Topology

She was there

Always already there.

She being the edge of space-time,

Her essence unfolding inescapable limits: structure

Ceaselessly renewed in disclosing-hiding at

Speeds faster than light, once thought asymptotic

Her face self-articulates

Quick flashes constituting fleeting liminalities of continuous flux

Always already polypositioned, always already nonlocally located

For her plurality of place playfully unified

By curving interweaving sections enter regulating centers

From which radiates in fleeting succession all colors, of the earth and of the Heavens.

Gravity-selected centers become faces and, then, only later

Objects,

With carbon residue always absorbed into

Hypergeometrical manifold of intersecting curvature

Where bright primitive rhythms stir thick consistency into

Vibrating infinitesimal grid-pulse horizon. 

Here objects born of pregnant imbalances

between spontaneous zones of objectsperm.

And naught exists save in the midst of tumble

As micro-clusters of klutzy ions electro-exchanging cosmic information in

Singularity radiating ambient eternity,

Inhabited by the angels.

Witness the City of God, but do not look long on the light.

For it, too, is already becoming illusion
When not allowed to disappear into night.

March 11, 2014

There is at first a great reaching motion with a claw at the end of it.

It grasps and grasps, itself a way of grasping, itself a way of grasping something.

There is a weight, there is a wait, there is a waist wasting time away in

carbon self-consuming body.

This weight nestled in claustrophobic chest clutching;

heart decides oxygen won’t be delivered tonight; eyelid signaling, diaphragm drops dead still, viscera wondering, waiting, weighting, reassembling, body drawn

into mass, falls into energy,
turns away from light.

Sleep

Truth is a beast who loves her slumber

She falls into hibernation for vast stretches of time—

a powerful hibernation resistant to all but

the most potent and risky endeavors

to lure her from her deep sleep,

her most beautiful dream.

For we humans are like the dawn:

jealous of Truth’s beautiful dreams and

eager to wake her so that she may speak to us about them.

But what are words to a dream, a vision, an ecstasy?

Truth rises from her sleep

not without a grumpy disposition,

and is often not so quick to relate her dreams

as to roll back over and resume them.

We seek to make an offering and

succeed in reminding Truth of her dreams only

when we finally utter

our innermost thought:

and all thinkers spend their entire lives in search of their one thought.

But in regard to sleep,

we must keep in mind

there are many different ways to sleep,

and vast stretches of time can occur within finite magnitudes.

Take the case of music:

When music becomes for you an act of spontaneity

and not some thing that you can purchase,

or, for that matter, consume,

then you will understand my meaning when I say:

let the rhythm get the best of you.

Stomach

Some days gravity has the advantage

Resisting every movement, pulled

Down by nothing at all,

smoggy air thick with lies

In whose wake truth cowers and

Flees.
For truth stands trembling in the face
of even the most impotent fiction. 

And humbly I try to open my eyes

in light of the sun.

Some days my stomach, that father of gloom,

Digests everything with light feet

And all movement flows like a 

Record vinyl whose grooves

are never transgressed by the

harsh sound of a renegade needle.
For truth still stands trembling in the face
of even the most impotent fiction.

And humbly I try to open my eyes 

in light of the sun. 

Geometry

Time comes back to me

Opens up, talks about being free

From points and lines,

curves, circles 

all trying to settle into the right dimension. 

A point traverses from first to second 

only at the loss of itself, subsumed in description

A line finds itself most comfortable

in the first dimension, where

breadth has not yet made its unwieldy demands. 

But even lines seek their own source

and so become circles. 

The third dimension is where a circle

graduates to sphericality and 

becomes a child's favorite plaything 

Only later to be demoted,

rejected by the same child

When he learns how to calculate 

the area of a circle in math class.

Yes, geometry, that monolithic creator-destroyer,

has shown me its dual powers

To make real and make unreal

The ingredients of a world, 

its possibilities and its rules. 

let's ride

I remember reality opening up to me, as we closed in together. Time circulated through the closed circuit our bodies made there, lying in the grass under the stars, and we became infinite.


Where else would you like to go, but here where everything lives and dies in unison? Do you want to peak in on the place where all flows together, and so feel in your heart the burning of your own transgression against immortality?

Your presence has made the presence of absence burn so much. Now I'm escaping with drugs; I don't know how to handle this...I've never been happier or more miserable at the same time.

I once again prove myself to be the fool...the dunce. Just a fool on the hill mhhhmm see the sun going down mmhhhmmm


Go, then, go in search of the Fountain of Youth; proclaim at the top of your lungs when you find it. You have heard none before you cry out in joy of its capture; and you will hear none in the future. You will hear only the echoing in your own mind. The Fountain of Youth is precisely that which causes your bones to whither and return to dust. You can only search for what you will never find. Do not fear your death because it is a return, you will always return.

It's that presence of your absence that burns in me; these are the sour waters I sip from the Fountain....I'm never alone in the dark, my mind fractures into a million characters. I let my mind run rampant in a game of russian roulette, and the devil on my shoulder wins the tables. Let's go, go, go. Let's boogie-woogie to the midnight schizoid show. Best seat in the house, because it's behind your eyeballs? "What's going on behind there?" She asks. Does she want to know? I'm slow to open up because I don't want to know if I'm actually insane.

It doesn't matter. I know if I sacrifice anything it is in the name of what I am searching for, and what I create will reflect the blood and toil I go through to create it. It will only be more human, the more I suffer and the more I overcome into the horizon of joy. The light is distant but so warm, enveloping even in its spatiotemporal separation. My thoughts could fly around the world to you. I hope you shift in your chair, or your nose wrinkles when you get these. Our third eyes have touched.

Some voice says: she should be careful what she wishes for...

She is decoding me; she will expose me. My nervous system is already unravelling. There is the girl with the multiple arms and the chameleon appeal, so multifaceted as to be a rubik's cube; I crawl through all the squares as the colors flash and glow and change; the never-ending puzzle. She is the fourth dimension, and I want to keep going further into the halls of her consciousness. it is like an escape, from my own mind into someone else's. A window into the Other. A fade into nothingness, a becoming-in-itself. I want to go there, and explore more. I need to feel the pulse...let's conjoin for a moment and escape into each other's minds...

She's become a myth in my mind. Some icon, distant, out there...what even happened? Where have *I* been the past two weeks. What has happened? Chronic delirium eating away at stability. The carpet has been pulled out from underneath me enough times. Maybe that's why I'm a 'philosopher' -- i'm always tripping over reality.

A new, wretchedly pathetic boy crawls out of my skin. He smirks at me in the mirror and I look away, ashamed. I have been exposed, I'm a big phony. I reject phonies! I reject even myself. Look at this: what role will you occupy here? Along what parameters need you act to assert this or that reality? Reality-check: Lauren--I need you to be mine. And, yet, what ROLE must I adopt to do this? I'm an actor on a stage without a script, and you stand lifeless until I deliver the right line. But I need you to know, I'm a boy playing this role; dance forever with the dunce-eternal.

Snake Charmer and the Muse-on-a-stick

Man I wish I was never born

my muse hanging from a stick

noose around her neck

and the puppetmaster laughing

as he rocks his old-fashioned scale to and fro

The puppets jump and dance with

the displaced weight.

Man I wish I was never born

gravity compress my spine

squeeze my soul into a ball of fire

and I piss your flame,

O Devil,

O snake, the wisest of all

I step on your tail

and you hug me

suffocate and relieve me of explosive spring-spine

Catapult out of my skin...

Now I'm wrapped-trapped in spiraloid

snake-hug.

My muse hanging from a stick

Noose around her neck

Black hair reflecting moonlight

She never looked so pretty.