Anxious Concrete

I rise through the air in sleek metal-winged bird
Aviator, protect me from the ground
For I am not afraid of death,
only concrete.
And the bitter sting of blood in my eyes
Keeps me awake only long enough to check the kaput timepiece clinging to my wrist and ensure I'm still dead enough
to be alive.

I might disintegrate into thin air
That's okay
Tell them it's okay
Tell them he just wanted to leave teh world a better place than he found it
Tell his unborn son he loves him more than anything in the Kosmos
And bury his memory behind the dumpster where he used to get high
to learn about the meaning of Life.

Jake! I return to you in spirit
I can see now where you were going, always
And forgive me
for being confused -- I am just learning
A shiny new pawn in his first match
Against omniscient opponent.
I have more to learn from you, dear child,
than from all the aggregate words of Madmen that line the shelves of my study
Where Apollo and Dionysus grapple-hold my soul and drag me through the piteons of Paradox!

Ah, but Paradox, so very much our own human creation!
In Nature no Paradox,
only Motion
Re-Action remodeling
the Cosmic source
Continual and without pause
dynamic
And the 'I' inside
Stuck! --
in the static spiderweb models
synthesizing my understanding with objects around me,
my intellect like a receipt of my actions,
a builder of motionless model airplanes,
a driver of rearview mirrors.

My Father is Death and
Nature my Mother.
These parents, so opposed,
are the seeds of my triumphs and the vein of my suffering
Somewhere between the great white flash
of Father Death's beard
and the stones of crystal waters
is me, myself, my slice of reality so humbly allotted.

So protect me, o Aviator!
from the concrete below.
For I fear the harsh grit of your condemnation over
the cold unfeeling Death,
knowing that that Death
is an inextricable part
of my identity.

I thank the doe for allowing itself to fall in front of me.
I smile because...

Generation

The Baby Boomers gotta go
Gotta get out gotta get
Runnin.
Can’t stay here no more
On this planet there ain’t room for the both
of us.

Sometimes I withdraw
From the world which suckles my
fear like ravished (ravenous?) babe on supple breast.
So deep in thought
Not having thoughts
But living them
Swimming in the them
Entangling every inch becoming the introspective spiderweb

Room full of anarchists
black jackets cigarette smoke
all starin at the ground
tracin' checkerboard tiles with dilated pupils
feedin hungry retina,
dreamin their big dreams of
the revolution
but there’s no energy in the air left
for raised fists
only the sloth hum of beat down refrigerators
and the empty promises of jacked up car
salesmen.

So don’t blame me when they say,
“The Earth is no good”
Because sometimes I withdraw.

And the Baby Boomers gotta go
Gotta get out gotta get
Runnin.
Can’t stay here no more
On this planet there ain’t room for the both
of us.

death

I have gone to the realm where witches and wizards play
I have vexed eternal patterns and
stared godly figures into existence
I have painted the walls with my crimson hand
and shouted my existence from rooftops
where down below the peddlers pay’d not a glance

I have climbed mountains no one else has seen
I have gone beyond the orientation of the compass in my hand
Between north and south
And arrived exactly nowhere
And everywhere

And at the summit of my journeys, I proclaim:
“WHERE ARE YOU, DEATH?
HATH YOU NO HAND HERE
TO GRASP MINE AT THE TOP OF THIS CLIFF?
WHERE ARE YOUR LIPS, SO THAT I MAY TOUCH THEIR COLD ABSTRACTNESS!

AHA! YOU ARE BUT NOT REAL!”

‘Nay, naïve fool!’ Father Death hath replied!
‘I am more real. You have fallen under the spell of Woman. Her flesh, that so near to yours, that you can take in your hands, that too thrives on air, water and the elements…that is but the illusion presented. Your sensual desires have overtaken you! You are weak!’

“What matter you, Death, if you cannot touch me, here, on my hand? Why shall I not take the hand of a mistress, the flesh so real and warm?”

‘I touch your life eternal! No mere proportion of time and space can withhold me. The eternal power you seek lieth with me. The liquid of my essence rusheth forth to fill the cracks of your fractured soul!’

“No! I am at the mercy of no Death!”

‘Then at the mercy of a Woman? Ha! A more pithy and pathetic existence I cannot conceive! Take your choice, wretched mortal!’

“God! Why hath you forsaken me?”

‘My son,’ Father Death replied, ‘or hath ye yet forgotten,
the price or an evening with Maya
is a lifetime on the moon?’

Blue Heron

I fall from the fear of heights

and plummet

where your wings cannot reach.

Surya had bathed my flesh with his sustaining gaze
and all the cosmos had reached out its hand to touch my heart.
But a line of bottles, green and red
does not dissuade the darkness descending
and soon miraculous colors submit to grey

Over the past few months I’ve witnessed
Life blooming in
A reservoir once devoid.

Systematically I have seen
Green overtake monochrome
And flourish
where water gives way to flora
and life celebrates itself.

Out come the birds,
The ducks, the swans, the pigeons.
The majestic
blue heron: Matriarch of the birds
heart beating, central harmony

Life prevails where it can!

And yet overhead in fractal asymmetry
Swirls the Vulture
intimidator; He is not drawn to life but death.
black-crimson eater of dead flesh.
Worshipper of putrefaction
he thrives on rot and
feeds on decay

And I?
The Vulture among men.
Feeding on the death of moments, never inhabiting them I
flourish in the rot of neglect
and dance with mummified viscera.
An empty well with no water;
The children have been abandoned and there are
no coins left to shimmer with the gentle sparkle of wishes
once magical
but now forgotten.

Charles

his Mother is never heard from, save for some hollers from downstairs to check if Charles is okay with all the interviewers and the commotion.

Art ecstasy God

God is manifest viscerally. There is no logic in God because God encapsulates all things; there's no distinctions in God between good and evil. God is beyond mere good and evil. You know God because you've felt Him, in the experience of immediate art..the ecstasies that are available to the human form; the smell, taste, touch, "the feel of bodies in motion." God in art. You cannot grab art, it grabs onto you. Our only experience of it is mediated through the body, through the mechanisms of sense perception. It is further mediated when recorded onto an external medium...painting, film, We can only reach out and touch bodies but like invisible electric currents we know we are dancing through infinity...

Every person is becoming. A historical process, not an immutable self. The Self as continuous is illusory. In truth the self is created in every moment. Feel your Self at the vanguard of creation -- the Ego emerges in every new moment processed, and contains all previous moments. Art--creation of the self into a medium in which it can be expressed--

Dance is the ultimate experience of art...it is humans creating themselves in every moment, every second, realigning their bodymap to the cosmic groove channeled, creating the self with the entire body, the feeling of time and space condensing, navigating the road ahead of you without the rearview mirror. Disappear into your Self and erase it--find your God.

all these things which you cannot grab onto...they grab onto you.

You cannot grasp God...he grasps you.

Ignoring immediatism leads to self-alienation, chronic self-delusion.. Look around and see, the self is hiding from us. A proletariat that does not know what it means to be human, a blind and complete acceptance of the authoritarian theft of SPIRITUAL AUTONOMY... Conventionalize into nothingness. . . Prometheus committed a treachery of the most infernal kind when delivering fire to humans... we no longer know how to dance with the gods.

The man and the bee

A 30-year-old man approached me.
I ran away from him, screaming.
Later I explained it was a bee
encircling the man's head that had sent me aflight.

But I don't think he bought that.

Cathedral of Silence

I am an eavesdropper
Words taboo to these ears -- not meant for me
But I scoop them up greedily, without discrimination
like a jellyfish
a floating observer
information junkie

There's a transparent wall touching
the tip of my nose
I heave myself and feel
the daed weight of water fill
my lungs

I am silenced

A cathedral of echoing silence
--footstep footstep footstep--
Is anyone in the bell tower? --

who will ring the bell? that empty
sound to call the practitioners
but no one comes...

The priests have hung up their robes
and the masses burn shit in the streets
up in smoke it is written:
SPIRITUAL AUTONOMY

"there is a revolt out there!" a voice rings
through the cathedral of silence.
its echoes fall into the cracks of
the architects secrets
and no one hears--

Outside there is a fire
inside, a perpetual process

Where have all the priests gone?

The Self

May 11, 2009
Tryptamines

This is not stuff to be taken lightly. At first it enlightens your perspective and promotes self-discovery. But its continued dialogue begins to untie your mind and dig away at the self.

From the ground up everything is gradually knocked away and imploded until you're afraid to look down -- you know you'll see the ground falling away with every step and nothing below !!VOID!!

The "light of God" extends only insofar as the Self permeates the void... it is an illusion.


Frequent trips into the psyche rub out Maya's warmth -- a voice shouting "Kyle is schizo! -- Hey Kage o' Rage!"

No! Rage is dead
there is inner contentment

"or are you just falling" ??

Checkerboard floor and beings with ballon heads
--why do the gods act like children??

Most people could not handle this but I've taken it on

Just erase yourself!
Just erase yourself!

It's not practical -- I've taken this on but the battle can only rage in the drome of my self. Within the jurisdiction of my Self there is a boundlessness...

Autonomy means nothing unless it is challenged. Do not shy away from it.

I come back to this: every person is becoming. A historical process, not an immutable self. The Self as continuous is illusory. In truth the self is created in every moment. Feel your Self at the vanguard of creation -- the Ego emerges in every new moment processed, and contains all previous moments.

IMMEDIATISM -- create the self with your whole body

ART - experience the self created by your body within every moment

philosophy - it is most immediate in a continual creation of the self by action, movement-- to bridge gaps between abstraction and sensation equals --

HUMOR moves, like a bridge over !!VOID!!
Philosophy by humiliation. . . . In the land of the jesters the Dunce is king.