28 September 2011

This morning, in the rain, your death pulled my sinus dry though no tears to shed as a slow mourning dries the emotion of loss - evaporating - it just crumbles... dust to collect against the empty memories left unswept. My most detailed memory of you is when I was six; a background to times deemed banal. You have diminished like your mind wrung dry, a prelude to my inevitable demise. But isn't it always about the self - truly detached from an earlier generation the unmoored roots of aging.

The beach [an homage to Pound's Lygdamus] (06.08.2011)

We all saw you, Lygdamus,
eying the plebeians, regardless of age,
from your smug expression atop the life guard seat,
neglecting your duties,
oblivious to those thrashing bodies becoming stiff with panic.

I, too, must confess:
my gaze did waver
over the ample busts of Venus' daughters
in two tone bikinis and stomachs
Praxiteles spent a lifetime attempting to chisel.

Though Polemarchus was unimpressed
after all he said:
"It is the hidden allure which pulls me",
as he proceeded to wade into the bitter lake with his sandals and heavy formal toga.

Though not at gymnasium, I nonetheless found myself shirtless
with Apollo's envy darkening my skin
- though the foul balm kept it
from becoming the color of contempt.

Lygdamus, who are you to give us the evil eye, as our desires were left covered over in privacy? Though that placid red head, with skin to make any marble cutter weep, which had made herself a sandy couch, tiny lyres up to her ears, was indeed unescorted, but we felt she may have been enjoying her singular solitude among the chaos rivaling the agora.

Because even you, Lygdamus, must agree, no matter what might have transpired, we would have left at some point with desires unfulfilled. We just decided to enjoy the catchable discus and our own company - an isolated coterie among others, just enjoying the heat from Hades' door left open by Persephone's hurried departure.

Equinox (06.07.2011)

Thus, summer is coming to make up 

as it seems for the late spring;

waves of cold dissipate into naked heat:

The expectations laid at your feet,
bright, warm Equinox, so fully and jealously wrestled us from your equally envious twin!

As all moments, unwrapped
complacency turns your balmy flesh bitter. 

Should expectations be personified? 

That fickle flirt.

Anticipation with no meaningful end;
a drunken lap dance, unfulfilled on both accounts: too sated on one extreme and at the threshold of arousal on the other - not that a complete transaction would somehow be satisfactory, as it would merely displace desire - filling up one hole to expose another.

Echoing states

The states we ride
The roles we play
Which mode we inhabit
The intensities we loose thought over
The action that still hangs echoing in the mind

Need another note book

Gleaming
Trite tirade
Glistens
Gossamer beads of insight
String distant sprouts
Of meaning

And like the breaking sun
Sober clouds of afterthought
On winds of cold reason
Spread
A broad chasm
Between what was once
One congruent continent of meaning

Incantation under a bland tirade

What subsumes you
That drive that consumes you
The urge that pulls you through
Caverns of intensity

The dislinking of continuous moment:
"Take an experience; find that intense moment and set its magnitude of intensity equinumerous the natural numbers. Isn't this what we have done with the refinement of input flows. We have purified instant consumptive gratification (this includes 'Media', mind you); it is not exactly like refined chemical euphoria, but it sure keeps us digging."

Obscuration; Codex De Dei

How these everyday obscurations answer all necessary questions!
It is the dumb mute that spits tense litanies of insight into our wax ridden ears.

Find me a word

1.
Find me a word
To start the sound
Of all placed before me;

An incantation to bind,
My words,

My breath,

My intent.

Give me an image
To still the storms of

Wandering eyes,
Something to keep me rapt.

2.
Ideas pile up, become obdurate,
Half formed like a lame mule.
I have progeny of halfwits and retards.

Everything is a mirroring projection,
A continuum migrating through action
(Half-formed life, six years dead and calcified).

Even inaction acts.
Dumb, the mounded work falls,
The pot boils itself out.

3.
"Gotta' pinch the sore jus' to heal."

A chorus gathers volumes at the edges of thought:
Radiators ticking, expanding metal,
Snow plows scrapping temporary clearings,
And the freight train is like dumb oboes on different pages.

The road dusts over,
Congealing where the coarse salt thins;
Banality overtakes the novelty of now.

"Lettin' it all pile up - just as ti'rin' as havin' to always clean up."

"Do you really take the time to try? 'Cause if you do, then I don't know where you're taking it, but 'It ain't helpin'."

"I mean: goddamn it; get out of yourself! Here put this on... "

4.
The house is gathering heaped up energies:
Loose threads,
Actions 

Laid along paths of dwelling.

Isles piled high:
Deposits of a stratified,
Stubborn life,

Living in piles.

Disorder is always easier... at first.

(Fall: 2011?)

Synecdoche

Slowly, we slip, spiraling into ourselves, holding onto irrelevant lives, merging into something other. But only for those caught ungrounded with existence bittering.

What narrative is wrappped around a bland life?

What is shut out?

Are we not just slowly building rooms of our consciousness, cardboard cut-outs which people chipboard sets, invisible cities closing up to build the world within?

A world constructed from within: not a world within a world, but a growing shell encompassing the warehouse that is encompassed by larger warehouses.

Repetitious repeating and other badly thought thoughts

Years built to extinguish overlap into oblivion.

I sit blank, reflecting the loss of all I imagined; life emptying out of an ossified childhood. 

"And how we repeat moments of our lives the same conversations!"

There are various flavors of silence, various stages of collapsing or expanding.

We all have our own suffering to deal with.

(and what right do each of us have to speak for the world?)

Re: Ezra Pound

Ezra lb., Catullan Cornelius, though not un-terse have taken up,
      Ye, roll'd up entire pasts of epic song and medieval parchment,
      Ignorantly xeroxed with low toner cartridges.

As a Delphian supplicant you scrawl on amphorae sherds:

      "Will it blend"?

And strap'ed with the Mycenaean Deth-mask,
      commenced feeding the greedy goblet
      while your veiled face cuts a deep hull of platitude,
      teeth gleam slaved oarsmen-like seething.

Whose funeral pyre dost thou decant this condensed libation?
A schizophrenic that instigates
      as audacious a palimpsest as Archimedes,
      though more thorough?

And not just any Tai Chi paranoid
      but one that shall weave conspiracies
      packed as smuggled Chinese in Evergreen shipping containers
      onto the back of business
            "No Postage Necessary If Sent in the U.S."
      mail with various colors of brilliant ink
      that verily decry the Morrisian Codex.

Fleet-footed, this Mercurial messenger drops each song off
      in his trench-cloaked informant's garbage can
      to be picked up by a shifty-eyed park janitor
      pushing a cart full of cleaning supplies
      whose beige jumpsuite is torn by the escaped
      Danielovitch: 'The Chin-o-clops'.

El lb., is this not like reading Das Undbild
      where the Loeb Library of stilted G.P. Goold revisions
      were used as crude ore,
      where the meaning comes from
      the placement of pattern lengths of taped portions,
      not the black and tan words meeting 1/2 way?

Or is it a stenograph from across the hall where multitudes ovate
      the finale of the William's Mix with 2 fingers of Gin?

      Scorn my stammerings!?

      You spudian Virgil with a fascist smock,
      Persona non grata on your Lavine shores
      for the sake of betting it all on Camicie Nere.
      But the roulette ball is always weighted red.

Though one ought with a befitting esteem ring the objection gavel towards the following:
            "I have Cyrus-like toppled your Croesian 'Monumental
            Mudbrick Structure' with this litany!",
      would bring my wax wings frighteningly close to
      The Heliocentric Worlds of Ra. (Vol. 1 & 2)