way
to accidents...
I'd rather had an english master
candidate to do the job of work upon my name...
but whoever it is should know :
I was born in michigan
but that's no reason to say so...
I was brought up orfan
but we don't need to say it...
now my middle body
which I mean : intestines stomach bladder and my sex ;
I mean it hurts
I mean it feels all twisted... up, and out, and into knots
and it's not so much a pain to scream aloud about
but a no longer recognizing one's own inner life !
Thus, very prone to doubt ,
the bitterest sauce
to a very acrid sense of self deterioration
from one stinking instant
to the very long, next .
In reality
when you give up your life
you die .
Just what we're all doing...
and, all of us in one hell of a hurry...
though... not to die ;
and that's the way we like our lie .
Sweet laceratingly photogenic saturated ;
the very stuff we rot our very selfs with...
and, when without it... watch out the kith-n-kin !
Nobody is very pretty to see
when chopping to pieces the spouse ,
though, maybe it was the devil's own madHouse...
and maybe he didn't... equal a mouse...
but this still remains the kind of thing
you don't do in public .
Unless... in america...
the beautiful .
-15-
I am making preparations for a summer burial .
Summer is indeed the sweetest month
the month of oranges in april apples
in october
michigan
a state of spirit special for an exiled married man
who's just come out 'of asylum'
for orphic poets and their orphan pals their crystal
fine
lines
over the broken, shredded backs
of their cainBred either hand .
And storms down upon them from denmark
and my kindred sister growing pale in sweden
while Penti Holappi's yellow flag
blows over finland where they did stand up to the russian brutes
what other word is there ?
they tried to steal a land and didn't hesitate to kill...some of them were killed
stupidly
far from their peasant homes in the motherland...
and we look to the east
the places of Milosz, of Klima and Istrati...
and see nothing but a pink cloud
floating languidly over the razorsharp enseignes of the new capitalists
in their billion dollar nightmare...
and, there is no west... to be seen, at all !
So, like Walter Kaufmann said : if we want
new poetry we'll have to... make it !
And we, at Iô rénasco, understand the use of Carlo Suarès :
there are no impassable walls in the universe...
and : sheer existence is a total mystery, and always will be .
Example : in poetry we build no fences
and if we come upon one... ruin it illico !
The unique law, is - the poet's talent conjugated with unKnown gift -
and the only poem
is the best one he's ever written .
And... no other .
Anyone who tries to pass anything else off as poetry
is a pimp and a pox on the human community
and time will not judge him... but
forget him entirely and forever .
Life herself is too good to tie-up in... Rules & the Police ;
we think equally highly of poetry
and intend just that : rebellion resistance and... the occaisonal Breath !
-16-
O ! Maniac ...
I tried so long so hard
to find a word
to really say the unutterably utter terror
of this... and every, situation !
I came up with... demoniac .
But now it comes quickly to me..
the word I'm wanting is
amoniac .
Then, heart attack .
Black .
-17-
Erato saw what Terpsichore turned into
when transformed by me into a kind of song ,
and so began to leave me all alone .
The sun still rose but it was fake and watery
and only showed me that my soul was shadow .
Voices talking but their words were hollow .
The central light is lost somewhere in blood
& the labyrinth or life is built in meat !
-18-
In Praise Of A Famous Land !
Of course no one today awakens from his latest night
to fling aside the blanket rush to dress and run out to the light
of god's own blessed cunt, that great black ball of golden fur,
suspended in the heavens of a Vincent Van Gogh and quite sur
realistic replica of image mother life in all her concentrate ;
though in such cases absolutely no one's ever really late ! Gulp ...
The mystery of accidental beauty on the pulsing earth
is pasted to a person from the very crack of his first birth
until, say, three or four years pass in northern Michigan
and our young hero's big enough to wield a gun
and go out like the shooting stars to have some fun,
and finish what a murder-god or demon has begun :
the massacre of rainbow dreams assassinating children
with that ubiquitous and public seducing diamond grin
which every politician priest or god damned policeman
greets his victims with... a sort of sweet mother Mary
masquerading as dawn in the form of a smashed orange .
And has the sacred fist of some quite totally unknown
and so-called human entity had yet the crushing ecstasy
of seeding your un-numbered face to ocean salt ?
To taste the sperm of Jesus in your salivating mouth
or lick the testicules of church aggrieving papal puppets,
or ram the splintering unvarnished raw wood cross
up deep into your holy guts where all souls are stocked
and what you call a new model of the world waits in boredom...
indeed this catalogue of banal and quotedian events
is printed in America the land of sleeze and greed
where this same brain learned well in schools the basic creed
of hate and hurt and all in broken English grammar...
indeed you don't agree, well, where's your bloody hammer !
Freedom of speech is an obscene myth or else yourself,
you do it in hiding, far from the chattering kids
and their proverbial innocence, why I knew a man
in good old USA who with an admirable regularity butt
fucked his oldest boy, something like eight years young,
and the man had his kicks, granted, but all three of his sons
are dead, all before thirty, and yet their happy daddy, who
didn't hesitate to rent his kid to migrant Mexicans, is living still
in the grace of god and his protestant religion in the midst
of dream-consuming fellow citizens, you want to know his name ?
It's you ! Wake up ! You'll go to heaven, no doubt,
and your trio of sodomized babies will die of joy at your reassemblage,
mark my words Mister "E"... your wife was in on all of this,
her tears were very real, your daughter helped you help your boys
up off the barn dirt floors of your agricultural affairs,
and all the neighbors will weep and gnash their false teeth
when you too, poor fellow, fly off in smithereens to your just reward .
On earth, it's kill AND be killed . Even babies murder their moms,
I should know . Mine was a very banal copy of them all . Miss-Terry !
And so that makes me, I suppose, a spokesman for the whole
country which I represent with my honeySweet songs, my sense
of impeccable humor, my public cocksucked president and his drug,
as in fantastic fame, addicted wife... how many other men
has she gotten down to work upon, the plumber, say, a male
secretary or maybe for discretion just her photogenic dog ?
I'm not an expert but merely your basic fellow writer and the facts
arrive too quickly for me to get them all a hundred percent perfect .
No matter ; my jist is clear and my subliminal penis grows erect
at the mere mention of matricule moss ... as in sun, as in moon, as in pepper ,
as in bonny lucy tossedback down to LIE ... t'il wreck't .
As in the vast dripping spongeLike vaginal American Dream ;
the very veins we slit for no better reason than to see
if in fact the heart is still in operating business, my god, a man
needs a beating pump in order to beat his peers, to rape young girls
is quite a serious career, and what the fuck to do with all offspring ?
Well, there's a war somewhere sure, or a local riot, or a nigger
to lynch, heck in Texas they kill you just to get, well, re-elected !
Now, that's a mighty proud and lovely land, cosmic hell
made at home, handmade if you like, in all varieties and even
shitflavored for the dreamy tons of trekking tourists... always
satisfied, or else, well, you don't get your money back, you don't get
back the wasted time, and no, dad, you can't unfuck the boy
you crucified with all the typical and marvellous ingenuity,
the knowhow, that celebrated United States of AmeriKKKa aptitude !
(with the T factions , inevitable , usa-taliban-american , coocoo-clans ...)
(my friend was Russell ... if one really wants to know ?
and this is not a poem not a dream ONLY his/our HELL)
And this, as ugly as it is, is my equivalent of a testament .
Not one word untrue, not one feeling left unfelt .
They say the first time a guy gets screwed a tiny tear,
without actually falling, does coagulate at the far corner
of one's left eye ; but don't ask me the reasons why .
Little brothers fall here to lie & die ... dad is in denial & dead !
If there really is a secret to the great western success story
I suggest, quite solemnly, we simply ask the fathers, such as
Mister "E"... how in hell there's heaven fucking up the kids !
Then, perhaps we could get back to composing odes to joy
or hymns to a happier life, something say in red and white and blue,
something wrapped in clitoral pink ribbons, something hinting
of dead pig meat saturated bowels, something wholly American,
that is, totally human, entirely real, authentically genuine, that is,
ressembling a single tiny teardrop, almost ready to finally fall .
And maybe, this is NOT enough, but... for now... that's all !
-19-
Every poet has a kind of private light
which he calls day, but it is really night .
-20-
In the giant grip of just another day
my metallic tongue is silent
in the chapel of this first floor
universal planetary consciousness
going currently under my own name .
And wonder if exactly not the same
experience occurs in some six billion so
called human selves the whole earth round ?
Granted, we all do share the same sun
but there are a thousand tiny forms of life
and most are made to make their members
shaped, as it were, in homogenous uniformity .
Which as an honorary poet I consider
just about the opposite of passion pulsing self ;
freedom does imply an intellectual distance
and demands, in reality, acceptedly relative
isolation... to hell and back with truth !
So I swallow my lack of any true saliva
and follow these linguistic bones across the vomit
green sand of my intimate desert, the only path
a man might forge ahead upon, the fineness
of his spirit's blade his only guide, and it does take
will, and it does take genuine caring, it even needs
a hot hand down from heaven to stroke his cheeks
and wipe the salt from my still unopened morning eyes .
-21-
What are the limits
of poetic discourse
or discourtesy ?
If we imitate
a seasodden corpse
or the body of Christ Jesus
it's like lambs at
the market in Dakar
awaiting crepuscule's meshoui...
and the intimate limbs which
give compassion to collapse
are still called ecstasy
only not by the kids in rave limbo
or the poets in the new life raft
while the ultimate is gone crazy !
And the seashsore growing distant .
-22-
Is it also now an act of god
that drains me to the pure marrow
of my greatly sorry soul/self ?
For outwardly I remain to look
at a world I will instantly forget ;
my eyes throbbing
and the whole earth
gone into a rummage sale mentality .
How is it human meat herself
becomes so quickly all polluted ?
The defeat and even
the daily pain are entirely private
and if I'm in sheer damnation
then only in hell will I be recognised .
-23-
Ion 'chenot' (!)¤
When I take meta-spiritual cocaine
let's get this plain
I smoke that demon crack
or I go back
to shooting in the vein.
A light that's black
and bright
hits me with all its might
that I might die
and know damned why.
This is how the sheep
turns into ram
and I can only weep...
then put to sleep
the who of what I am.
-24-
What new to say about my state
except for instance ain't so great .
-25-
Every generation I believe a tiny group
though in fact they might not even know each other
of humans concerns itself with poetry ;
the results of their activities have more to do with accumulation
of precious knowledges dealing with the intimate dimensions
of this ubiquitous art than they do with merely the joys
of sheer discovery... though surely they do this as well !
More than masterful cantation they involve survival .
We spoke of wind and sails and Jonas far from home ;
and how dreams in fact are alternate lives .
(Your lusted-after 'realitys' don't touch the ankles of my shortest dream !)
And when we close our lips the storms arise from the void .
The mystery is certainly included in our mouth
and when the total human tongue goes silent
and the very blood that beats our bloody heart
is beaten into royal pulp our words are trapped in experience ...
and time herself collects like dust at the base
of our spines where a soul slumps in semi-ruins
and bards are chanting hymns to fatal yesterday .
The requisites for what today is really poetry
are properly unknown and in the scale of relative
mortality are nearly equal to the way we treat our children ;
true art has no excuses for being good moving inspirational
or else it's useful as say in the use of cemetary stones .
-26-
Personal poetry obviously starts with me
and it's I who put the yeast into the bread
though yesterday a pigeon died upon my bed
and sure I'd love to sail off on the sea
upon the hydrophonique Ship tommorrow !
(and it's probable we will borrow
from Doc Williams not only the wheelbarrow
but the real marrow just as well) Or harrow
heaven on a high horse bent for hell ...
its wheel broken and the way is not narrow
but the Pilgrim is thirsty and the well well
that's a hole 'nother story ! Hardly .... shallow !
-27-
Poetry's a field where men might play
a kind of linguistic chessboard
where the squares are round
and all the colors veer to grey
a type of grassy lawn where women lay
down not only their heartlong arms
but all the legs they'll ever muster
and for fifteen seconds life is surely Good !
Llorenzo Gusto taught us all the rules
and also how the really nice guys lose
not only their gals but the very shadow
of what they almost call their meat
and vegetable souls and don't even know it .
Ludique as drowning horses in the sea .
-28-
Life is not the only luck a fellow claims
nor peach trees merely apples of the dust .
It seems like God has closed its eyes
and gone into a kind of two thousand year limbo .
Which makes it easy to talk about free will
but then who amongst us truly freely would
admit defeat or give his girl to the Devil ?
Candidates for a free fall and a hard hit
on the asphalt surface of a long suburban life
are legion and they're quite anonymous ;
what's the intimate real name of a kiss
when not only the head but the man's cock
has gone off to early paradise ? Who knows
when we shall get another whacky chance ?
-29-
Sometimes we wake up in a frothy sweat
and dawn is not a rosy onion but the skin
of a nocturnal snake who's actually quite nice
to know on a rainy night but in the sunrays
all we see's an endless row of mirrors
and in the center of each one an empty place
where once at birth we had a possible face
but little brothers are sometimes born to die
well before their elders and their mother Marys
cry out half humiliated half in rage and half
of all the private sources we shall never cite .
I even had my own and once a day
I roll into a ball and pray to deeper powers
please turn me next into a kind of cloud !
-30-
Clearly the sun has not risen once again
and all the northeast peppered under rain
and all our wives ahead for Italy
or maybe just the ultimate south sea ;
a girl's got a trio of godly mouths
and her life consists pretty much of how
and when and with what she stuffs them .
Who is almost academic and the end
of human destiny alone shall show the proof
of an eternal love a kind of life created
double from the start and at the beginning
of what we call the great adventure of death
we probably are as ignorant as lizards .
And though thirsty we crave the desert sand .
-31-
My hope has been a type of desolate
not dark but nearly empty monument
to what I'd call a pretty useless life ;
despair has done not one ounce better .
And though the peasants are made for cake
and a modern man watches his butter
it's not written in the Bible that we have to eat
nor pig nor goat nor cow why not just wheat ?
If not a total liberty at least the crown
is rather made for a special human head
I mean the one whose light is undiminished
indeed refreshened in the midst of storm .
And my body a very particular and warm
yet often weary spot to get nailed to ;
and if it's true we're better off without them
in the meantime let's GO have a war !
-32-
How could I be more serious ?
And , are you REALLY ... curious ?
I need a job some hope , and money ,
and I guess it might sound funny
to ask to get paid
for such verses as I've made
but to be blue and american and true ,
why that's just what I'll have to do !
I could be an enormously tiny editor
and publish regular promises to my creditor
that is my maker mister god ('il miggliore fabbro ...' - better "makar" ... al-Makr , sheer !)
and pay my debts a bit each even month , the odd
ones are reserved for diving to the deep bright flash
of the living adventure of a soul in human flesh
or getting betrayed dying off GOING broke ...
though , reader , I 've still got you to share a joke
or have an imaginary (h)op(e)-yum smoke or tell
my secret common language problems to , or tell to GO to hell
and mean it though mean/heartedness is not
a really very hot
item in my list of short characteristics ;
and I confess my meat itself addicts
itself to oxygen greek beauty
and a lack of socially/defined , or sub/moral , duty .
Though , when the song transforms to scream ,
and the green sun herself avoids your dream ,
and the kittens them itsy-pussy self/some softnessess
have off to Italia where all the lawlessness
of genius once so difficultly congregated ;
a half/millenium of time thus aggregated
has had poets champions and villains and tonight
's composed of quite original Adams , Eves , a round red light
disguised as an apple hidden in a half/human heart
and the real authentic garden hardly set apart
but at the central root of absolutely every bud ,
where cascades fountains pumps and cups of blood
are treated to the agitated animation of an "I" as me
in awfully wonderful natural Acts of Prime Chemistry
but after fifty years of genuine un/publications
and 2000 crossed ... it's time for anti/abdications !
-33-
An immense enterprise of description
begun two Nights ago in circular
and still notEnding in an uncontrollable
Spiral ... AIEE! 'ogni mattini IÖ rînasco !' ...
-34-
The fifth day of the third month
of the Year 2000... I
don't know who I am...
though, who gives a damn!
Yet, now it's done, the dry
winter... and spring is nigh...
and all the tiny seeds
explode a heart that bleeds.
But mine is nothing new...
it's waiting just for You!
It hurts...
like blood that spurts,
or wings that can not fly!
Who knows the reasons why?
-35-
Words have a tendancy to come out of a man
to fill the nearest space of least resistance ;
it's like a pouring of the empty in the void
though emptiness be filled with multiple self-claiming selfs
and the vacuum's really all us hollow men
whose meat is perfumed with the shadow of our souls .
I quote a lot of experts in my poems ,
men and women who, themselves, allow
the words to make them make their poetry their own ,
and, in this way, the way of wonders married to a globe ,
have turned themselves into the very mothers
of the hidden heart which suffers all life being !
Some days are overflowing massacres of silence
and the music... as sweetly rare as suicide, or love reborn .
-36-
I will not play the innocent
though all my crimes together
do not weigh an April peach ;
the worst I've frankly done
is hurt and hurt again myself .
Now spring has slipped once more
into the oozy non/existence
of time turned into March intoxication ;
we can die from overdoses
of sun and if we drown in the ocean
with an island in sight...
and what has happened to the light
of seven years and out after
midnight in the eucalyptus stand ?
I have been attacked and rarely
riposted in fact my literary
unknowingness will be a shadow
under which a hungry soul
has lingered and anonymously loved .
-37-
A kind of rainbow
or was it just an errant
butterfly which in my eyes
has unstrung the sack of stars
and now in blue explosions
flashes all the way back to birth
and pre-yonders (!) accompanies
the skinny heart
of a quite fat/headed poet .
Is it true dad , is it ?
It's freedom folly and submission
son and all the rules of grammer
will not turn the whirlwind
into authentic womanly emotions ;
last life I was a communist
or maybe just a'common cyst ...
and my fate was fire
at the crack of dawn
and all the human hopes
entangled in braids of blackish hair !
A kind of chinese onion
puzzle if you will and the garden
is allegoric which means
it exists only in the sense
of a kind of moral lesson ;
and my father's father was a type
of monkey which is a way
of allowing science the place
once reserved in the shade
of golden superstitions .
At first glance it seems
strange so much is based
on such a flimsy evidence
as words their wee selves !
And we are founded on a kind
of mobile cloud of rather pink light
where the least tomato could be
the greatest devil and storms
invariably linked to what we don't
still call the missing sex .
It all so adolescent easy
just to get a hard/on ;
and the nipples with their cosmic
intimations of green milk
are like the snow/flakes sent
from heaven but they are not cold !
Unless that girl has signed/up
for a group migration
and the very idea of penetration
is cavern/dated yet still apt .
Not for nothing are the ten toes
tied intimately to the two testicles
and going bootless in the april mud
a kind of sophmoric circumscision
where ovaries are yet equated
to a mess of lukewarm omelettes
and the original indications of birth
calculated not in pounds or minutes
but with the insouciance of growing fat
our children replace us with circles ...
everybody's favorite stories
are autobioghaphical ;
the crowning instants at 17
have their echoes in hand/grenade
explosions at the age of 36
which blow irredeemable holes
not only in the north/east mistrals
the size of renegade algerians
but also blast a tunnel narrow
as impaling stakes and leading
to the heart of hell
through the back door of my woman's
obliterated center and direct .
The next disaster programmed ;
and when we have at last finished
counting the stars and giving each
a number for a name ( see A. Clarke !)
perhaps it's like a man's ten/thousandth
fuck with the self same loving girl
and universe , like we , recyclable ?
-38-
It all depends on who
has drunk from the well of forgetting ;
the audience is not available ,
and no body cares about nobody .
Anonymous people die
with very little ambient animation
by the thousands by the day
and every night is punctuated
by the nearly isolated hordes
right now struggling with last breaths
and other difficult almost unpronouncable
and yet inevitable as ... No more dawn ! ...
those celebrated taxes
some poor beggar/poet never paid ,
and yet I'd say he pays his humble dues
as if in spite of twenty years
of battle with the devil's grip
and thirteen in disgrace
and more than forty months dry
as a camel knuckle
some brief eternity on the sahara sand
this pre/cadaver isn't just exactly
sworn to silence
nor allegiant towards any cult
yet only affiliated , through Hassan ,
with Ashiata Shiemash
and with his Messanger intrigued
and since , like Omar the tentmaker ,
has time for science , in his case
HA - Qabala , and a time for
the physique and the female and tulips
and his famous Cup of Wine , a time
for verses and his ryme , ahhh , Sufy !
Now Nishapur is orphan
and my mouth like the Rose of nancyEuropette
is opened to announce
a Resurrection ... in meat and bone and blood ,
not of Jesus , nor Khayyam
but a mere cypress ;
33 years hence , I mean
the width of years, full years , and not
their so/called length ,
shall earth re/echo and a woman
with something like my face
shall appear in the village
in the valley in the alps
and after nearly/seducing an 18 year/old
local beauty leans over the circular lip
of the well with the waters of forgetting
and for a second vaguely remembers Pessoa
and her Grandfather's red bandana
and all that serpentine savanna/hair
and instead of lifting the dipper and sipping
jumps barefoot into the abruptly milky
'bruptly ruby suddenly saving wellHole waters
saving both poet , and ... rupting ! ... their Honor .
She was once known as
the youngest baby
the freshest jalapêno
and was not a serbianWoman !
And nearly all of my basic
impulse to write and to try
to make it a kind of personal
hopefully some/what universal
as anglo/american can be in my mouth
poetry arises from( since it IS you !)
knowing three years out of five
uniquely , in a lot of senses , You .
I rarely if I ever write in boredom .
However never really ever having
had a long/term reader I content
my self with repeatedly turning the page ;
my strategy is hazy but it GOES like this :
I agree to growing older on condition
that my isolation is fruited with peaches
from Michigan October and lots of books
of poetry from everybody everywhere
the sort of thing you could decently read
aloud at their multiply lonely funerals
and put a little dignity into the hard dirt
that in 14 billion years or so will disappear ;
what will not vanish then , we idiots , is just
that ... the apparently , immediately , invisible !
I , for one , did not drink of that liquid .
I also kept the kids
a good distance
from the hounds of hell ;
and she ... as well .
Though living with a gourd
a canteen
a dark bottle
a mere champagne glass
a simple spoon
to a not so simple hypodermic needle
is a kind of modern/Greek
drama a kind of dangerous blessing .
In deed , a truely inteeresting -ouch- chinese year !
-39-
Nobody gets out of here alive...
Pilgrim! Give up all hope, and advance...
Insensata cura dei mortali...
"gather stones, and nevermind!"
-40-
The panicSpring :
It's so much easier to spit on the paper
than it is onto someone's face...
but poetry is not an art of expectoration
so much as one of holding one's breath .
We all remember the deepsea diver
who rose too quickly to the surface
and the soul he lost in the sea
was refounded more in primal salts
than in the normal passage to moon dust .
He didn't literally explode but the cells
in his brains most emphatically did ;
we can only hope it happened at such a speed
that time, itself a form of dying light, lost
its own version of cosmic consciousness !
When this event occurs at a stroke after midnight
we can often call it merely nightmare
and switch back off the light of our electrical
meats, put the heart on hold, maybe rise from bed
to piss, or maybe put your penis in your girl,
and get back to the pseudo-business of death .
In mid daylight it's equivalent to drama ;
the banal running over of a loyal housemouse
heading in a hurry back to his big mama...
Sophie trying ô so hard to wisely choose... Antigone DYING !!!
the police bullet in the back of the neck
of the young man in his neighborhood...
the local fair where the yokel fairies flock
to find pretty kids to take back to their pads
and take them like a crack junkie takes his flash ;
a tiny tear at the far edge of the left eye
apparently the jig is up and anyway who says
the entire universe is not a type of fountain ?
And who says that pleasure is a kind of evil ;
that to suffer a child makes you one mother
fucker of a man... and, if not you, then who ?
We've all got many years behind us
and a myriad pile of sins ; most of them, granted,
dusty and just about as banal as concrete in Chicago .
The point is that drugs, and sex, as all
our daddies in all of our rich rancho santa fe homes
invariably intoned : Shall be thy ruin... son !
Yet, strangely enough, it seems still most men
have not only raped their own shoddy brains but spent
a hell of a lot of not always hard earned money on access
to female nipples, and so, what's new ?
THIS Milk is spilled , al-mulk w'al malek killed to nought mawt !
Jesus is still rotting away in effigy on that
goDamned shameful human-lineated cross My god
indeed, can it be you HAVE FORGOTTEN US for good !
-41-
Certainly, in a relative manner, a thing
of beauty is forever joyful, and there is no thing
actually aptly termed a woman for this woman is
a human being thus a process not a fact , in fact
an act all in herself wherein shall agitate many
a strange fish come all the way out of seaslime
to inhabit a house with a toilet a lady a dog .
Not one instant of their terribly short existences
do they feel the imperative necessity to meet
an angel ; and though they run across a dozen
daily like the hidden 'khidr' they go unrecognised .
My god... but son-of-a-bitch we must give thanks
for something so big even the darkest cumulus
cloud's a mere ant's domain, that is, in comparison,
and the tv screen is the closest you'll ever get
your holy loving lips to the sex you'll never have !
Sure, sex is life, but love is a sort of dope
and should be shunned by the sheepheart exemplaires
amongst this splendid multitude of sheer humans .
Yes, believe me, your loveliness depasses all .
-42-
Leaving aside Texas, and its cromagnonesque puppet leader,
I think Florida where people would sell pieces of "little Lillian"
as others do the Berlin wall, (or cans of Green Mountains air,)
should be voted the shittiest state of the disunion this year .
My solution is final, and no crap : NUKE Fidel & Cie. !
While we're at it why not San Francisco rotten with homos,
or New York City that polluted perishing queen of crack flash ?
But please spare Microsoft or the whole world would stop .
-43-
It's true our ambition at Iô Rénasco
is to lose ourselves as nearly completely
as possible and still remain terrestrial ;
IF ... (!) poetry is known in advance it's not
only a mere shard from the impossible past
but drags humanity back and not ahead .
My God my god but my own orgasm
was once a point of absolute reference
and life herself painted up like a rainbow
out on a picnic in an oak grove
where squirrels are not shot simply dead
but the words themselves become indeed
the very objects they are subjected to .
Who can say we really might yet dis/appear ?
-44-
Lachrimopyrotechniks send beloved bodies
off on a journey to hell oneway and are quite sincere
in certain circumstances separation is a nearly
mortal wound but heck I'm talking a kind of true love .
All stripping down to essentials
will be not only embarrassing for the majority
but as painful as any guy could ever stand .
And usually he melts down and normally
there's not a mouse in the house of a good damn
who cares unless the cheese rations are augmented !
It's impossible to genuinely waste time
but meat can be mistreated and children are not
only the bright future but a sort of emotional
anchor we fashion in the pride of our own unpity .
-45-
How far from the seashore
were the last words
that we heard from Roy ;
while Maryann got accepted
into a business school
and has gained seven kilos
since the American
left the valley
in search of a sandy beach
invariable sunny days
very unsilent yet natural nights
and his pal
off on a quest for the ghost
spirit of Pessoa/Reis !
All of this having the good fortune
to pass in the imagination
or in the mouth
and not into the imploding
for example intestines
of a betrayed man
who effectively is right
but has in fact thrown away
some fourteen years of his fortynine ;
and his wife about gone
for Italy and for good
and the kids grown up in four
quite quadrafurcating manners
and much of it simply indigestible
for a suddenly qualmy father
and his career
as the successor to Ezra Pound
in apparent shambles .
And to be logical if not inspired
no the ocean is not really near ;
not that Claude's enquiry
was entirely false
but the time I've spent
away from that Alpine Valley
is of the same order
as that of a tomato
on the ground split open
awaiting nothing more than a squadron
of hungry ants , perhaps
but I'm not in the south either
and the mere act of writing words
is so close to that
of stroking your either breast
and finding you glad
when my own lips remember
this crescendo here
or that whopping normal
joy
at just being in a rowboat
with nothing but land
in sight
and no care for the fishes
and no real wish to amaze the peasants
by taking a stroll across the surface
of my own Grandfather's Lake...
something crystal
or just play'in yellow
and stark as a bee's barb
on the upper lip
which is made only to hurt
and for the whole rest of a life
we don't forget
something in us still misses
well those tiny kisses and then to bed
mama sleep with me a little
I am not afraid
but proudly six
and happy my own mother sleeps
in our own house .
Now I know well yesterday
and well know enough tomorrow
will indeed come
and will indeed become
and yet is still almost not yet here
and yet still a secret and we're still young
but actually the house
has burned down and the green
gone to blue
and frankly a grown man
husband of thirty years
and father to four grown children
who hasn't worked a day of his life
and who has all the bad habits
and who has broken all of the laws of the land
and though he would is far too weak
and puny and ridiculous to break those of heaven...
asking for no mercy
and deserving no more
than the let's say human dose
which I grant
is a big and ugly lie and very stupid of my part
to even pretend at equality of terrestrial destiny
so...
I cut short the blab
crave a cigarette I'll not have
and sit back uptight to have a long sip
of tepid tapwater .
My dream...
to open a bach-to-bhakti-bike shop .
! Wheels ... & Barzakh non-Stop !
-46-
Again again again and once again
I open up my eyes and now a new
dawn's risen and the universe shattered
once more into some six billion I's .
It takes a lot of light to fill such night
saturated holes who call themselves
the genuinely human souls aboding earth .
This might be what they mean by multiple
birth experiences and sleep herself
a kind of pre/inititory death where dreams
are equivalent to God and my mother
Mary couldn't know all this she was too busy
making seven children enter earth before
she "plumb" took the kaleidescope out of her head...
and ending up dirt in south America .
Now I await my moment with patience
and continue to voyage like one
of the primary or is it basic founding
colors of a spectrum made in our solar system
across the earth of course but also into
the mouth the belly the bowels and the genital
upheavals somehow begining the start
of this sheer mystery doted with five fingers
on either hand and mostly made in two
models what we name the male and mostly You ;
I know it's not high poetry and the only real
religion I ever practised with abiding pleasure
which is shared and otherwise not present
though masquerades in some drug encounters
but we're not here to raise the dead nor kid !
It isn't simply university/defined vocabulary
or the fixity of subject/object affiliations
nor is the great goal fashioned to make dunces
out of prunes and the real sacs a man's equipped with
are the glands and hormones and those serpentine
messangers if we will our very pattern... "geniales" !
Knowledge of atomic structures isn't necessary
to appreciate the intricate involvement of detail
in the construction who knows what creation
itself consisted of I said the building of the very
mass of matter which is dead or dying light
into the uncountable starlike points of brilliance
also known as facts which dominate and animate
this greater daily body of my very own I call
for now in English/version palpable universe .
I almost said sufficient just to eat some LSD .
But as a goofy maverick journalist I try
to keep a clear line between my personal
and untouchable sensations and the let's say
vulgar events which merely happen in what
most of us still insist on calling real life .
But heck I've got lots of them why once
I stepped off the plank near the shores of Tahiti
and drowned and another time I won
the ascension of the Alpe d'Huez in the Tour
and for a few weeks was private secretary
to Alvaro de Campos in pre/present Lisboa
and I loved a peasant girl from France and had
a bevy of children all of them from the two sexes
and left her with two babies in a state of agitation .
I'm still not equilibriated though approaching
fifty with wounded stiff ungraceful Tiger steps
still wondering when I'll get down to the edge
of the well in the village in the valley in the
mountains where they tried falsing it with salt
for Its water was that of utter forgetting
but the common folk directors and the tourists
drank it anyway and I'd be a fool to not !
Explaining oneself to starangers is easy enough
if they've got your eyes Natalie your breast
and neck and the way you talked to me afraid
of everything you said and me upon my knees
between your thighs on the bar stool
and that black rose glowing like nuclear charcoal
when a boy stumbles on the fire of his own guts .
It's these flames I wanted to lick
when out at midnight hugging the eucalyptus
trees on the golf course of Rancho Santa Fe ,
I still believe with Grandpa's Lake
in Beulah Michigan the most magical locations
upon a planet I evidently endorse and intend
to reside upon for as long as oxygen
which is as good for a poem as it is for a lung
enters and exits from where I feel a tiny potent
god has made her nest in the shade of my
muscular yet quite fool/hearty central pump .
Our spirits obviously being that light
struggling to get back to the sun and beyond
like the shorthaired mousey boy on his bloody
knees whispering sweet Jesus to the tattered bark .
-47-
I'm about as efficient
as a fig leaf
in hiding my organs
of progeniture and sex and love
and of evacuation
though anyone who's lived
25 some years around fig trees
knows damn well the peasants
use the white milk sap
to remove warts
and everything about these plants
is abrasive uncomfortable irritating
except for its trunk
and branches which in fact
themselves are soft enough
to break
under one's own masculine weight
and fall to the red hard dirt
twisting one's neck ;
poetical experience perhaps
but decidedly unelegant
and hardly... well... productive .
in fact , another false bible !
-48-
1
In 4 lines today
this is what I have to say :
I woke up anew
missing You !
2
From dawn to night
a sole analysis...
for, if I'm right
it's sheer paralysis .
3
Though if I sleep again
my nightmare's apt to move ;
even if she just begin
snorting and stomping hooves ...
I stand erect with light
prepared to honor Her
but if I lack in height in/sight
I yet remain a memory/member
with a name & number
of the male minority .
And the fat bees bumber
to a real absorbed sorority
and find the wax
and the weave of a world
without modern war and facts ,
like honey , warped and whirled
like Maulana's semi-
automatic single/minded
adepts whose emblem I
too have adopted as unblinded
as quartz in the Sahara ;
as Lot the morning after ;
as Abe regarding Sarah ;
as Jesus without laughter
though not as humanity ...
plural as in fact in/singular ;
re-animated flashes of insanity ,
quite, indeed ; aSample : Fingular !
From the poet to
the teen/age masturbator ,
behind the sun to the very ghetto
of whole hands and alligator
like eruptions in full
sincerity and profound desire .
From fingertips to toes a bull
spirit slumbers and when I die Her
own fox hearted soul
will kill a rabbit or squirrel ...
while ... the meat grease on the orange coal
whistles and forest ferns uncurl
like virgin leaves brushed
upwind from my widow's burial
with pink smoke and poppies crushed
into the wine of rather basic aerial
renditions of the act
of self/sensations ...
this extreme and fragile fact
of pre/death initiations !
4
Pre/visionary now pretereternal images
when every event
occuring to an adult
results from cowardice ,
often unadmitted .
But my true ambition
was to retrace the steps
(to emulate if you will)
of that legendary German master philosopher
Ludwig Hohl .
But first I had to get to Europe ;
my own father said to be German ,
and mother French
and the compass in the rosy nest
of my halfway human heart
has apparently pointed to Provence ;
at times even in the jolly way
of Ford Madox Ford
and his really wonderfully
reading Paradise ;
a kind of non/obligatory
and very minor
yet valid and "chaud" ! , model
and a type of memory
a half a sleep .
Yet how to explain
the existence of any universe ?
Creativity and sex are associated
in the popular mind
with art pleasure sin .
It's a rainbow "made in spain" , gee ...
with a pot of glue & sorry - gloom - at the end
and you gotta pay
the postage as well ;
why embark ?
Whatever happened to poetry
impassioned even
opinionated
and poets with names like
cummings Pound Graves Dylan
Thoman Berryman to pick on English ;
continental colleagues make
this age quite golden
in the gamut
of man as a bag full of sacs
his skin a rag , a tattering fading envelope ...
his hair a brush
and his cock having little sense
suffered quotedian inflation
and the crash
and this type of poem is designed
simply to share an opening
in the mere fabric
of common language .
Not to educate the kids !
-49-
My 50 years established
In the annals of the passing years...
A life, self-edited, and published
as one page per day appears
before... whoever reads such intimate
yet absolutely common
tales which illustrate
these stories from the merely human .
So, I invite you all to have a look
at what we call the man... some poet's book .
There's Lazarus...
he's like the lizard ;
with his very hazardous
adherence to his child-wizard...
which will cost him double .
Though for us it's fine
if all the trouble
takes place in Palestine .
What really happens, is normal .
And now I'm formal !
I've seen summer coming on like a wheat field
rolling over the western horizon
and the entire congregation of crows uprises in a veiled
tumultuous cloud of dust crammed with once and future human
bodies... themselves... as yet in a state of unlovely chaos !
Yet it is from here, and this, the dervish of our soul
who throws daily routine into permanent ruins, and, who'll toss
ten thousand midget shades of man in their whole
pathetic nakedness directly into the moon's mad snout ;
the alternative is discipline, as in... the radish or the knout !
-50-
One day, as I was sitting in my room, and didn't even know it... for I was dreaming at that time (or, lack of time ; for to dream implies just this, the total lack of any time reference based on what ever logic !) that I was lying in my tomb ; yet I didn't know, then, if I were indeed dead, or, as we say, still amongst the living !
Though, my one ambition was clear . I had willingly entered my final resting place, even if only in reverie, in order to be instructed on the proper methods to employ in order to write some really memorable, world class poetry ! I'd heard there was a teacher in that domain who just might, and this depended on me, I was sure, be able, and willing!, to help me .
What he was like I can only say : Like the wind, abruptly halted ; like snow, melted ; like a shooting star... shot ! And what he taught me was, somewhat, the following ...
-51-
... Waiting for a Third millenium :
Excuse me, but
aside from froll-liking with my spring
saturated girl,
or strumming half-presently the orange notes
of my guitar ,
there isn't just a lot of otherwise to do
if one is not an adept or convertée to a sect
or maybe mere computers ;
after all we're collectively getting old and numerous .
With population growing younger over all ...
Which is impolite to say
and pehaps, in a way, incorrect as well ;
at least it's hardly diplomatic .
My entire life
which apparently did not end a whole hell
of a long long time ago
has been out on a mission ;
like my omnifavorite lone pilgrim
out there
in here
on his voyage in a universe amongst
ten thousand devils ;
not even master Rumi's thousands forms of mind ;
nor the hundred names of a now reborn God ;
nor ten good men somewhere
down here on a blue planet planting a flag ;
and that one... Martin Buber's YOU...
still missing in a lot of action
having absolutely nothing to do either with a
new model of the universe
nor an institute for the harmonious developement of man
nor even Catholic and far from Polish ;
it's still me and I'm still puzzling over
just what the heck are the people
who will soon be living for, virtually, ever !
unquote . GOING TO FIND TO DO NEW ?
When you didn't know, you "left a blank ;"
today you stick a guy in there,
or his gal , or "just" an other banal venal penal lie !...
or even just merely the both of them,
and the end result, as whosohow-when sayed :
well, no body likes to smell its own mortal
environment when just that meat is rotting and time
itself is equal to the fading shadow of your own
almost-soul, hiding there behind your very human
entirely PHYSICAL heart - a sort of eighty-ninth note
for those who have had the ambiguous lot
to have experienced consciousness in the midst of all this dying light,
this matter itself, this stone this tree stump, this sand .
Not only a marvel, authentically tested
in the genital intelligence of the testicles,
tightly & totally entwined within formal body Brain ! ,
but confirmed in the tender science of her womb .
The astrology of sheer love
and not a god damned lie (straight "line" !) ever told
by nature . Tigers do not betray,
they accomplish ; Judas himself
could not do, decently, more .
And a gift ; perhaps ?
Let's say instead of ceding you a million bucks,
a year ; an upkept home of choice ; the pet you really need ;
sex love & and happiness intensely true ; repeat, INSTEAD :
Condemned to suffer, grow old, and die,
why not ? like a dog out of Kafka's guts ?
Would you just say : Yes ! Do I have a choice .
What's in it, after all, today,
for an unmediatic hero ? And, yes,
we do have a choice ;
though it isn't usually our name .
Like the shadows , that comes after... or doesn't .
-52-
&
here the many talk about reality
which is real enough
but certainly does not equivalate ,
though if it's true that money talks louder than words
then perhaps money is a kind of song or poetry
from the single dollar to the epic megabill !
A million dollars understood as a vast symphony
and cash transactions the musical notes
of a very great nation ,
capitalism is indeed the tune that we are trotting to !
The whole movement taking place
between B sharp... and B flat
as if they were the base command
and William Shakespeare our reference thereof .
Though if A were for analfabeta
we wouldn't be here at all
and the mere lack of a little poem
would have in its modest way transformed
somewhich the very atoms
of a planetary humAtomic fellow .
I know that I repeat myself
but all my art's eventually a sort of fugue
I now constate in what we term a retrospective survey .
C's a perfect mortal key to all that's poetry . (Ghimmel , or ... get this , Gamma !)
Its ambiguity and raspy entrance
in the palpitating ears of a local amateur
have made it a favorite of the seagoing poets
who see the island of their own ego
as some kind of secure foundation
for all of what are nominated futures .
(Unique Hayy Ibn Yadzan ... bien entendu ... 'cepted !)
Just as a man is built of blood and bone and meat
so are my phrases crafted with our shared verbs
our nouns and in particular our pronouns
which each one pronounces aptly as their mouth
announces a black sail on the horizon
and so it's time to take a very long
and who knows how long remembered...
leap into the bloody heart of earth and its art - éretz , hayy !
It's not for nothing movement
is the absolutely signature of anything divine
this side of universe of course our sun
in all its labyrinthine clarity does honor
to this evidently necessary Act of existing .
And the nearest we ever arrive to the center-noble
of our System Go is going in well there's no secret
to the farthest we can get towards the precise
spiritual point where a woman's heart-shadow
and its incumbent probable soul
meet and merge with the womb of her belly
and the ovaries are not so much public
as they are occaisonally published in recycled flesh !
If we have names it is not we
who have invented them and our heads
are likewise gifts of a practical unknown origin
all orfans indeed
all lost in a cosmic chaos that ressembles
at times a veritable life in America
but there are ten thousand discombobulations
and the crossroads are littered
with two thousand retroactivating rotting
diurnal glimpses
into something else that issues out of a self
same creature who here goes under the common
designator : She .
Is this a macho ploy
or some horrendously mild
foray into sexual politics ?
Probably not ;
but is money not a kind of music ?
Are girls for sale
anymore than boys always have been ?
And as long as the melody lingers on , gee
whiz and all the other octave mates
whose very structure is another marvel
of almost bourgeois exactitudes, heck if
you want to talk about reality
just remember your jump off the ramparts,
your credit card,
all the memories of your life passing in parade
as you drowned in sight of that sinking
private pile of deserted sand, & recall célan , apollinaire , the seine sliced oped like a vein in the neck
under the foot , not of abdel qadir jilani , but of ... brothers in arms , on the other sides of the sun !
remember do-re-mi and how there's a pair of pauses
in the horseback mountain of the gamut, gosh
I even thought I'd sing a tiny lullaby
and therein offer to buy all of your money
and I'd give you all I've got in my own pair
of awfully lonely testicules
to get there in time in my green boat
and bring you back to the mother Alps
where after your four children
you at last, that is, She... will sip a few times
at the lips of the well of forgetting
it all and for always yet not dead
in fact quite like the present situation
which as they say is well
under control .
In this sphere
this space
this corner of a universe
perhaps
I've come to learn
it seems
just about only this : Idealism
and I mean our snappy Don and Sancho too
for one aSample
is in my mouth as chocolate as we'd wish
yet after crying on it - the pure basic dirty melting metaphysics of yum yum ...
I think it's been more than a dozen years
the salty attack of my own sweet brains
has blown out a hunk of my soft heart tissue
and I do agree it hurts and hell
is all akin, or
hope is harmful in my total spectrum .
Faith betrayed , for ... Confido Confodi , all trust is traitor ...
Love ? Oh yeah , just like that ? i must'a got latest lost !
-53-
&
there's a couple matters
I'd be more than glad to clarify ;
for first there's democratic poetry
and then... America .
I'm sure that few of us agree
that poems once
like peaches and those Kansas wheatfields
and the earthblue skirts of growing girls
were more than magic
and like all good drugs
could make a fellow really fly ;
or cry or sigh and often wonder why .
A guy like me for instance
nothing but a mediocre no-one
with hardly any past
no presence whatsoever
and a highly dubitable future
could suddenly find himself
in my tennis shoes and torn teeshirt
a kind of tiny god...
and the garden was great
and those oranges of dawn
that echoed as yet unomenously
with the name of Federico Garcia , Gabriel Peri , Robert Desnos whose heart hated war
were at hand and the mere thought
of sex
would give this little tyke
a fine hard-on
as the term then was pudiquely applied ;
and my own hand the only cunt
I could jimmy up !
But this is adolescent froth and foam
and in my later teens I tried
those sacred substances
and liked them quite a lot
and found the orgasm largely consoling
and the poems of Rimbaud and yes
our own irrascible Ezra and Dylan
and that gem of gems The Tempest ; Johnny Berryman's 11 Adresses to God , sublime , his finest ! ,
all was sayed and all remained to be donne .
Fucking tripping poetry&music were the trio
of divinities upon which my own threesome
fabricated with a head a heart a spine
rested, when at rest, and moved when moved .
Who's the instigator of it all
is one of our key questions
but it's not an answer answers anyWhat .
We confess to silence ignorance and lonely
dreams
of furry kittens
corrosive acids and
the mindless madness of musical intoxication...
with the worm of word
lifting its slimy head out of the mess
to toss a couple of rhymes
off into the rather sticky yellow wind !
Shucks galore ... huck Finn'd ... broken orphan dolfin .
! Who could this not animate , perhaps default ?
-54-
&
now that made in America means
that no one's born a poet but
and no one rich and beautiful though if
you've got the dough
we'll bake your cake man .
And will cut chips
of lemon rind
for garnishments in taste
and eyes
for beauty is the mirror
of a modern mind
and when it isn't
better head for life alone
in a tiny rock hut
in the suffering land
of dry throats and barrels of red wine
no wonder hunger
is still one of the five marvels
of wholly variable mankind & kin .
I didn't say the apes
and haven't often lived in any caves
nor dragged a girl back bedwards
when the hunt is over
and our antique fireplace is down
to embers and the lee-heavy eyelids
fall . It's like Adam and that fat
grey worm he mistaked for a rib ;
but it's not every day one
wrestles with the mother
of all our earthborn mothers !
Fatal combats
do not always end
in death ;
and lately the propaganda mills
and all the billyboys
in this green dump
have proclaimed that reason
doused with internet and television
is indeed an apt bedfellow
for a heap of potatoes
once also known as peasant
pancakes
and the least of us
one hell of a pantheistic
legion of quite apathetic chess
hounds !
Which implies a maximum of commas barks
and bites and peons to be flung
to a glorious ruin
like opium poppies about to be pricked - or gamma rays zapping brain !
The adventure is forever
at the very beginning and sorry
experience here counts for nothing
and in fact is useless baggage
which is better left
at the portals' garbage bin ;
only the heart
and its place as the seat of art
made on an earth
still not totally American
and its shadow
which is evidently the best candidate
for a possible soul
a man of roots could barely dream of
and that lingering dust
on the tail of the bird of authentic
gusto packed and peppered seaman's verse !
A gift ; as for the rest... asleep .
I swear it's me .
And please, do get it through your head
I almost said fucking
god damned
I'm not like you
and if American
must be the last, or maybe the first...
is it the only ?
-55-
Once he told me Clancy
don't try nothin fancy...
you're fine just as Harkham
and that's who/what I am .
As near as close kin
I've got here two children
who fall in no cults
as various young adults ;
I'm not a judge
except for Michigan fudge
and the wheatfield hair
of Her who's my Fair !
So I rest simple ;
call a pimple a pimple
and never forget
I can't get out of debt .
I owe the equivalent
of a thousand bucks spent
like a complete idiot ;
I really fuckedUp !
Who do I confess to ,
convey my distress to ?
Not catholic , yet I rhyme
my sole solution ... time .
For all that's hurt and bled
but still isn't dead ,
and don't halt to suffer
it's all that I might offer .
An end to bother .
Now I'm twice a grandfather .
Two more adventures to live
and two good reasons to forgive ....
and yet I still have not .
For all the central's still a knot
and I'm still off on a trip
once also known as Devil's grip .
The very same .
I recall the appearance of the name
and the attack and swear that now all is
a kind of nausea'ic paralysis .
I've sworn to get out .
But I doubt
even brother Jesus on his cross
had scant love for loss !
It's come alove again
or become what has been ;
a calm terror in perspective ...
or else, why yes! , rectification .
(From the tiger to the rose thorn...)
no creature is born
with no capacity to wound ;
and no instrument untuned
all the time be it Pan's pipes
or our Master Rumi's tripes
or even God's good humor ...
which echos aptly human !
the book of errors ... coming .
-56-
It's hard to write anything at all new, fresh, original. If you read books you see how the others have written about just all & everything. What's left to be done? I'm not kidding, I don't just want to repeat the greater, and our lesser, dead! if you don't read then what you do write just might be, and probably is, a re-doing of the already done, as well.
So, just what to do, indeed? A serious, curious, dangerous, question!
The answers, of course, for there shall be ô so many, are in fact the very things we do write. What we can control, then, is publishing, what you'd like others, your equals?, to read. Which is what I'm trying to do in IÖ RE. Of course, what nobody can know, à priori, is the experience of real Transformation I am presently going through. For the past month or so I'm like a man being stripped, though down to what, even I have no clear idea. I'm just, as we say, apparently along for the ride. Very strange, very.
I know my relationship with poetry is downright unnatural; I'm obsessed by it, by its poets, by their life stories, their literary "evidence" and occaisonal close analysis of it; but mostly I'm fixed upon its invariable failures. Both the human wrecks as well as their often equally ruined poetic exclamations, written and oral. Two tongues on this earth, says Hassan, the one we write with and the other one we speak with. And, obviously, we write to... while we speak, ideally, with. The choice is simply with which one do we wish to try to communicate; or, with what specific mix?
Poets, are inspired, or... they're not! What, poets or inspired? Why, both. If they're not they're not and we don't read them, at least not long. If we do read them, so they are, but, so are we as well. This is poetry for us, this to & fro from one human heart to an Other. Without this reciprocal nourishment there'rd be no reason for us to read. In this case we would stick to talking, and leave writing to the wooden headed. But, when we do read, and we read quite a lot, we are not dupe. We know that all poems are static, are not conversations, or even speeches, and that's it's impossible for a poet to pass on more than the linguistic dimension of his inherent, felt, poetical experience. The reader, often himself a poet, must provide the correspondingly sufficient, adequately prepared, terrain... in which to actually receive the Body of the offered (published) poem!
Just as the religious spirit has never shied from using poetry for its own hallelujahs, poets of other "denominations," from those with none to the most convinced retro-surréalist, have just as often taken some jewel, some drop of honey, found in some religious doctrine, dogma, or document... and slipped it, sometimes openly, sometimes surrepticiously, into their own to be published canon. This is all in the rules of the game, and let us share. With science the relation has been both more chronologically short as well as definitely more hesitant. Except of course for the early twentieth mostly European movements which could all be grouped under the tri-nominative... Futurist/
Modernist/Expressionist, tendancies. An ambiguous adventure at its best; really naive and nearly Facist, in it more somber manifestations.
But it's in relation to its so-called Mother Art, Literature, that poetry is actually, as happens with many a mother-infant situation, the most maltreated!
Yet, is poetry a child of human literature at all? Or is it that poetry, of unknown origins and probably forever, has chosen language, and the arts of literary manipulations, operations, combinations... in order to, well, incarnate? And, this, but only through certain, and not just any, individuals, whom we now term poets? I am convinced. What is of vital importance to me are not the poems, so much as the poetry. One poetic bolt, for instance, could generate a hundred, all totally different, examples of poem. And does. Where do these bolts come from? No one knows. Can we provoke their apparition? Perhaps, but subsequent survival can not be guaranteed. See: Rimbaud, Trakl, Hart Crane, Mayakovsky, J-J. Rabéarivolo... and a thousand other poet suicides, outcasts, misfits and loners. Most of them beatified in heaven, if such places exist, but hardly more than passing, flea tortured gutter dogs. Ask Franz Kafka!
Ask Armand Robin. Though how do you ask a dead man anything, since he's been dumped into the communal boneheap, as nearly anonymous as he was at birth? His papers swept into trash bags; how many YEARS of work, work, as says Ludwig Hohl, that only he could have done and... and no one else, neither you nor me nor the village schoolmaster. Nor could ridiculous, crotchty old mister Frost and his made in the American dream... tennis game. Is this why there are hardly anymore real poets left in the States? Could anyone really say if this is, or isn't, the fact? Maybe not; if they could... the answer would once again be, The proving texts! Send us a copy, when you will, of the best poetry being written, say, these past 5 years... if you know of any, that is!
Or we could ask Jean-Paul de Dadelsen, but he dies young with cancer eating his brains, and only wrote one book, and didn't even finish it at that. But... we here think, it's a masterpiece of French 20th century literature, of marvellous, full bodied and full of feeling, poésie!
And we will listen to his answer, his poems, as well as Robin's... and dozens of others probably nearly unheard of in America; as many of them still are in France! And Georges Perros, Réné Daumal, Joë Bousquet, Robert Desnos... the very sounds of their names thrills us and their poems... well, let yourselves be the judges.
As for my own... experience, well, I shall have to come back to this. The words are lacking and the mind, tired. I shall go to bed. In bed I feel at least I still have a life, to live; to dream, maybe, but with living dreams. It's not so much I'm a coward, and don't often get accused of such, but I admit to lacking energy... and desire, and a will to go on waking up into a world that is irrevocably changing. Irremediably turning tighter, smaller, darker and less and less familiar. Is This, the great unknown? I don't know. All I know is that man is never really ready... for anything that happens to him. But then again, I am ready. Ô so, damnably so. Thus, if we must then, let us go... et, Basta!
-57-
A man's mental life, for me, is like having a sack thrown over the head!
It's like a house in full sunlight where one turns on all the lights, and closes the shutters, declaring: Here, is the light! Then, when that house burns down, on account of a sur-saturation of electrical power, its very inhabitants cry out: The whole world is coming, or, has come, to an end! And those who don't believe them, maybe because they know better, I mean the poets!... become their enemies! Just like that.
It's all so shitty it could make you weep.
Now, I've been trying, all my conscious life, to identify these little points of light, as night has come or it will. But also I've sought the sun. Funny I never just stepped outside, like uncle Ezra suggested, and raised my head to the wide blue heavens. But kids have a tendancy to more than just follow their parents, they think they have to downright imitate them. Thus, every generation is lost in advance, and by sheer definition! In this the poets are no better off, they tend to sink along with all the rest of us!
You see, I don't know where to place myself. I'm a member of the human race, and a poet! Like Gusto, I take my chances. But Gusto is the single one of us Living out of doors! At best, the rest of us are but well minded believers, though the real choice remains ahead. Either one accepts the present situation, or one is terrified by it. Acceptance, equals the ice cube before the candle; in melting, its water will extinguish eventually, the very flame that illuminates it, in an artistic sense, that creates it! Terror, is but another method of acceptance; today we call this accepted daily dose of terror... Reality! Bravo. No, only a poet can really escape. But it will cost him, well... everything!
And no divinity that mankind has ever invented, will be able to save him from this... not even an iota!
In our confusion and our darkness, in our sheer terror, we are capable of turning anywhere, just as long as we think we'll find, or some expert has claimed we shall, what now, and for the miserable last 2000 years, we have come to term... salvation. If only they knew, and some of them surely do!, that the only real salvation in operative existence is to be found in the Actual circumstances in action. Though, saved from nothing more than man's own mediocre, misdirected and ultimately damaging, sophmoric, mental self-manipulations. Another kind of Facism indeed, nearly invisible, thus nearly the most malicious of them all!
So, no more: Let there be light's... but, Let us be capable of Seeing the light, let us have Eyes! Well, we have the eyes, and, if we don't, it's clearly our own fault. Little good this does, to know, eh? But, if we don't, woe upon us and... Ecce homo! And this is why, then, I'm so literally possessed with the phenomena of poetry. The light is there or it isn't. The music, as well. If we can't hear it now, we probably never will. In these cases, evidently greatly majoritary, I have only my goodbye, good luck, farewell... though fondly enough. For the others, the few, I say... welcome.
If day is a river, the night is like the sea. And when the river waters enter into their mother element, it's both a birth... as well as a death. And the ocean is like the night, endless, endless and spiced with hints of salt, of desert islands, of saline graves and impeccable bones! Who looks for a puddle when one can leap into the briny, healing, churning sea-depths? Why, European man, for instance, and the little American cousins, for instance, as well as the Rest of the world coming around, for instance... and that's who!
For instance, Primo: Man's not born à priori equipped with human soul. Unless we recognize the mortal flesh, the very body itself, as being in true reality the seed, and nothing more, of this potential something, soul! To live forever... why, this is a joke, and a very bad one. Only darkness, silence, emptiness... and the infinite sea-swells, go on forever. Meat is condemned to rot. And all men with it. But poems are made of a finer stuff, and poems might endure. Of course, it IS all relative, as Science's most Modern "poet" Albert Einstein, pointed out, at about the same time as Guillaume Apollinaire of France, with his Zone, and T.S. Eliot in England with his Wasteland,
Joyce in Ireland with his Ulysses... and Valéry with Monsieur teste, Rilke in pre-belligerent German with his Duino elegies, were All providing us with matching creative poetical outlines of humanity's new understanding of his universe, himself! So, is there anything, in this domain, left to be done? You bet you; I.R. is the proof!
-58-
But the poet, if he is anything, is a man of his Word. And literally! This is the problem. He's someone who tells the truth... and when he doesn't, his lies burn him. Painfully, deeply... invariably with bitterness in the breast, and ashes in his mouth. Yet, the truth has burned him no less deeply, no less with acid aftershocks, and no less destructive to his very life. And this... is poetry!
-59-
Why is it so nearly impossible for me to even approximately express my true feelings, my real situation... in my poems? When, after all, I write them essentially towards this purpose! They are failures, then, as evidently I am. My trouble might just be that I want to say Shit, to everyone and everything. I feel, as they say, fed up. Though, a hundred times worse than this pale term can convey. One thing's clear, in prose I feel more a garden slug than a... darting sparrow, for instance. Instead of music, I make rhymed gadgets, so to speak. Shit, so to speak crudely, direct and correctly. Alas. And yet, in spite of my own self-estimates, I go on.
What to say? Poetry is the blood of my body, the heart of my soul. I don't mean only poems... but, poetry. And, I don't know why. What's the most frightening, the most sheerly exhilarating, for me, is, I don't WANT to know why! I could easily be crazy. I'm, difficultly, not! The depression affecting me, is that of the fly feeling itself being wound up in web. In insect time, this smothering process can last a very long time. Something like drowning is said to... by the survivors. But I'm, curiously, not dead yet. And I definitely don't consider death to be a common experience, as in birth, and taxes. Why, I never was born, I'm too poor to have paid any taxes, but... I sure as hell have a heavy job of work left to do, as I lie dying. Though lying, that's something at least we all share, and are all more or less good at. But just wait for death. That's when we'll find out who the real men just are! Cherry. And, who aren't! But Hassan knows this better than I.
Hassan thinks that time is the missing link between light, and matter.
But, as he also says, That's, an Other matter!
We've all, at ir, wondered, Why? we are nine . That is, have ruminated, there's hardly another word for it, on puzzling ourselves with the, if any, so-called significance of such a digit. Which sounds vain, vague, useless. Why seven, indeed? And, so far, the only phrase we can agree on, in good English prose, is... (for) This IS the number that we ARE. And this is a poetic/linguistic manner of, say, squaring the circle. Isn't it? We do lack a theoretical mathematics adept; though Hassan and G.N-T. are capable of primative models and both can play chess, apparently, very well; so well in fact, that both have beaten Llorenzo in this shakespearean arab nights mysterious and downright marvellously compelling game-duel-dance-hunt-war-over a chess board. Something only they have done, and rarely, and no one else I have seen, or heard of. Yet Llorenzo doesn't give a fish piss for higher mathematics; he "lives with" it, like he says he does with cancer, aids, alheimer's, heroin addiction, crack cocaine that rams a man's personal light back into his skull as if from a sledgehammer blow from which he will never really recover, with his wife who's fucked the visitor while He was off to work... and, strangely enough, ever since that end-March burning sorrows, he's gone off to work no more. And it's not just because he's dead. After all, he still gets dressed, he still has milk and toast for breakfast, he still jerks his little dog off the floor by its long golden tail... arf! arf! No, for a dead man, he gets along just fine here. You'd almost say he was at home in the quotedien human element, and damn it, he is! Just as we all pretend to be. But shit fuck cunt cock there's a thousand forms of mind as Rumi told us back in Turkey in the old days, when Shams-uddin brought the golden sunlight to the musky perfume drop and married them inside the first of all our human heart. Called Adam. And ever since, we are alerted to the possibility of the human "form" being introduced into the cosmic play of earth and evolution as an equation of : Consciousness is in the blood; the heart circulates consciousness throughout the human mass.
The first being capable of constating this, consciousness of consciouness, as it is, is named, Adam. In the language from which this first being's name is literally extracted from, Hebrew, we learn that -dam, is blood. The understanding of this is massive, and indeed is itself a part and partial of the real and really living heart of HA-QABALA! While the A- before the blood of -dam, is Aleph, or, the never ending never beginning universal flux, with lightning rapidity as well as pin point accuracy, larger than any sight, smaller than any eye could see,aleph, itself a merely movement, then a cosy rest. And so a symbol of the overly powerful, incredibly quick, coupled to the contrary and quantitatively equal lethargy, yes, nigh unto death. No death for aleph, aleph is not born, and as to its use to men, well it's about as useless as life. And all of its partisans who know no more themselves how to live it. I don't mean dragged across the terrain of your entire existence along behind some covered wagon, railroad train, or autobus... goDamn it I don't mean living a dying death, but dying totally to oneself in order to finally recieve, for the second time, your certificat of innocence, good-will and a healthy sense of rigorously tested loyalty... to leper care, to shooting Hitler, to stopping BIG CANCER BUSINESSES from destroying generations of youth, irreplacable children, in all of the dirty, obscene, irreligious (often under cover of a "church") herd manipulations we submit to at any given instant.
Poetry helps in two ways. It brings the rot to the surface for the few who will see it, and you will; and bravo! While simultaeously allowing the poet to vacate his place in the assembly line and come roaring back with a burlap sack full of wooden sabots. Throwing them into the cog wheels trying to turn the conveyor belts; thlank tthlut liprock buck... hisssssss. Another poet bites the dust. He's gone. No matter, he never was. It was all of you poor vain idiots, his family and his friends, who invented him, manipulated him, ordered him around and then had him dumped into a dank hole, trussed up like one of her Majesty's many monkeys. Crying to get in, crying to get out. I've stopped crying, a long time ago. I had to, the way I've felt for some thirteen years I haven't STOPPED WANTING to cry, no I haven't. And so, I don't. Could I, cry again? I'm sure I can, though I'd rather it be by joys... the only ones that can save me still from a total shipwreck and the ones who can do this for me with me through you... is precisely Who I still must find. I'm for starting over again. But, only if totally so. Myself included in the has-beens, as it was back then in the up&coming! The rollercoaster, the screams and those belly burning absolutely silences; And, that's aleph; that is as it begins to get mixed up in all real life, indeed into the very ideas we entertain about life. Aleph is in the question, What is aleph. Aleph is in the answer. They are not far from the veins in your necks, beating, pumping, feeding the meats that makes us each a bonafide candidate for some symbolic soul. There are no others. If your body is not the seed of your soul then you'll live on without one, and die without a soul as well. And who cares; or, is it, gives a damn, more likely? One clear light shows me that Ludwig Hohl is a thousand times right per diem; it's true, there's not a single other person on the earth, living, having lived, or yet to live, and this without a sole exception, who could... do exactly that work which I alone am competant, and destined, to do. And how many other workers say exactly what I have? Is there a godamned one? It's curious, the more serious I get, I get the feeling I'm talking less and less loud, as if aware already, while typing these very words, for a potential reader's gamut of reactions. A sure sign of fatigue. Everyone's gone home, to eat, to love, to drink, to watch TV and to sleep. Just like me; only I'm a poet. My dream is the world I pretend to share with you. At night I awaken, to find myself a veritable pillar of the universe; and that's MY real life... though, hardly a bit of any of you are ever there. Frankly, I like it better this way. No, not yet mad, but my madness is merely your blindness towards the apparition of the 999 other forms of world. Anyone who thinks I play with numbers should be ready to state the name of the game. I DO play; and when I'm serious I'm serious. This is totally clear to totally clear people. Between us at Iö, this is how we have to be, have come to be. Though we do largely prefer becoming, to being; and become, to be. For "those who are not," which is an ancient initiatic formula describing the first initiatory level to which aspirant poets strive to attain. And not, obtain. For the same linguistic, metaphysical reasons. A poet, then, if we are following, willing to follow and to go on... is one who is not. Sure thing! Though go and try to tell it to our peers. Ambulent cadavers, exquisitely so. Just as Breton or some orther, Sir real!
-60-
&
it's february 23 the year 2000
&
as Hassan says
it isn't always easy
to be married 30 years
and still...
stay alive.
I talk for two.
Those who see me as a partisan
of sexual discriminations...
dont;
they don't see a god damned thing
unless it's the near end
of their screaming
cock!
Hell, I like my love
as well as any
of my fellows, but...
I don't make love.
Is this confession?
Voyeurisme?
Is this po-e-try at all, I mean
like burning bacon
red wheelbarrows
and those ice cream cones?
Am I un père indigne?
You bet I am.
And since I far prefer to insult
someone very near to me
than write to mister X,
I'll wait to tell him
to his face.
For me, the front line
of his soul.
Some people
choose to be fat
and some to go to heaven.
And neither one
is missed on a lean mean earth.
The real one
and not
the american dream.
And, poetry
isn't
what you have to say,
but What says it through you...
and the accuracy of saying
you HAVE to.
Or you'll die.
But, heck, Who's already dead!
-61-
So... it's March 11, 2000...
and life, herselfs, is on the rebound .
Time to get back to the Blue house, and
all those south France : trains to be found
returning from the east
while others roll away to Italy .
At my very least...
get down to poetry !
Now, europe'n all
grow massively purple
as that great vein
of blood channels to our brain
the whiffs... of spring .
We'll get out to sing
of pansies in the rain,
with this refrain :
Time is ripe
and we, while merely modern tripe,
shall sail away upon the agitation
of the sea... of our imagination !
-62-
Ten days later... the status quo !
I say my pater monsters and await the tread
of tiny thoughts marching through my head
where evidently angels are in dread
and every third idea's turning red .
Though I pretend I do not know .
-63-
The purple fingers of your mouth have thrown my name
upon the windy fragments of a north france fading dawn ,
and as the new sun down upon the new born sparrows
flings its flower cunning rays and whispers heat upon damp earth
the good news of my nomination fills a table strewn with cups
and brings my fellow citizens to lift their still unopened eyes
to heaven and to call, in unison, "it's been two thousand years
and your time is up, sweet Jesus... now come down to us to heal !"
Our turn arrives to shelter and to feed you and to find a girl
for your own family, perhaps a hunting dog, and a new suit
of clothes it's not so much you're out of fashion as plain dirty .
Spring showers bring a bath and the naming of your replacement
has even now begun to fill what the heart of man considers bloody
made in modern discombobulations damned unassuring news !
Frankly, poetry has never been a mere abortion .
Today, for instance, it's a burning fist
prepared to back accusations of murder in the first degree,
and lies, black lies from the broken foetus of midnight;
ready to take on the whole fucked up world
if it must, and if it mustn't, well... it will just for hell .
Poetry today will work for the highest bidder .
If it's the dream, well then, let's stuff our faces
with the amniotic acids of prebirth and early death .
If reality, why then it's a parched cunt
put into prison to free america from dangling offers
of paradise when only an inferno really fits !
And it's not that I'm a bonafide expert at this business
but the first sunbeams equal a total collapse of good sense .
I've interviewed the man who paints his children
burning in their bedrooms while his wife lights up
the barbeque and enters into private meditation ;
her american ambition is to be a buddha and to eat
blood puddings on the patio beneath the jets
which carry drug dealing diplomats back home
to their suburban houses trimmed in pink
where kitty litter gathers the dead fragments of light
to the inner thighs of the last woman's daughter .
It's time for a gift and since time is dying
we'll give them meats we've ripped from pig bones
and a bright ribbon to bedeck their daily bowels with .
Life is in her jubilee and the celebration gets personal ;
in a million years this dust shall laugh... anew !
Now I find that poetry
is all I've ever thrown away ;
like night sucks day
out of the shadow of a tree
and spits the soul-bud out with glee .
It's, I guess, a kind of play
wherein the words we almost say
nearly describe what we DONT see !
Where absence equals wisdom .
And pleasure is a type of pain
and even when the dark cocks come
back to the nest
from out of the rain...
and only the devil gets any rest .
-64-
I have learned that talking and touching
are the verbs that really make a marriage
viable, and with fidelity sleep at night .
That makes day, anew, worth waking to .
And if I have some sort of my own
testament in verse it's only self made poetry ;
words are common where the warm hands lack .
My personal breath is polluted
with vocabulary and my mind hungover
with dreams that stink of gin manure
and the daily soul... a fading shadow .
A kind of international program for beggars
and the nice guys do finish first .
So let's all stand up and get shot !
-65-
If light were really what we call the dying meat of God
and dawn a kind of word to wake man up with...
then it truly wouldn't be so fucking odd
that life herself as sun describes a mortal myth ;
some fifty years ago I ruled a continent
but every god damned day that passed I lost a piece ,
now I've got a tiny island filled with geese
and all the home I've left is one small canvas tent .
A king without a kingdom ain't so sad
unless that realm is now reduced to soul .
Some men are born like that, and the wide whole
horizon's a kind of future where the weather's bad
and even the girls have sailed off back to where
they came from . And I'm alone, and the light is rare .
-66-
God has no memories ;
eternity is timeless .
Thus, all his poetries,
are rhymeless !
-67-
It's worse than what I thought
and getting more that way with every passing dawn ;
it's just that I have got
to metamorphosize a tiny pawn
into what it's never really ever been...
that is into a bright newborn and potent Queen
whose presence on the board renews the game
and gives me power so that I might claim
to be the latest black King wielding total force
where all or nothing is the standard course !
Which means the object is to dominate
by ruining the other side with check and mate ;
which means that life herself's a match of chess
and we're the little peons in this mess
or maybe castle lords or bishops or a knight ,
whose jobs are simple and their fates a fight
which happens as it were within the rules
and even if we've always played the fools
it didn't mean we automatically shall win...
in chess as not in life we merely rebegin !
-68-
Most of what we write as poetry
is merely letting out our semi-precious lies ,
akin to all orgasms made by solitary meat ;
the wonder is we rarely disagree .
It takes a lot of really iceblue sighs
to keep a man informed with almost human heat .
Girls want lots of diamonds and when they fuck
except the virgin ending very first time
they do it for one reason only that is
they do it to get something out of the man
and it isn't always a little ball of viscuous sperm !
Nor frankly the grunting music of the guy .
To truly tell the children of the truth ?
That every mother's made in vast America !
And though we've been created all to die
and when we're hungry hesitate never to kill
it's not the sort of icecream bubble gum future
any woman will be honestly offering to us .
If females are exactly equal to their men
it's just a pity though a crime if not !
But to feel the intimate authenticity
of a genuine gift of all embracing love
is surely more than one small body can expect ;
at best it's wham bam thank you mam why not ?
My point is simple but it's not suburban pink .
Clitoral manipulations are it seems in vogue .
Vaginal passion is a kind of thirst for snake
and if the garden's empty why not the fingers ?
An apple's fine but only if its image worm
has titillated woman's ego to its kinky thrills .
A high opinion of these wretched marvels ?
Man screws wife and the house is filled with tears
and diapers and the breast deforms with milk ;
I'd like to kiss the very vision of this act !
Or was it lick her asshole till she screams
and all domestic affairs kicked into place !
Come on be a pal and squeeze my balls ;
the left one for a girl cause it hurts best !
Make me think that all existence is the real
and really high-faluttin' crown of the universe .
But keep you thighs open and your mouth shut ;
the price for paradise is near a million bucks .
-69-
Well once again you get just what you want ;
and terribly precisely at the crack of purple dawn .
Categorically speaking it's possible to state
that women have a love affair with pure hate !
-70-
Translating genuine authentic life/experience
in English words approximating almost real
and really painful truly hard/knock situations
is what we might call a job of work for who
might make such goals his personal ambition ;
I for one admit I do not know a single one !
It's not it isn't easy anyone can scream .
And maybe one day poetry will be reduced to this ?
A heap of pinkish stones enlaced with sponge
and brains or blood or balls are all the same
after a short but one/way voyage in the grave ;
we all end up beginning never once again .
Yet were it possible to flee this self/same life
experience and feel alone like a sycamore leaf
converted to the heat/soft summer asphalt
where the four illuminated lettuce heads attract
an angry knot of inter/stellar visitors in their
low ages that is our children and the hot horse
chestnut trees in painful southern France...
such is the frame from within which I operate .
To get it straight a poet father self/imposed emigrant
from California loyalist and honest with respect
to money drugs and sex AND legendarily in love ;
An able tender entertainer vowed to truth !
Thus what essentially should be remembered .
Though if the heart is really in a state of tatters
and the chance of help a cup of salt poured down
the inhumid throat of a hopeless cage mortifying
penultimate song/bird masquerading as whale wing
why we indeed have fled that cog/wheel Karma .
But only for an instant only here in poem
might the mix of marvellous with maybe/soul
be consumated it's a final suite of honey/culling free
fall fully reciprocated animal endearing thrusts
with corresponding sounds of moo-sex punctuating
basic rhythms associated intimately with bliss
and though drugs some of them for some of we
sometimes have also orgiastic episodes visions
incredible responses to remarkable and often
otherwise forgotten actually primordial requests
and a thousand and one other forms of kind ...
they are taboo illegal dangerous ... irrevocable as love .
I'd say I'm very/tired . Yet I suffer less and less
and have started to miss nocturnal rituals to be
unciphered and decrypted in carnal delecto with You
who art the very cherry of my belly and a bowl
of rather spicy rice included with the saké and the bed ;
a dream a delire a drop in the controversial bucket .
And like Marie-Antoinette my collegues give the people
cake and celebrate their obscure names among themselves ,
and are no longer even capable of aping their greater dead ;
yet such superfluous considerations gather less pollen
than dust and their grammatical equivalents lose magic
gaining superficial parts of market voices be goDamned !
Impossible literally factually except in dream or drug
induced transformations or perhaps an afternoon going
into my girl's gratitude like I said it's all pink inside
though the light emanates from the currents of blood
and not the nervous system of the human eyes ...
for good sense alone can take us no further .
-71-
And we hear the hot rumors
in the early august afternoon
of prodigal babies being born
and the really personal parts of france
have grown thick and heavy and old
with cancer at least of the mind .
The country's never been so rich
and I'm dying from lack of employment ;
it seems every joy resembles every other
while sorrow is never so real
as when it happens in absolute solitary .
Though the modern fathers are dispersed
and I don't just mean across the earth
but in the dirt and rock garden of their own
local versions of the palatable pink secrets
of an entirely original human anatomy !
-72-
I've beaten back the barbarians once more
but the real enemy is still within my land .
I was born to be a king but abdicated early ,
but destiny is stronger than mere man made decisions
and my own return though preciously semi/secret
is immenant though I await again October .
I cannot see the roots
I've got to be a man
I've never seen my son
and rarely been back home .
A man would need wings a guardian angel
and a string of opals around his waist
and his girl with her iowa wheatfield ;
the aleph/tav of all his wretched love !
sayed & donne !
**************************************************************************************
llorenzo gusto - the errors of the situation : october 2010
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