WHERE ARE THE RUDIMENTS

Where are the rudiments? We know that the apocalypse – wherein all parts collapse -- is inching closer and closer to the land of the sun kings. This will be a tragedy, when the forces of darkness collapse – killing hopes as they fall -- upon the beautiful people. The gap between here and there, between modernity and eternity, must be filled, as opposites ineluctably crash in to one another. Death is furious. Death is angry at the superficial and seeks to exact the great price, turning loose upon the earth all the troubled cadavers who take pleasure in a failing drama. We are not able to oppose this evil, this force; the falling darkness swallows up all light and the furious cadences inside the darkness begin to emancipate the horde element from its captivating guardians, assuring the monster energy of despair -- dead spears carried by midgets -- will become armed again with the fury of primordial force.

The rudiments begin in mud. The rudiments collect hair and blood and excrement -- eggs grow men, we remember from mythology -- and channel this detritus in to a formal function of solitary construction, tantamount to a tamed demented tool, a paltry god prefiguring hypnosis as a frequency inside of which creative affixation can begin.

Blood and crud and pieces of bladder; bone, sinew, laughter, horrible egoisms, tortures, cavernisms, crammed in to some arbitrary design, the cells, themselves, of this condensed matter, having freedom to build according to old blueprints in memory, and to innovate, within certain limits, in their version of the construction of the perfect beast.

Is this what is meant by hell, then? Death in June. A heavy footfall. A shot in the dark. Someone falls, wounded by change. What comes next? Where are the rude demons then, who are congregating on the edge of town? Contraction has begun. The God of Contraction stands above life shaking a fist and inaugurating mortality.

You must come to understand that you, yourself, are the Principle of Eternity.

6 May 2008

HE IS LOST – AND HE IS LOSING ALTITUDE

He is lost. He has been dealt a deadly blow. Someone has killed him. Castration has gored him. Time is lost. The deception is not enough to make him bold again. Air goes out. The bubble bursts. Sparks fly, but all in the wrong direction.

Where are the angels now? Why are the angels not looking for me, saying hello to the man of their dreams? Why is the world turning black again, blue with intrigue, sad, lonely, incapable of touch, incapable of humor?

Something falls. Many people ask about it. Many people have heard the sounds of the breaking glass, the inconsistency, the frozen sequence.: crystal knocked. A tributary is forced. What is the sequence of rebirth? What is the fantastic excruciation we remember? Now, today, retirement completed, I am nothing. I am entering the land of nothingness, without a home, without a place to exist. I must rejuvenate myself, and become the force of nature I have claimed to be, the ‘late-bloomer’ I have been pretending to be for so long.

How much of this is possible? How much strength can I gain in here, in this place of quiet exile, searching for my God, searching for the light of my soul. How can I gain a sense of a positive future again? How can I regain my strength? How can I pass through this darkness and rise again, toward my beliefs?

3 June 2008

ENRICHING THE PANDOMONIUM

Enriching the pandemonium. I hear you climb the stairs. There is a vacant presence in the air; and your climbing the stairs only makes this more apparent. Dreams evolve. That is an unexpected revelation, one unsupported by experts in the field.

Ambassadors of the equinoxes arrive. They appear to be the deliverers of the world; and, at least in one sense, they are. They bring balance back to the world. But what does this mean, balance?

The White Giants have fallen and the Black Giants have not come. But something has changed and the new-found reason (stipulation of some re-formation) will not necessarily enrich the pandemonium.

Remember: things transform into their opposites. This is the law.

The White Giant becomes the Black Giant. The Black Giant becomes the White Giant. It is not clear if guilt, alone, causes this. But guilt does play a role. Karma plays a role. The nature of Matter and Antimatter also play a role. But the nature of these two forms of Matter are driven by internal changes that come about because of an external factor: Saturn’s cutting off of Time and defeating the Sun Hero with his wound and condemnation – this starts the castrating act of the White Giant – and the fall of the world in to a deep depression.

The White Giant manufactures summer, wealth and all the other forms of life for which the Sun is responsible and notorious. The White Giant is soulless. The White Giant commits crimes because he understands will only, the rites of force, and the power inherent in an individual always getting what he wants.

The Black Giant has a very large soul and suffers unimaginable pain at the hands of the White Giant.

Of course, the White Giant and the Black Giant are the same principle separated in time. The White Giant expresses monumental self-love, which translates as self-hatred of his black side. The Black Giant has a similar experience. Self-love (the victimized principle) leads to the self-hate of the White God within.

As time unfolds, the Black Giant becomes less black and the White Giant becomes less white. They meet in the middle when they are ‘balanced’, to use an over-used phrase. Then the White Giant continues to darken and becomes the Black Giant; the Black Giant continues to lighten and becomes the White Giant.

The world is a giant paint mixer. Hell is eternal; Heaven is eternal. But the elements composing each is in constant change and circulation.

The Black Giant moves against Time, from 10 to 8 to 6 to 4 to 2 to 0.

The White Giant moves with Time, from 1 to 3 to 5 to 7 to 9.

Thus, each enriches the Pandemonium.

The Pandemonium is completed by them, even as they are both created by the Pandemonium, after the Pandemonium awakes from its sleep.

THE RICH ARE CURSED TO BE POOR

The rich are cursed to be poor – there is no other way I can see this. The rich are cursed. The history of theft and greed trumps all, for a term or two. No denial of this truth is allowed. Greed is a disease that rots all the better natures and fibers of a man’s soul and leads him down in to the dark, cold place below the ground, below the earth: that place where the shadows gloam and retard thought. Suzuki is a lost thought. Suzuki is a lost man in a lost continent in a lost invective. Nothing much good coming out of this, except the tri-athletic quest for a man capable of achieving the ability to disappear when the winds begin to blow.

Henry Paulson? Will he save Goldman-Sachs? Mister Bernanke? Will he prove to be as great an enemy to America as Greenspan proved to be? The white American Ruling Class is falling on its head, like an over-ripe apple in Eden. The last grasp at survival is to let the investment bankers raid the American Treasury one last and epic time. Oh, well – let them fall. Wall Street is doomed, as an idea. As an idea, Wall Street is heading into a Winter Season. That is all. The Sun Hero has been wounded. The force for order has been broken. This will be the end of something. The end. But also the beginning.

When the Sun Hero is resurrected, the world will also come back to prosperity.

But without the Sun Hero bringing his light in to the northern sphere, the Rich are cursed to be poor and to fight each other again.

And that’s what is meant by the ‘War In Heaven’.

The Bible, after all, is the history of this archetype, this pattern of Nature’s regular irregularity.

THERE IS NOTHING IN THIS SIMILE THAT WILL MAKE ME SMILE AGAIN

There is nothing in this simile that will make me smile again. Nothing in this crater of a heart that will make me hear more truth or less convenience. Trouble ascends from the dark place. That is where the monster lives, Leviathan, near to you, creator of the dark shell, the inconvenient truth. The participle place in the distance is a rude delivery of the messiah complex and an every ruder historical necessity for us to leave the close precincts of habitation and enclose ourselves in the habitual condition of unbelief.

We can grieve. We are allowed to grieve. We understand the tepid condition of our natures is now pushing against real resistance. Granite is in the air. Inescapable granite that pours into the room a force of 10,000 drums, forcing the two lovers apart, generating in them watery repulsion.

They have loved and endured and laughed for 20 years. But now financial emergency is breaking them into parts and forcing them to re-think the purpose of their existence.

Pluto? Pluto with the force of amazing dark-will, negative impulse.

The dead all gather near the fountain of loss, a sloping hill upon which are mounted heads on spears, mutilated former friends of self-expression. Where did they go wrong? Why did their lives go wrong? Was it something they did, something they didn’t do, something they thought, or just some influence of a star or a passing planet as a contagion?

DANGER IN THE FORECAST

There is danger in the forecast. People are expecting rain; and, suddenly, rain comes. It cannot be that everyone is a prophet today! There must be some other explanation!

I listen for it, this explanation. It must have something to do with the wind, or with disembodied players singing love songs to their living loves, their moving partners, hurrying away from the singers, away in fear from the ghosts inhabiting their archipelagoes.

I hear shouting in the trees, anger, lovers abandoned who are now shouting threats, implementing curses, forsaking beauties and dealing scathingly with broken dreams.

We must walk carefully now, in the city, since bodies fall regularly out of bank windows and off of stock exchange roofs. A dime falling 300 stories hitting a man on the head can split that head like a ripe melon – think when a 300-pound man who has lost his life-savings can do to a weakened soul slinking in a dark street of a nighttown, head uncovered, part exposed, cranium painted with an invisible eye of the bull.

There is danger in the forecast. A storm is coming. People are massing at the city gates demanding to be let out. But there is no where to go. Out in the countryside people starve and go mad. But there are threats being made to open the gates. A revolution is being promised, unless the gates are opened immediately.

Thunder means nothing today. Thunder and the crying of birds. Old women have all but stopped talking. I see dried blood on the streets each day, each morning, as I climb up the sidewalk toward the Mountain of Dreams, which is now all but deserted.

Snakes refuse to come in to town now. Young girls promise not to marry. And all the priests of the town are hiding in the tower, afraid that the authorities mean to blame them for the sad, sad demise of the spirit of the town.

Danger is in the forecast. More rain is certain. Something is contracting. Something in everyone’s skin, everyone’s gut. Money is gone, vanished, like dried rice powder, blown away like nothing. Those without families are nothing. Those with families are something; but acts of violence in the houses are reported every night.

I hear sirens, wolf-sirens, blowing every night. There is danger in the forecast. It is like a bad dream. I try to wake but the sirens suffocate my efforts.

WHERE DO THE DEAD GO WHEN IT’S TIME TO HIDE?

Where do the Dead go when it’s time to hide? We do not know. The horrible natures of despair can move in and out of the cadavered streets. Nothing stops them now. Crime is second-nature. Violence is a hereditary accord. Someone runs down the street and some others are chasing him.

Put yourself to sleep! Put yourself to sleep!

Fear gets you nothing but a stomach full of gas.

Can I see something wonderful again? Can I see something precious?

The horrible black cast is not really the same thing as the temperate condition of the nativity. And it is the nativity that I want. My plea for fealty goes unheard. My plea for calm is met by tornadoes. I am a joke in a place of worship.

I see that the Son God is persecuted by the Father God. This becomes a terrible burden on the soul. The racism of the Father God is a horrible threat, an hideous understanding.

Images of the hanging tree again creep into our minds.

The racist’s in the patriarch’s camp want to hang Obama because his skin is black.

The power of Hate grows; and the Sun’s illumination is weakening.

I want to run and hide. But where do I go? The father has killed me and kicked me out of my temporal heaven; and now I find myself a wounded lad with no place to go and with not much to claim for cover.

Where do the Dead go when it is time to hide? Do they go to Asia, to India, to France? Trouble comes, today, in all colors. All dogs are turned against all dogs.

Can I make myself invisible for a couple of years? Is that too much to ask? Is that too much to ask?

ABSTRACT THE FUTURE; AND THEN REAP THE CYCLONE

Abstract the future; and then reap the cyclone.

Is that what has happened here? Has there been an abstracting of the future?

I can look out on something. There is a window. There is a forecast of something special. A person who appears only at the darkest moment. This man’s name is Light; and he is the one who is coming, the one who has been here, the one who never leaves. The one. Who is this one who is coming. It is not BHO. It is MJC. There is m(a)j(i)c in this man. I know that there is a god inside of him. But he has lost contact with the god in some fashion, in some manner. And now he is trying to re-connect with the god who is his eternal principle.

Abstract the future; and then reap the cyclone.

Something is coming; and the world is turning blue again.

WHO IS HAVING THE VISION NOW?

Who is having the vision now? Who is the man who can peer into the black canister and see the future of China, Germany, Arabia, Rome?

Has Nostradamus left us now? Are we not able to see the world as it will be, through symbolic cadences, reaching back into the depth of Orion’s origin, Origen’s oral genesis, Oregon’s moral nemesis, seeing pain and death as manifestations of logic. Numbers spun into webs, for our own well-being?

And what does destiny do for us now? As we fear the fall of the Wall Straight Old Parr, and his subsequent internment in the land down under, we are reminded that the Sun builds empires and the Moon oversees the empire’s demise.

I love Jehovah. Jehovah is hidden in the Moon. Jehovah is the voice of prophets. Jehovah is the voice of the Spirit condemning man’s vanity and condemning man’s arrogance to become a god.

Jehovah is not my enemy. Jehovah is my temperament. Jehovah is my dream. I speak in Saturn’s voice.

The Sun believes in the unity of spirit.

The Moon believes in the separation of parts.

THE EXAGGERATION OF WATER

There is an exaggeration in water. Three is a duplicity in air. There is a contagion in fire, a vengeful contamination of the decent carnival. There is trouble in the frozen history of fire, from which all kinds of plagues ascended, mostly through the homage fire pays to absolute monarchs and killers of children. The harshest manifesto possible contaminates virtue at the very outset. The child must be sacrificed, because the world is for devils, for money, for power, for greed. You can argue that this is not the way it should be. No one will contest you in this. But what is good and what is bad have a way of dancing with one another, changing places, changing shoes, changing metaphors, exchanging bodily fluids, corrupting themselves and others, becoming their opposites and then becoming again the antithesis of these opposites.

Unity does not ask which side you are one. Unity embraces all sides and understand that the drama of life has only light and shade, has only misconception and conception to guide it. We understand nothing about the detailing here; we understand that the recompense of one surgeon is the sacrifice of the next. And this makes us hate ourselves a bit less, judge our fathers a bit less, scold our mothers and daughters a bit less.

Yes, the water is an exaggeration. But that is what gives it power. When the water exaggerates itself successfully, it gives birth to Nuah, the army of ravens and the army of doves. And this presents to our eye a picture of reality which triggers in us again a reason for our own existence.

A PAIN IN MY STOMACH

There is a pain in my stomach. What does this mean? I am not able to say exactly. But the furious nature of the question tells us all something. I don’t know if I am completing someone’s dream, or merely evoking fate’s missed management of the cipher. The void comes in, creating pain where there was no pain, creating death where the death was gone. Nothing survives. Nothing endures in the face of so much broken wax.

The moon is somewhere. The moon is annihilating notions of understanding. There is no understanding here, where the void lives. There is nothing here but a sense of rest, a sense of broken fame, fatality in the blue zone, broken myths, empty cadences. I am nothing here. I am less than nothing. I beseech the arbitrary scale here. I nourish my empty natures, promulgating the broken sequence – which is not really broken. Which appears to be broken. The rest is not available here. All the talking and the fancy frequencies, and the obliterating candy of emotion. Gone. Gone with the pain in the stomach. Gone with the body’s popping. The bubble pops – the isolated ego is hidden inside this distended bubble. When it pops, the Sun breaks down; the Moon Body takes over, water rising, destiny fragmented; Time stopped abruptly.

Is Saturn coming in again? Is Pluto breaking me down? Emptiness approaching. Death, or what? Loss of direction. The diameter is absorbed back into the circumference. The divided world becomes unified. Nothingness as somethingness. That’s why we are here? To sleep? To rest? To be lost again?

Where is the river that separates Heaven and Earth? I am searching for the river. The Ferryman is there, waiting for a coin, to cary me forward in my search. But I cannot find the river. I cannot find the river.

WHEN TIME HAS COME

When time has come for me to step away from the fountain and walk the long walk with Deacon Daemon down the terraced road toward Incognition – I pray that I will tread with head held high, having generated a comfortable life for my only wife, my only love and solace for my soul – my dear Hoa-Lan.

WHEN I LOOK OUT MY WINDOW

When I look out my window I no longer see the quiet movement of parts of the great circus moving in and out of time in a rhythm designed to produce peace in the world. Now the world has become dark and brusque. “Learn to fea God.” This is the message I have been sent as the day falls, and the night begins to gather in strength. And where is my strength? I have become old and rusted from too much dreaming and too much sitting. And the shadows have been growing, against my will and against my judgment. The shadows did not ask what I would like; they did not knock at my window and ask me if my desire was to have global greed capsize the boat we were all traveling in.

Destiny is a mean man, a vindictive woman, a child who does not care if the world be black or blue or red or green but only governed by invisible law. The invisible law of the aboriginal Australians. The child understands the burnt skin of the native, the horrible exactment of the sun calculating rude odds under the cover of imprecise devilment.

You will be safe, he said to me – the child with the skin of the native. You will be safe because you have the mark now, the mark of the chosen. We will take you to the gas chamber first. We will promise to be gentle.

20 November 2008

THE IMAGERY OF A BIRTH CRISIS RETURNS AGAIN AND AGAIN

The imagery of a birth crisis returns again and again. Perhaps something is hidden in a mysterious, rigid word: contraction. Rigid because it is so cold and brittle. Mysterious because it suggests one thing (the shrinking of somethingness into nothingness) and implies its opposite (the re-appearance of somethingness after it passes into nothingness, and then out again).

Cunt traction.

Yes, this is the story of the woman, the story of the Moon, the story of the cold Winter Night settling on a town; and of a town losing its vision of the future.

Madness? Surely. What is the Moon’s is also a form of crazy wisdom, a form of mad genius, a form irrational congnizance. Night swallows up the eyes and renders then useless. Why did Noah build an ark? Because he was going blind? No, of course not. But because the Moon, in the form of Jehovah, instructed him to do this.

Contractions start before the child is born. Contractions signal a great pain, a period of nightmare, a term of uncertainty, one in which Death hovers over the town with implicit emotional disregard. It is the woman, of course, who is pained by these contractions – but what we don’t realize at first is that, during the contraction phase, in the Moon Body, we are all women, all emotional creatures, floating in a boat on a sea of angry imagery. There are three moon bodies when the Night comes in, one for those picked to die in the low zones, the greedy and the violent zones; another for those picked to die in the high zones, those ticketed for Valhalla and for a new life amonth the angels; and the third body, the middle body, for the few who are chosen to survive the storm, to survive the heavy wind, the freezing natures, the explosive Wintery excavations, in the boat which contains all the pieces in totality: black and white together, man and woman in a unity, animal, vegetable, mineral and man.

The imagery fo a birth crisis returns again and again. I am the one who is dying here; and I am the one who is looking for rebirth. Perhaps I am Noah too. Perhaps the body that survives is the moon itself, the Soul, in which the Sacred Spirit takes refuges and hides from savagery.

PHOTOGRAPHS OF SINCLAIR

What is a photograph, anyway? No, I do not mean in the scientific sense.

THE MASTERS OF DECEIT

Who are these men from my father’s world? These master’s of deceit, with their heads shaved, and their suits from Italy, and their cars from Germany? Why are they here now, tramping on the stage before lights and cameras, trumpeting their knowledge of economic cycles and their brief judgments that all will be well once we empty out the public coffers to keep investment bankers from falling in the dust and cheating Chinese bankers and Saudi crypt-keepers from losing their shirts after promising these foreign lords that extortion is a practical form of immortality. It would be embarrassing…. Indeed!

It is embarrassing. You have laid the cupboards bare with manipulations designed to buy yourself another house, a larger car, a second or third yacht, more investment for the future. The world is a huge bird that flies and cries and you have murdered this bird and now you are hoping we will not notice this. But we have noticed. We are beginning to circle you; perhaps you have not noticed. We are circling you, trying to decide what kind of punishment is most appropriate for you for having turned our country into a garbage heap.

Objects vanish. That is the nature of objects. They appear; they are touched and explored; they vanish.

Shall we become a great civilization, or remain, as we are, the one who eats the world, the obese craver after minute flavors, obscene particles, goods, material venues, baskets of empty games, articles of motion, cadenzas of craft, calypsos of self-delusion? Shall we write great poetry, great history, great philosophy? Or shall we be trite consumers wanting only more dollars in our pockets, only more programs to watch on the tale of vision…the tale of visions lost? Shall we be real?

Objects vanish. We vanish. That is our nature. We appear; we are touched and explored; we weep and we articulate; we compose; we love; we calculate; we lament; we decompose; we rot; and then we vanish.

Let us be a great civilization. Let us have soul and gentle authority, and a great vision to make the world whole once again. If we fail, well, at least we can claim that we tried to achieve something great before we vanish.

20 November 2008

THE IMPRECISE CLAIMS TO VIRTUE CLUTTER THE HEAVENS

The imprecise claims to virtue clutter the heavens. We know that there is hot air up there. We know that the virtuous are gathering their claims and they are hiring lawyers from the church who will make impassioned pleas at the beginning of Armageddon. Or at the end of Armageddon. Some will be judged early; and some will be judged later. Guillotines will be discussed again. Some will urge their use, their ascendancy as moral figments in the unending battle for virtue. Others will argue that a slug in the jaw does not justify a bullet in the brain. But there is disagreement about that.

Ultimately, the forces of violence last only until the democracy is established. Then balance comes in to the form of the society. And daily life comes back again; personal life. Politics leads to hell and back. Demons stand on both sides, ready to kill for ideology. Both sides are wrong. Both sides are short-sided. Both sides commit crimes. Both sides abuse authority and commit sins against decency. Both sides suffocate someone, ether the rich or the poor. So you pick your sides with an understanding that nothing is perfect or even real, in an absolute sense; and you will come back to oppose yourself, for ever and ever, until you reach an understanding that the Grand Illusion is but God’s play, designed for someone’s entertainment, but not for the peace of mind of decent humans, nor for rest, nor for philosophical clairvoyance.

God’s play has been written by Nature, and is a law handed down by Earth’s own primate condition. Four arms of God turning like a threshing machine. Sometimes this machine plants; sometimes it harvests. This mechanism disturbs the Earth; but, also, this mechanism guides the Earth. Some call this mechanism the Guardian Angels. And some call this mechanism the Wheel of Incarnation.

We ride this wheel into heaven and, then, back to the earth. At some point, we want to get off this wheel. This wheel carries us from continent to continent, east to west, north to south. This wheel is us and is not us. This wheel is a carnival ride; but it is more, and less, of this. The wheel is the vehicle which carries us to and fro, into sin and back toward virtue again, onto earth, into water, purified by fire, cleansed again by air. Plasma, gas, liquid, solid. Solid, liquid, gas, plasma. Back and forth: addition; subtraction. We put on skins, expanding our bodies. Then we take off skins, and expand our inner cultures. As spirit shrinks, matter grows; and as matter shrinks, spirit grows.

We can never know what Truth is, in an eternal sense. We can know at best our perspective. Saturn turns us out, and turns us back in again, out and in. Every twenty-eight years we change: one wheel leads to empire; the next wheel leads to empyre. We rise and fall like stars imposing gravity on Time, stars imposing anti-gravity upon Time’s celestial mirror of construction.

21 November 2008

THE CHLORINE GRAVE

The chlorine grave erupts. Time vanishes. A purple air impales children with songs about death and collapse and intricate betrayals. The home life is gone. The future turns black, like smoke, and then vanishes too. Banks close their doors. Fathers hang themselves when their wives look for dandelion stems beyond the park, seeking a dinner for children from the remainder of someone’s dreams, dislocated from Time by someone’s intent to rob every last breath from the old women on Crane Street.

Chlorine does not provide us with hope, someone shouts. Bring the chlorine; pass it out.

Chlorine does not provide us with sustenance. Everyone take a drink of this magical potion.

The chlorine grave lies before us now, unopened. Arrogance has been thrown in here also; military hedonism; pride; national imperative. Someone is blaming the immigrants. There is an order being circulated that all mirrors are to be broken by Saturday. Typewriters are impounded. Foreign bank accounts are protected by the government. But citizens can only deposit money in banks. And to kill a banker will result in the highest of punishments: no chocolate for each family branch for seven generations.

The chlorine grave erupts. Melodrama, only, can save us now. Hollywood pours out flashy pablum for the public to eat, night by night. Stars walk in rapturous glory, while foolish idolizers forget their own tragic names and believe their personal failures are insignificant, compared to chlorine being served to them by the stars of stage and screen. Oprah thrives.

Keep them smiling. Keep them dreaming.

Signs begin to appear around the compound: “Those who don’t smile will be forced to read poetry written in the seventeenth century all night long until overexposure to obscure sounds renders them incapable of continuing to frown.”

That is enough to drive the masses to ask for bottles of chlorine. Chlorine makes one smile.

The chlorine grave erupts. It is good to die. The earth is open. What is the point of being bitter about being deceived and rendered futureless and scolded by Fortune? What is the point of being bitter?

Give me a nickel and I will climb down in to that chlorine grave.

People make mistakes. What is a man to do?

Give me a nickel and I will climb down in to that chlorine grave.

Admonish me if you must. I have made mistakes. I have not taken care of all the details of historical necessity. Money has triumphed over me – there, I have confessed it!

Give me a nickel; give me a dime.

Time is an unlucky authority.

There is a carnival coming to town next millennium.

If I am lucky I will catch the freight train passing south and meet the carnival before it arrives in our town. I will paint my face jet black so no one recognizes the new man who walks upon the tightrope seven miles above the earth with no netting below to protect him.

23 November 2008

PRECARIOUS BREATH IN THE BRAIN

Precarious breath in the brain rises up like candle smoke. A wisp. A very small condition of movement. The brain is experiencing pain, no doubt. The brain is calling out for assistance. Why is this so? The abstraction of the residual momentum which life (the wind of life) blew into the brain (all kinds of desires and fantasies of conquest, wealth, power, expanding opportunities) is waning into detachment from the object of felicity toward the subject of death, toward the subject of demise.

Precious breath in the brain spins and spurns and sparks and sputters. The future vanishes in a heart-beat. The past rises up like a dream cinema, first as an accusation; secondly, as a much preferred (less complexly-corrupted) option of steady truth, wholesome humanism, compared with the plastic, grasping world we’ve created.

How does this happen? Why?

The expansion of the dream was so majestic, so complete, including all the struggling atoms of the world. Everyone was getting rich. Well, at least that was the feeling. Everything was possible.

Then, suddenly, a rock hit the sea-captain’s windshield. The ship veered off path. Someone stumbled in the tower. Do not look! someone called. If we don’t see the fallen captain, there in his sea-craft, shriveled up like a crumpet, then we won’t have to believe it!

Was the collision actually the planes hitting the Twin Towers? Sound travels much slower than light. We all know this.

The world popped long ago and we are only hearing about it now? Is that possible?

The brain creates figments – that is what it does. What are figments? Fictions in fragments. Lies, which the brain then conspires to represent as truths. The American Dream is that everyone owns his own house. That is not the American Dream – but that is a figment that the brain has tried to create, proving that the American Dream is being attained.

The American Dream is about much more than helping the bank to own a house.

But we hear half-truths and we believe them..

The brain is breathing uneasy now. Too many lies – and too much time spent in self-judgment, in shame, in a sense of failure, has made the brain begin to hate itself. Failure is not a kind thing. Failure is the way we view the world viewing us, using our own words.

Loser. Failure. He aint got a pot to piss in.

The world is pissing over a cliff today. Many failures are lining up to piss over the cliff. There will be a lake below when all the failures have finished their pissing.

24 November 2008

DERANGED PERSPECTIVE OF THE MOON’S DIALECT

Deranged perspective of the Moon’s dialect. A fist of unsubtle moods descends on me. The oceans, in which the horrors move, rise and fall, calculate and correlate, rises in me too. Spring Tides; Neap Tides. Rise up and sink down below the surface, leaving ghosts and corpses and scattered memories on the shore, uncovered by the troubled light of the reflected embassy.

What does this mean to me? Ghosts and demons and dragons of light. Psychologically vast. Psychologically cruel.

But what rises up in me when my heart becomes elegiac?

The Day Body has no need of the Moon and its mores. The Day Body is all muscle and all hope and all sense of potential. It has four parts. It is a square. It is as solid as Greek Logic. Nothing threatens it. Nothing defeats it in combat. It is heroic. It manifest the king. The Day Body breeds children and makes the women idealize its robust virtues.

But the Day Body pops eventually. The clock expires; the alarm goes off. The Sun disappears – and psychic expansion disappears.

The Moon comes in.

When the Moon comes in, the contraction has already begun. The universe has begun to fall in on itself, as matter decomposes, losing its coherency. Sunlight organizes matter – and expands matter. As matter collapses, the more subtle bodies are exposed. The inner bodies. The Moon Bodies, which fill with water and then unfill with water.

The Moon nourishes the inner bodies; and it also re-creates the seed within. The seed is buried in the deepest soul, the primitive and primordial nature, at its ultimate origin. The Source. The stream of life. The pool inside.

It is water that gives life; but it is also creates madness.

Up the mountain, down the mountain; the push and pull of the tides. Prince on one side; anti-prince on the other side. Imagery as ripe as myth.

What comes when the fire in the belly is lit in Sagittarius?

Is that the Sun-Child in the belly of the dragon down below? Burning at a low heat, surrounded by waves, surrounded by darkness?

25 November 2008

WHAT IS THE MOON SAYING NOW

What is the Moon saying now, as it begins to crawl out of hiding, becoming a scythe pointing toward the West? The Moon is not a friendly felon, peering down with an arm of steel, looking for victims, looking for gratuities.

The Moon speaks Arabic at these moments of frail illumination. Heralds ‘traditional’ culture, which despises women and kills women for sins against the almighty prerogative.

The Moon is a seismic gargantuan thing, casting spells down on the Earth, hurling insults at man, generating glandular discomforts, sucking air from the bubbles men create out of imagination.

Who is swinging the scythe which the Moon has now become?

It is the anniversary of Darkness coming back around again, he said. The Darkness is your friend. Do not forget this. Oh, yes – the Darkness is the enemy of physical expansion, financial extension, and political empire. But the Darkness is the friend of metaphysical expansion, artistic extension and social ambitions for justice and the sharing of wealth.

Darkness is no friend of business and engineering, he said.

Darkness is a friend to the poet, the painter, the musician, and the composer.

Watch the Moon carefully as it grows, changes, swells with child. It is re-building the world slowly, brick by brick, plant by plant, lake by lake, incipient hero by incipient anti-hero.

But remember: fear of God is now an appropriate emotion to be experiencing.

3 December 2008

TAMMUZ CRIED

Tammuz cried. The whole world cried with him.

Horrible incentives were thrown away with him; cities vanished; populations dried up; crops disappeared; animals performed ritual suicide; plants succumbed to despair.

Why was this so?

Because the young Sun God was murdered.

Tammuz cried. He cried out that he was being killed, murdered with deception.

Witnesses tried to warn him.

The old woman in question stabbed him in the back when he was preparing his place in the highest heaven, thinking he might rest, write his memoirs, experience his golden years.

But the old crone, an agent of Satan no doubt, snuck into the garden and snuffed out the flame.

Tammuz cried. Tammuz had a sister, Ishtar, who also cried.

Tammuz had a wife, Ishtar, who also cried.

Tammuz fell. He fell into doubt and fear and the loss of masculine self-sufficiency.

Then, almost immediately, the whole world fell with him. And the high sky of expansion and hope and power and wealth was wiped out with a broad stroke of defeat.

Markets collapsed. Banks panicked. Credit was lost. Commodities sank.

Countries prepared for civil war.

The Sun was gone. The Moon was somewhere; but the Sun was gone.

Sterility and war and poverty had been born.

Tammuz cried. Ishtar follow him down into hell, hoping she could save the world from its black cycle if only she could resurrect him in time.

But the cycle is precise.

Tammuz spends half a year with the kings and the queens, and the beautiful people, and the bourgeoisie, defending their prerogative and the fertility of life. And he spends half a year with the hopeless and the poor and the wounded and the unfortunate. And when Tammuz is down-under, with the unfortunate, nothing grows, businesses fail, money stops, contraction rules.

Tammuz has died. He will come again some day. He will come back again, to be re-born, in the dawn.

Tammuz will be re-born when I am re-born.

I am Tammuz.

And I am also Ishtar.

The Law is immutable.

9 December 2008

ARE WE BROKEN YET?

Are we broken yet? Have the hammers all been used; and has the glue all been hidden? Have the architects all been executed? And have the builders all been sent to the Eastern Front?

Smash us again! We are not broken enough!

Have the bankers smashed us yet! Have the lawyers smashed us again! Have the politicians smashed in our brains!

Who are we? We are nothing but the ants of history – nickel and dime – to their grand and heroic merchandising of Time.

We are apologists for failure. We are clerks and drivers and hash-cookers and electricians. We are typists and sawyers and seam-stitchers and students and wives.

We are nothing. We are grist for History’s noble mill. We are worthless lives to be crushed in the vise, shattered by hammers wielded by the great.

Are we broken yet? George Bush: smash us some more! Henry Paulson: smash us again! Herr Greenspan: kick us while we are down! Barak Obama: keep us from rising!

We are nothing, after all.

We are the small men and women of the world.

We are not the kings and the titans who make the wheels roll.

Break us again! Make our pain go away! Make our fears fade to nothing!

(Are we broken yet?)

Please break us again.

9 December 2008

THE EMANCIPATION OF LIGHT COMES TOO SUDDENLY

The emancipation of Light comes too suddenly. It is turning. Expansion is lost. The id-caress has not fully begun to bloom as yet. Suddenly, everything turns black. It is not the blackness of an absence of light. It is not merely a shadow appearing suddenly, swallowing up all the prestigious candidates for heroic dementia, squashing plant life and sending animal life fleeing into the mouths of owls. This blackness is a force and a color and a harrowing nature apart from shadows.

All expansion ends. The Future, as an entity for vision, turns as black as charcoal.

Perhaps Light has gone somewhere. Perhaps a palace of light, eternal in the upper atmospheres, continues, undisturbed by the grinding extreme. Lunar subtraction scales everything in to negative phosphorescence. The world is sucked into the photographic negative – and everything is turned backwards, everything is reversed.

Suddenly we are all falling. Suddenly gravity rules everything – perhaps the subatomic world has been shattered, or magnetic poles reversed.

The Sun becomes killing.

The Sun becomes empirically brash and deadly.

Light is emancipated; or Light turns inside out, becoming Blackness, burning itself out, toasting its own essence, burning out its own star: Cinderella.

The emancipation of Light comes too suddenly, turning itself blue, first; then proclaiming Death a guardian, sending this guardian out on the earth, generating landscapes.

The Black Light comes.

The waking world becomes a dream.

The waking world becomes a nightmare.

Light is riding on a Black Horse, and calling itself, now, Pestilence.

11 December 2008

CONTAMINATION OF THE WELL

What happens when the world-star collapses on itself? When the Sun-of-the-World becomes a black hole, sucking in all light? Contamination of the well

Is that not what has happened? The expansion of Life has ended; the Sun has collapsed inward: and everything has turned black.

And the well has been contaminated.

As above, so below.

The Sun God has created the world of light, the world of wealth and power, the world of expansion and empire. But now the Sun has imploded and become a huge vacuum, sucking in light, energy, money, houses, boats, cars, all material objects. Paulson and Bernanke throw trillions into the mouth of the beast. They seek to pacify this monster; they only feed him, making him larger.

The Darkness will be served.

The Darkness will not be bribed or pacified.

Greed has contaminated our well. Greed has fueled out expansion; and Greed will witness our demise.

Many will be judged. Many wells will deliver poison. Many worlds will experience disintegration. Then the Sun will turn his attention out again.

Fear of God is wisdom now. Fear of God is a form of prayer.

12 December 2008

ORGANZA IS IN THE SOUL OF THINGS

Organza is in the soul of things; organic resources make of the sky an habitual photograph. All our deeds, all our thoughts, are recorded there.

Who does this thing? I do not know.

Why is it done? I have no idea.

But the organza in the soul records all things using a different method. Horrible gifts are passed on from children to parents, for the children are older than the parts, know more, entertain more thoughts, carry more wounds, inflict abuse on their parents, generate and transmit karmic retaliations, as though God sends sons and daughters as a form of punishment to unsuspecting souls.

Organza does not talk – but it weaves a record of lives and a record of sedentary natures whose thoughts take on material substance, and affect Time.

Who are wearing the brownshirts now? An edifice falls. Jews will be blamed. Black blames. Asians blamed. Mexicans blamed.

A world is being lost. A world founded on the white man’s domination.

It is alright that it is falling. Lessons must be taught; lessons must be learned. And God is punishing the white man’s arrogance and his brutality. This does not mean that the white man has not done good. The white man is good and bad. He has organized a slumbering world, taught it modern education. But greed has brought the white man down to his knees.

Yes, brownshirts appear, especially in Europe again. When America turns red, Europe turns white. When America turns white, Europeans turn red.

This is not the end of the white man’s power.

But the Night has fallen. And the Night will swallow up the dreams of a generation.

Chaos is at hand.

Do not forget to listen to the organza. Listen to the wind in the evening. Listen to Bach and Mozart. Listen to the poetry of Dante and Shakespeare. But, also, listen to the organza.

26 November 2008

IS THAT THE REICH I HEAR PROCLAIMING THE THUNDER AND THE RAIN

Is that the Reich I hear proclaiming the thunder and the rain, proclaiming Thor and proclaiming Odin? Heroic tutelage of the Northern Sky Heaven as it presents itself to the frightened humans coagulating near the center of the court, praying for protection, praying for guidance.

The Kings have all fled the city and are leaving in yachts with the idea of re-assembling armies in the hinterlands; but this is all a ruse. The kingdom has been shattered and the streets are now overflowing with drunken men, frightened women and soldiers from a new reich who are proclaiming themselves the conquistadors of broken dreams.

Who has done this to us? Drunken bankers; blind politicians; frenzied brokers and greedy housing developers?

Greenspan? What is in a name I ask you.

Here come the Reichstadt boys, shouting racial slurs at the world and demanding an accounting. Blaming jews, negroes, Asians, hypnotists; condemning the southern world with its lunar worship, its weak matriarchal natures and its motherly conveniences.

Some Reichboys are sharpening swords.

Wise men on Wall Street are betting on bullish action in the funeral parlor sector.

Some things never change.

1 December 2008

LET’S ESTABLISH A MIRACLE

Let’s establish a miracle. Establish a grim carnival in the sky and bring it down to earth where we can embrace it, being children of the time.

Perhaps we can establish ourselves as mighty canine for the heavenly family. We can color our selves many colors, rainbow colors, for the family of man. We can do all this above, where we are safe and fixed for a legion of love. But when bringing it down to the earth to give to trembling humanity, we may have to come as torrents of rain – and perhaps the colors will be lost in all the terrors of the catastrophe.

Let’s establish a miracle in the dark places where the mind goes during frequent flights from the damaging material sphere. Backing away from physical existence – is that what we are doing now? Letting the forms of matter all fall away like so many unfrozen cadences? Has someone unplugged the world so that all the organizations we have build up into crystalline shapes have no animating essences any longer. Electricity has been cut off.

That’s what death is, after all. The electricity plugged into and animating the body withdraws and the body simply falls away, like old clothes. Nothing else. When the electricity leaves, and returns to its source, the body falls away; and then matter disassembles.

18 December 2008

WHO IS COMING DOWN AMONG THE REEDS

Who is coming down among the reeds; is that you, Moses? Who is coming down, bearing gifts from heaven? If that you, Abraham?

Brahma walked here first, when there were only shadows among us, only intimations of bodiless men who passed through here wearing smiles and conditions of gain. We can’t see back far enough to find them now.

Who is coming up the mount of Sinai? Who is seeking a law to hand down to his children on Earth? Those who clamor for more discipline, those who seek the destruction of the gold calves of Mammon?

Who are we in this open plain, searching the sky for bits of manna, bits of birds carrying bread for our salvation? Who are we? Lions? Snakes? Horses? Dragons? Alligators perhaps? From which direction have we arrived? Who condemns us now? Who beseeches our salvation?

Who is coming down among the reeds? Is it you, Miriam? Is it Ishtar clothed in seven robes, seeking the dark kingdom in order to save the Sun? We are nothing without our dreams. But if our dreams are only material objects, money, fame, status among our unequals…when we identify with nothing, then we are nothing also. When we nominate ourselves for positions of honor among the dishonorable, then we become nothing. We become less than the shadows that represent us.

19 December 2008

THE ARCHETYPE OF THE APOCALYPSE

The archetype of the apocalypse. There is nothing else now. Entropy has ground us down to the nub, the hard black stone, the hard black stone hidden in the core of the mineral atom. That is where we are, the night coming in to proclaim the end of expansion. We breathe quietly, hoping no one will hear us, no one will know we are there. For shadows have elapsed. Body weight has become negative. Fortunes have evaporated. Scandals are coming next. Deceptions. Betrayals.

Nothingness is not far off, the kind of Nothingness that has substance and a body.

Hell is just around the corner. It has a name, a foreign name; we have not heard its real name yet. And we will be shocked to discover its nature, hidden in agnomen.

That is just the beginning. Then the four horsemen will arrive. From above this all looks like a chessboard; but from here, on the ground, it looks more like the beginnings of a massacre.

The bishop is there, saying prayers for both sides. That makes everyone grimace a bit, out of embarrassment, out of shame. Then the battle begins and children begin to fight like frightened hellions.

There will be a judge who will rise out of all of this, who will rise to set the world right again, to punish greed, cruelty, dishonor and exploitation. The judge will become the New King and a new covenant will be signed with God and then a New World will rise up from the seas of discord.

But then the same greedy bastards will ruin it. The same greedy bastards will explain that their profit is good for all and they will proceed to take all the good land, the good produce, the good women and the best art for themselves.

That is how it works – does it not?

That’s why I cheer the approach of the apocalypse. That’s why I cheer the four horsemen. That’s why I cheer when I hear the words “Ark” and “Rain” and “Flood” and “Noah”.

The Darkness is winning now. I can hear the rain falling; and I can hear the sound of hammers against wood. I understand through Saturn that time is running out. The moon is gloaming.

The ideal now is transformation.

20 December 2008

THE DISRUPTED SEQUENCE

The disrupted sequence becomes a problem when the man who believes he is king sees a huge gap separating himself from his dreams and from his capacities to move. This creates a problem.

He is not the kind of man who indulges in fantasies. He has a visionary nature that builds a vision methodically, one in the context of history, patiently. But now he is suddenly awake and sees nothing before him but a Void, a shapeless Chaos.

The king is now standing in the Primordial Deep, at the very edge of the Yawning Abyss.

The king knows who he was; and he even knows vaguely who he will become; but he does not really understand how A moves through B to get to C. C is not the problem at the moment; B is the problem. He looks out and sees only a deadly chasm before him. His own death is in that chasm somewhere, hiding like a gnarled shadow. A murderer hides in the brush, carrying a picture of the King and the King’s family in his front pocket. Nothing is certain now. How to live; how to manufacture life; how to bring light back in order to illuminate the future?

He has lost his power to envision the development of his life. He is standing at the Gap. He understands the mythology of the Gap, the history of the Gap, even the meaning of it. But he does not know, in his very fiber, if he will be able to survive this monster, this absence.

Every 28 years this void comes and goes.

Saturn carries a heavy sword. Saturn gives; and Saturn takes away.

Mortality is a rough bedfellow.

Mortality is a savage playmate, who hides now in the cavern, and watches the king closely through his binocular vision, laughing with a mean unyielding unforgiving laugh.

22 December 2008

THE VANISHING SANCTUARY

The sanctuary vanishes. The sanctuary has a primary purpose. But when the need for that purpose evaporates, then the sanctuary, too, expires. And then begins the fight for life. Then begins the wrestling with God’s angel, the apocalyptical ordering of elements out of chaos in an attempt to begin to re-build the sanctuary.

I dream. I manufacture meanings I have carried inside my heart from the manvantaric empire. Pieces of actuality, laid upon the altar from which a prayer can be built. A prayer for clarity. A prayer for sustenance. A prayer for the dreamer’s soul to be awakened at the next great chiming of the bell. Aurora’s gay matriculation of the living: a horizon painted light blue; a scale tipping ineluctably back toward the sanctuary, back toward order, back toward the Sun God’s ascendancy.

But we are far away from this thing, this entity, this emergence. Far away from this ascendancy.

We are back here with the dead, back with Siva and Saturn and Jehovah. The world is crumbling. The bricks of Wall Street are breaking. The house is in decay. There is a sign on the front door reading:

‘Time is Running Out. It is finished. Sabbath has come.’

Put the red cross on your door; or run into the mountains, never looking back, giving up all that you own.

23 December 2008

THE IMPLICATIONS OF THE SHADOW

What are the implications of the Shadow? Why is it that the man detaches himself from himself when he begins his arching conquest of his life? There is a man he leaves behind, a man who is part of himself, the imperfect part of himself, the inarticulate part of himself, the failure aspect of his own nature, that he betrays.

There is no life without this separation. However, the life created by this separation is not real life – it is an illusory life, a life in a false spotlight, a life from which the man must die eventually, in order to return to his shadow, to return to his most essential and natural root.

The man and his shadow are endlessly intertwined.

The Cowboy and the Indian are endlessly intertwined.

They fight and kill one another too, endlessly.

But they do not hate one another.

That is what is meant by ‘endlessly intertwined’.

Roots endlessly intertwine.

God intertwines roots; and then the clock goes off, and the roots go wil, one root going up, and the other root going down.

7 January 2009

MY LOVE NEVER DIES

My love never dies. My love is a flame which rises and falls as the Moon rises and falls. The flame never dies, even though the winds blow hard, the rains pound down, lighting threatens, thunder blunders.

My love never dies. My love is a horse with broad girth and powerful thighs. The horse never dies, even though the road is hard, the mountain impedes him, the rivers rise up, the cougars are stalking.

My love never dies. My love is a sun in the sky, the spirit of life. The sun never dies, even though the darkness conspires to castrate his light, to cast him in shadow, to imprison his grace.

My love never dies. My love is a wild river, itself, raging and running, breaking down dikes, overflowing banks, threatening towns, smashing against mountains. The wild river never dies even when the sun tries to kill it, to dry it out with anger.

My love never dies. My love for Hoa-Lan never dies. My love for Hoa-Lan is triumphant.

11 January 2009

THERE IS NOTHING IN THE DARK PART OF THE BRAIN

There is nothing in the dark part of the brain that explains why the sea is rising. There is nothing that explains the evolving leviathan. There is nothing that computes the dry mathematics of fatality’s point. There is nothing that dictates taste, mechanism, or the machine of fear.

There is nothing in the dark part of the brain that can calculate fair interest rates.

There is nothing in the dark part of the brain that collates emergencies of lost love in to columns of gained virtues.

But there is something in the dark brain that does something for me.

Hollow entities have come in to power now. Hollow entities post majestic coins on non-majestic eyes and repeat incantations to Shakespearean lore. Bards were celestial creatures falling heavenword, pierced on a sharp stick of intellect, broiled over the rude public’s love of filth and silver. Plucked by rich boss’ tarts for romance’s stew, then betrayed when casual needs arose.

There is no true love for the god of Surety’s balance, unless this grim god can flip himself from bleach to tan, and flip his wife from tar to moonsome.

An eye blinks; nothing is seen.

An eye closes; in the darkness there is some geometry. A map. A plan. He tries to see it more clearly. Darkness is a mast, he knows. Darkness is not the complete misunderstanding it advertises itself as being.

Comprehension is not far off.

29 January 2009

READY TO GO DOWN?

Are you ready to go down? Are you ready to roam the streets at night and find the carnival fellows who are stealing turnips they can sell during the daylight? The eyes become flat squares and begin to suck in light and emit sounds of terror, damaged children, horrified geese.

What is the color of this madness now?

The sun has turned black.

The sun is wounded, and the sun falls, and the sun turns black.

Hexagons are beginning to come out now, meaning that the descent will be over soon. The climb will not begin soon however; but the horrible fall is gaining momentum and will slacken soon.

Black burns and turns to ash. The moon is golden. The moon is the color of wheat, the color a yellow rose. This means that the moon is being observed through a dark pond.

There is nothing clean down here. People are rude and touched with sin. People are crude and singed with torches. People are cowed and tinged with sources of pride, greed, envy, collusion. Bad taste is now the popular, common doctrine of achievement. Crude natures are celebrated. Decency is not a humorous exaltation. Indecency is the right we all have to shame ourselves in public. It is a right we have, a right the government must honor.

Surely something bad is coming.

29 January 2009

UNSUBSTANTIATED RUMORS OF ADVANCEMENT

Unsubstantiated rumors of advancement appear around the city posted on flyers hanging from walls and trees. There is much talk about the possibilities involved in these suggestions. Hope begins to grow wings and Hope begins to marshal forces that the dark energy of the black wind will abate; and all the children will be allowed to sing and dance again. The priests all seem to believe that the scourge has been left behind. The dragon-dance has helped, no doubt. The dragon-dance and the washing of the brothels with white wash and the choir singing in a horticultural ritual demanding Sun-Rise in the face of Sun-Set reality to trick the devil. But the devil is rarely tricked. We know that tricks don’t work against the ultimate dark consternation.

There is a pond outside of town, a black pond, which no children will approach, in which the moon refuses to show her reflection.

Drop a hammer in this pond and the hammer disintegrates before touching the surface, breaks in to pieces that appear to melt upon entering the water. Lean over the pond and hold a hammer in your hand and the hammer will break apart and a man’s hand, wrist and forearm, with it. At least two men have become one-armed men resisting this hypothesis.

The pond is the place where spells reside, wherein the Devil lives, and from which the Devil emerges at night to prey upon the world.

No one approaches this pond any longer. No one even mentions the pond. It is bad luck, they say, to think of this pond unless in church or when riding a horse in an easterly direction.

Unsubstantiated rumors of advancement are used to try to console the fears of the villagers.

We will all be advancing when He comes to take his children home.

One man in this town will be hired by the company and given a salary distinctly less than the owner’s own salary.

The train will begin to run again and no one will be excluded from a trip on this train, except when the moon is in a full or a new condition of a storm appears.

The first child born this season will be blessed by the gods from the mountain kingdom.

And the train will be named after this first born as a sign of community solidarity.

There are many things we can learn from this. Many things indeed.

Life is good. At the bottom of the barrel there is Hope. Hope is the last thing found when times become dark, and the first thing forgotten when prosperity begins to fill our coffers with ambition and advancement again, when all the sharks are either killed or set free, dressed in suits, overpriced watches, European reading glasses, and honored as ‘entrepreneurs’.

Beware: when the world honors ‘entrepreneurs’ we are near the cliff and we are beginning to look down again.

We are all sad animals. We are all sad animals.

Look what the sharks have done to our land.

1 February 2009

COSMIC GRISTLE

Cosmic gristle comes to us. Cosmic gristle in our mouth, giving us a sense of glory and prosperity. Cosmic gristle announces the good times have returned. We will all be fat and sassy now; we will all be inclined to charity again; we will all protect the poor women and the poor children.

But nothing good comes; the illusion of progress is sunk; and the gristle is ripped from our mouths by the insane prophet who calls out to me: ‘This is the Day of the Lord you are living through! This is the Day of the Lord that afflicts you!’

Everything stops.

Rest! Rest if you can! We are sending energy in a different direction now. We are turning energy back on ourselves, making us comprehend our sins, making us understanding pride, hubris, exponential expansions, aggressiveness against the world.

The gristle tastes like fat. The gristle does not make us salvage our memories.

We are dead now. A hole has been ruptured inside of us; and now the black hole is gaping and drawing to itself all the matter we have accumulated through years of hard work, sweat and blood, cheating, manipulating, twisting, aggravating.

Death comes fast and hard. Death is a mask we wear so that no one can approach us. Death is an island we inhabit when the positive becomes negative. Death is a carnival in our soul, separated from daylight, mitigated by nothing, transcending our trite little lives of accumulating status and objects, all at the cost of our own sacraments.

Cosmic gristle comes to us. Cosmic gristle promises us rest.

13 February 2009

WHEN THE SHADOWS DANCE

When the shadows dance, watch out. They are too happy.

When the shadows dance, beware. Something is burning.

When the shadows dance, look at the source of their mirth. Trouble is brewing.

Who marvels at the falling of the light? Who celebrates the death of the delightful circumstance, the passing of law and logic into nothingness? Who delights in this?

The Sons of Chaos are beginning to dance – and we understand from this that pain is entering the system on a large scale. There will be much trial, much discontent, much horrible disorder. There will be death. Muslims will be killed in Europe; Europeans will be killed by crazed, angry, frightened God-imploded Muslims.

That is just the beginning of things.

World war will be loosed upon the world.

Shadows will celebrate.

Economic despair will scold us and accuse us of having lost our companionship with God. And this will all be true.

Shadows will leap about the room.

Women will be hurt. Women will be blamed. Jews will be blamed.

All of this has happened before. And it will happen again.

The world turns. The clock makes a halting sound, and stops.

Every atom has a time to live, a time to die, a time of decay into nothingness.

Our economy decayed into nothingness.

The greed of bankers was the decaying into nothingness.

The bubble popped. The shadows began dancing.

Heil, Hitler! Heil, Hitler!

18 February 2009

EXCALIBER IS OBITUARIAL

Excaliber is obituarial. But that is only one of its problems. In fact, the obituarial part of the prophecy speaks volumes about the value of the thing-in-itself. We are not sorry that it is obituarial. This projection of the death camp actually lifts our hearts and gives our lives meaning. Nothing is more gruesome than growing old and dying alone. It is the great sorrow of life. Death for a holy cause is a great value when seen in the right light.

Excaliber speaks of nobility and meaning in the prestige. Excaliber speaks of a death for a reason, of a magnanimous entrenchment for life and for communal living.

But is this not also a lie?

We move from one ardor to the next, from one passion to its opposite, creating bodies as we go, bodies for others, our own oppositions, to inhabit when they, too, turn.

We turn and become what we were not. They turn and become what we once were, filling a void.

Blowing bubbles. We are always blowing bubbles; and then weeping when the bubbles pop.

We know that the masculine arc is lost in June. We know that excaliber is lost when the arc is complete. We know that Saturn in the Seventh Day; and that he cuts off all the electricity.

Then we travel in darkness for many years, in the water of darkness. There is a boat outside; and the wounded hero is placed in the boat by some unknown woman. Some say it is his sister; some say it is his wife. But it is possible that this woman is a ghost, or an old woman with no family, or perhaps an element of religious vocation, a religious metaphor, or an insubstantial vision illuminated by song and by the moon.

He is gone for years, drifting alone in a boat behind the world toward the east.

When the time comes for excaliber, something grows, the sun rises, a young girl appears, a sacrifice is made. He enters an open door. There is some kind of celebration. The world becomes big with child.

There is a moment of revelation, a new life, an expansion of the good light, the warm light.

But with excaliber comes also a contract with Death.

Saturn has signed this contract already.

In that sense, excaliber is obituarial.

13 March 2009

CONTINUITY IS LOST: BUSINESS IS THE DEVIL’S MAELSTROM

Continuity has been lost. An epiphany comes: Business is the Devil’s Maelstrom.

The Devil chooses the Businessman, telling him: ‘I will give you the world if you will serve me, serve money, if you will cheat and steal and lie for the sake of your indecent lifestyle. If you will persecute the poor, and make alliance with only the rich of the world, the kings, the violent forces of the kings. If you will turn your armies into the international police force that guards the rich and makes the world safe for business, for the exploitation of the poor, all over the face of the earth. If you do this, I will make you rich.’

But continuity is lost. The bankers cannot stop themselves. They put in place a great system for the perpetual increase of the capital system. This system-as-machine will endure for a millennium if nurtured and respected.

But the bankers cannot help themselves. More money is flooding in; more money; more money. We can get all the money in the world if we just look the other way. Of course the world may end. Of course there is danger of an earthquake. Perhaps the buildings will fall; but perhaps we can insure ourselves so that the building does not fall on us. But that’s the risk we take…fortune favors the brave.

Continuity is lost. An epiphany comes: Business is the Devil’s Maelstrom.

The businessman and the banker have sold their souls to the Devil.

The world is ending.

Saturn will now get his periodical revenge.

You had better keep your head down.

13 March 2009

UNCONSCIOUS EXTINCTION

The unconscious nature approaches extinction without a fear. There is no dread; there is no hypertense mechanism involved in the denial of death and the aggrieved ecstasy of damnation. The cortex bleeds. The biscuit of romance has been tossed. Animals die. Animals die without grief but in a wild combat that pits first against last, black against white, no emotional value inherent, no unemotional value of elite mental equivalency. Just brute muscle against acute energy. Just solitary incentive against the great build-up of hate and conquest.

Unconscious extinction is a gift, is it not -- a deep drink of the dirty water of Lethe? Consciousness is pain. Consciousness is anguish. Consciousness, itself, is the sin against Life.

The unconscious man charges into life and out of life as if it were a dream. He has no dread, he has no pathetic examination of self, tears not lost on flacid thoughts, no hysteria for lost time, no castigation of self for mismanaged accomplishments. There is none of that. Just an embodied lust for deep satisfaction, root to core, essence to perimeter, leaping at form like an animal unvanquished.

Unconscious extinction is a blessing in disguise. Drink water here. Forget yourself. Your fall will be regulated by well-meaning arbitrage factors. Your extinction will be lost in the picture of the happy family. Your failure will be fixed by politicians handing our money. Did you fail to provide for your family? Did you forget to buy a house, a new car, a beautiful vacation package, condominiums on the lake? That’s no problem. You will be saved by all the decent bankers who will lend you money at negative interest rates. Life will be good again. Life will be so easy that you will soon be a billionaire simply by borrowing money as fast as you can. And if you can’t pay the money back Congress will pay it back for you. Life will be so good you will offer several of your own rebirths to others simply for the sake of prolonging this existence a bit longer. You will borrow against future lives, in order to extend this life for a few more months, a few more years. You don’t have to die. You can live for ever. Everything is simple again. Maybe Alan Greenspan was right all along? All we need to do is to keep blowing bubbles with cheap money. Bubbles are good. Let’s all blow bubbles endlessly…maybe well never have to come down. It worked for Lawrence Welk. Maybe Lawrence Welk was God’s true prophet.

The unconscious nature has no idea what a bubble is. The unconscious nature lives, dies, lives again. Death is nothing but a sleep. Sleep is good. Life is nothing but a different kind of sleep.

26 March 2009

TARMONEY BABY

Tarmoney Baby speaks a thousand words a second. Casting out from the void a backward talking sobriquet. We are lonely, all of us. We have taps on our shoes and we have wings on our feet. Our soliloquies are built with bricks and our elementary negotiations begin with ourselves and end with the tomahawk in our hands, painted brusquely, manners of thought.

Metaphorical tomahawk. We see that the rudimentary nativity has stalled. I seek to be re-born but the rudimentary nativity has been stalled. There is not enough darkness in this room I guess. We speak about the savage request for thought and prayer. In this darkness God abides, listening for prayer, smelling wonderful draughts of storax, onycha, galbanum. Prayers are like incense rising up to God in a gentle soliloquy of happenstance. Our darkness does not light up the room enough, so we cannot see the ribs of the great leviathan, we cannot understand the labyrinthian mechanism for passages leading beyond this frightening nothingness.

Tarmoney Baby waits in second gear, stemming the tide of nothing, listening to gross inventive silence, seeing black only, black not turning to something less black. I am as black as I can be without being roasted over the fire, indelicately. Black, black, black. I see a red door and I want it painted black. Conceiving nothing in the mean time about the scale of unbelieving. Believing nothing in time meaning the scale conceiving involution begins any second now and achieves the opposite of piling atoms upon atoms, building upon buildings, families upon families, clerical associations upon whatnot and wherefore. Dropping, dropping down, dropping down into a hole here. Where did the light go?

We cannot breathe properly – what is falling? We see only dusk and dusk’s clay shadow, Mister Montebank – what is diminishing? We can hear the remarkable Mister Cheevers muttering something about evangelical madness – who is waving an axe at the sun.

Tarmoney Baby believes we all can capture the big top. He will be the one to do it then. Paint his face black – he is a white baby, but no one will know that if we only paint his face and arms and legs and back black black black– and start calling him, ‘yo, homey’!

31 March 2009

MOM, WHY DID THE BANKERS STEAL AMERICA?

Mom, why did the bankers steal America?

I don’t know, dear. Perhaps they wanted to own everything.

Why did they sell America to China?

I don’t know, dear. Perhaps they have no sense of loyalty.

Why did they play the role of the Trojan horsemen?

Perhaps they were sent by God to punish Americans for forgetting God in the frenzy of their material fortune.

Mom, will the bankers be punished for their treason?

I don’t know, dear. Americans tend to be forgiving.

Will they be forced to leave this country and re-locate in Argentina or in Chile? Or perhaps in Canada?

Is that what you’d like, dear?

No, mother. I am not so forgiving. I would propose that they be hanged from the nearest tree and all their heirs be reduced to the abject state they have created for so many throughout the world.

Have no you forgiveness in your heart, dear?

Very little, mother. They have burned the world to a black cinder. The arrogant shall be like moths in the flame. The proud shall fall like dust in the lakebed. And the rich and heartless shall be cut off, and treated like scallions.

Dear, would you be the first to cut away the head of such a scoundrel?

Aye, mother. Bring Paulson here; bring Greenspan. Guilt is a rope that wears thin when used appropriately.

1 April 2009

EXPLAIN THIS TO ME

Explain this to me, he said. Explain to me how the sea can incorporate in its own body thousands of species and thousands of fragmentary apostrophes. Thousands of camps of feelings and millions of artificial incandescences. Explain this to me.

Explain this to me, he said. Explain to me how the sky can be home to everything we know. If the sky is home to everything is it not also home to the anti-sky – and, if so, is this not a conflict of interest.

Explain this to me. How can all the thieves of the world live in Washington, D.C. and New York City? Is that not so?

Is it possible that all the horrible creatures have emerged out of the hot vat of decadence and have appeared here in the darkest spots, manifesting as death and disease in the heart of our country?

Thieves everywhere; thieves everywhere!

Haul out the guillotine!

Thieves everywhere; thieves everywhere!

Is it true that nearly everyone really dies of shame? And is not death-by-shame a kind of torturous suicide?

1 April 2009

DIAMOND-CUTTERS LAMENT

Diamond-cutters lament. There is not enough evaporated dream-stuff in the atmosphere. Too much dry pragmatism has turned the world into a tinder-box. A fire is coming that will burn each tree to the ground, render each city a charcoal iconography of Hellish homage’s to indecent progress.

The Sun is an arid kingdom. The Sun burns up the world. The Sun has allegiance, first, to the threatened Father; then he has allegiance to those in open rebellion against the Old World.

Diamond-cutters understand very little when it comes to political natures and urban gambits; they understand even less of the celestial hip-hop clairvoyances of New Age merchants of inner peace. They understand the movements of markets, the fluctuations of merit and theft, the harmony hidden in the struggle against Death as an abstract phenomenon.

Geometry appears as a Saturnian condition. A surface of planes all commingle in a tight condition of angles, determining the fresh calendar of vision. Water carriers are near. Water carriers despise the fire-men. Water-carriers hate the incandescent natures of the Daylight.

Diamond-cutters understand that the beautiful creation of Western civilization has been fire-bombed by the Masters of the Universe, the doctors and king-makers at Goldman Sachs. Diamond-cutters are angry. Diamond-cutters are turning gray, beginning to contemplate travel, name-changes, suicide.

Diamond-cutters want someone to blame.

Diamond-cutters are no longer needed. No one is buying their product. No one is buying their line of religion and their scenarios of need.

The diamond-cutters are insurance salesmen, afterall.

Insurance is dead.

The diamond-cutters are now hiring out as political assassins. Someone needs to be dead. Someone needs someone dead. Ok.

A man has to do what a man has to do.

16 April 2009

ARTIFICIAL CHARACTER – POLITICAL EXPERTISE

Artificial character. They say that he has one. They say that he is all smiles, that he speaks in clichés, that he works both sides of the aisle. They say that he is made of plastic; they say that he has a Teflon nature. Nothing sticks to him. No corruption destroys him. No catalog of degeneration spoils his image.

The problem is that the image is not the man.

We worship the image in America too much. The image is a kind of surface breeding, one is which all the knowledge we seek about a man or a concept or a set of ideas resides only on the surface of things, is really a patina containing all information except depth. And depth is truth.

The plastic surface reflects nicely on the wall. His house is clean; his car is shiny; you can almost comb your hair in his reflection as he smiles at you, perfect teeth, winsome wife, photogenic children. A real politician. A real hero. Lots of money. Really successful. A power couple really. Who could have a better life than they do?

He is so successful; and she is so blonde.

He has an artificial character. So what? you say. He looks hot. He moves well on the dance floor. I especially like that hot car he drives. He has all the latest electronics in his house.

He has an artificial character. He is a fraud, a phony. So what? He’s a winner. You’re just jealous. He’s not some stupid loser with an obsession about social justice or about economic equality or about God or about the meaning of life.

That much is true. He is selfish, greedy, self-infatuated, willing to lie and cheat and steal to get ahead.

You say: Life is ugly sometimes. Sometimes you have to be ugly to get ahead.

The idea of getting ahead creates the artificial character. There is no Number 1. Type A is a city in Taiwan. Being plastic and artificial, with a perfect smile and perfect hair and a perfect façade and a perfect image and a surface knowledge of things and a surface depth of understanding and a surface quality of ethics is artificial and self-damning. It is a sign of a very lonely society, one that could admire such a travesty as the artificial character.

I think he’s cool.

Cool is the artificial character. Cool is the mortal sin of this country. Cool is the quality of fraudulence. Distancing oneself from what’s real, projecting an image and watching oneself perform in a false movie. Only Quentin Tarantino could be proud of such a travesty.

17 April 2009

THE DREAM WILL BE SHATTERED

The dream will be shattered. This means that the sky will fall very soon and that you will be carried up in a shout of soldiers wishing you well. You are not allowed to look directly into the sun as the sun is a contagion to all but the very best, those capable of godhood. This also includes you.

The dream shattering is not to be feared. The dream shattering is the chance for you to escape the dreary fortress you have built for the sake of your own imprisonment.

No one understands you. No one can comprehend what it is you have just managed to address so carefully in your intricate image. Dogs run free. Dogs in the heaven have access to many stations in your own zodiac, howling at you, befriending you, chasing you in the dark night when the snow covers the street and when the lamps above are swaying in the wind, casting horrible rocking shadows down below, filled with horror-filled manifestations embodied in myths of Hecate’s latest destruction of men gathering near the Moon without their armor on.

Actaeon, please re-negotiate with the sweet sky the color of your self flagellation. You are entering now the land of no return. You are entering now the forest of loss, the unquiet capacity of revenge and sacred retaliation. Actaeon: Mars is not welcome here; Mars has not votive power down under here, where the school is transformed to the thin ice version of some madcap Guillaume the Guillotine slicing Adam’s apples into a veritable haven of pies, conditioned by the logic of famine nests and their animated co-regencies of dark-skinned federales seeking kin to fire the kiln and destroy Time.

Please be aware of this, Actaeon.

22 April 2009

EXPONENTIAL EQUIVALENCY

Exponential equivalency. The tempest abates only for a moment, evoking a shade of reason and peace, just enough to allow the world to remember the potential for bliss, the capability for expansion. But the moment of calm is merely the eye of the storm. Iris. Horny Corneus. Trouble’s brewing. Night descends.

As far as we expanded our balloon, just that far we will also contract it. And then all kinds of troubles will appear. Pandora has a harsh nature. Cain has a surly temperament. The class of doctors will try to hide inside their country club regalia. But the party has declined. The party has dissolved. The party is now black; and all the renegades who delivered for the kings and queens now have begun killing kings and queens, kidnapping children, oscillating between potentialities for kinghood and the dregs of annihilation, drug addiction and early death.

The party is over. The party is unwinding.

Whom shall we invite to leave the party as quickly as possible?

Bankers are gone; insurance executives next; politicians must leave or be killed; lawyers will be sent to Siberia in Canada.

This will not make the party more fun; but we must punish those who put themselves ahead of the lives of their cohorts. Crime has been whitewashed. Laws have been crafted for the rich.

There will be no more fun for some time now. There will be simple exponential equivalency. Exponential equivalency.

Exponential equivalency is another phrase indicating….exaggerated revenge.

It may not be fun; perhaps not even fair. But it will manifest. It will turn everything green, after first turning everything red.

25 April 2009

DREAMS DIE

Dreams die. A vacuum comes in. Iridescent vocabulary tumbles. Something passes. Nobility is not a problem to be solved. Not a delinquent facsimile of something real. Nobility is the high step in the low desert of phantom trajectories. Temporary occlusion occurs. The dream falters, flickers, flattens. Something is hidden here. Under a bright blue sky: heliotropes break. Heliotropes are fractured; and the jade bleaches white. Unexplainably. Hard is the stage of recovery, here in the Pale Kingdom. Dream-features fragment. Feud fuels fear. Phoenixes freeze. The void is not a place to build a castle, Pink said to Ptolemy. Archetypes blanche. Archaic streets crack and begin speaking Latin. What is a man to do? A man is running out of candles; and he has lost his sack of cloth Castaneda-replicas. Balls roll off the flat plain, sinking in gravity’s stew down toward Hell’s parking lot, conditioned by Mack Adam, who offends one and all by announcing that the street is not straight enough.

The invasion has begun. The invasion in the belly of the beast. Bad things on the horizon. Bad things approaching. What can we know now, now that we’ve dropped the rock into the sea? Has Time become exempt from itself? Has the category of retribution ceased to bring to the eye a tear, to the heart a trembling arid day-sense? Substantial grieving. Occupancy of the Rhine, a clinging to vituperous conditions. German pomp. German aristocracy. Turned under by a scythe. European hegemony trembles too. Scales fall from the eyes. Dragons leave the premises. The crescent; the crescent. The iridescent crescent. I’ll have another crescent with my cappuccino, please.

Time is abandoned, like a ship that has been stove in, crippled. I’ll take Primordial Essences for ten dollars, Alex. Ghosts and fog. Give me a one-thousand yard stare and I will give you the world, Adam Kadmon. Dual-light. Dual-light.

It takes God long to be angered. But when He is finally angered He remains angry for almost too long.

Dreams die. Dreams die.

And I am beginning to be angry.

5 May 2009

ESCALLATING THE ARCHIVE

I escalate the archive. The salmon comes and go. I escalate the archive. The salmon calls; and then is gone.

I escalate the archive; but the sumptuous anniversary reaches the vocabulary of the trumpet; and then all hell breaks loose.

We are lost. We have become avengers in the plot to overthrow the smallest atoms in the universe. The biggest atoms have armies to help them. But the smallest atoms have nothing. How can we take sides against those who have nothing?

Thousands of Asian farmers commit suicide in their fields because of landlord abuse and market manipulation.

What do we care about this? Do we stop the world; do we tilt the plane back toward ‘balance’?

We do not.

We escalate the archive.

That is all we do.

Jupiter, great god of balance: come to our rescue.

Saturn is coming near and he is raising a very seditious harvesting sickle that reflects blood in the light of the moon, blood which drops down to the Earth, branding the world with terror.

Venus is gone.

Mercury has turned grey.

Mars has a pact with Saturn and is coming closer and closer, angry for action.

The Sun has been crucified again, and cast down into the dungeon, cast under the water where he must float, unseen, West to East, until Time comes again.

Is that not what it is to journey in this life cycle, Son? Why do you travel to Vietnam? For symbolic reasons? Because you think you are this Sun-God himself, the one under water?

Or is it for some other reason?

Do you sacrifice your own comfort for the sake of the world?

Is this your personal form of climbing up on the cross offering yourself for the sins of the world?

12 May 2009

THE ABSOLUTE MONARCHY OF MONEY

The absolute monarchy of money hits the world in the face with a wet fish. All illusions of equality are passed up the chimney – and all the lords of the universe pass into the Halls of Valhalla, passing down word that the poor will not be allowed to follow; orders are given to execute strangers who dare approach the gates of the aristocracy. We are back where we started; we are back at the beginning again. The beginning of our demise.

Kings cannot be trifled with. They can kill swiftly with a smile, and a bag of money paid to the local butcher down on Gravity Street. Beware: they have ears in every pub; they have licenses to command the police force; they own the whores and merchants and the military lords. They are allowed to kill homeless men for mere sport, or for training their children to become computer game maestros. The rich are not the same as the rest of us. They are monsters wearing suits and ties, dresses and minks; friends of the arts; benefactors of humanity. And also mutilators of small children who have body parts they need for their own flesh and blood. They are not the same as us. They believe they were gods in an earlier life and will be gods again, when they re-prove their own cold-blooded weal.

Kings cannot lose. They can lose other men’s money; but not their own. They can lose other men’s wives; but not their own. They can lose nations one whole grip at a time; but they will not lose their own. Their blood is deep in their soil they tell themselves. In fact, the blood that is deep in the soil is the blood of those men (and ancestors of men) they have killed to make their fortune here, shrouded with myth and now with the glamour of nondenominational wealth. We love the rich. They are better than we are. We are nothing without them. Give me Hollywood; give me the rich bankers of New York; give me faces that live in magazines; give me plastic lives, plastic surgery, plastic money, plastic breasts; let me believe that my television is the new god when it commands me to go down to the Walmart and buy some form of lip gloss that makes me loved by the whole world. Popularity makes me glow.

Absolute monarchy. It is passing. It never dwindles.

Killers make the best kings. Thieves makes the best lords.

Snakes make the best queens. Chameleons make the best ladies in waiting.

16 May 2009

DREAMY DRUMS COLLIDE IN NOWHERE

Dreamy drums collide in Nowhere. Established rhythms break. Established creeds begin to bulge.

We are not long for this world of supreme order. The forces of brutal conquest are never buried far from the surface, always clustering below earth in a shaded realm, commanding the view of the soft underside. Viciousness is easy to tame, but only by force. We dare not convince ourselves that the world is only good and that all people desire peace and prosperity. The world is complex. There are many different gods circling overhead, circling underhead, claiming pockets of land, resources, reservoirs, demanding orthodox worship, if not preparing outright slavery.

Dreamy drums collide in the Land we call Nowhere. This Nowhere is bathed in black, covered by Night, is not bringing us something golden, but something unspectacularly remote and cold. Saturnian images prevail. It is the end of a world – beyond a bridge, a new world is being created, a new world is being born in light. Yet it is not easy to get to the new world, to that new creation.

There is a huge gap there, an abyss. We are approaching it, this gaping void. It is death; it is a horrible voidness. But it is not the end. Leaping from one womb to the next womb. Leaping with faith or leaping without faith, we cannot simply pretend that nothing is happening here, we cannot simply go back in time to that place where we had comfort and certainty.

Certainty died in June 2008. Someone shot me. Someone struck and kicked me out of the great sequence I had been inhabiting for many years. That was when things were kind, and fresh, and positive. But that has ended now; that reality is gone, dead, soon to be buried. We tally up the consequences of our sins, of our ignorances, of our victories. We tally up the prides and the selfishnesses, the sins of greed and the sins of abandonment. We tally these all up. And then prepare for the sky to fall and be broken on top of us. Nothing endures. Not even Sorrow endures. Not even Terror.

22 May 2009

EXILE BEGINS

Exile begins in the mind, in the heart. Exile begins as a rude condition created by an invisible framework, a fear, a vision of dark consequences. So many dreams that mean nothing; and then the dream comes, the one in a thousand, which teleports future contrivances back in to the soul, fueling apocalypse, fueling exile, fueling a nonbenign condition of dark salvation.

The devils are in the cards; but those cards are found below the water mark. It’s better if you don’t look down there yet, in fact.

Exile begins in the mind and then moves into the body. At the point where the body moves, the trajectory has been established and fatality is assured. Fatality, in the sense of destiny. Nothing can be changed. We are heading into the world without a care. We have left our home and family. Something is being moved religiously from above. Many deadly things will happen, we know. Many virtues are possible; but also many dark moments are activated for crime. Self-examination. And sacrifice.

3 June 2009

WHO IS THE TEMPEST?

Who is the Tempest? And what is a name? What is the spectacle of the blood that drives us all to this sad alley without light in which our own mortality awaits us? We are not dark natures. We are not criminal seasons. But we are driven here, down here, into the vale of flat sorrow, where all parts collapse, by some force in the sky, by some god or demon who derives joy from our suffering. We are not able to appreciate simple virtues of living decently any longer. That is our tragedy.

The Tempest is a force in our blood that longs for more, that demands extra credentials, that seeks to dominate the lost bravados, that calculates all value in terms of bank accounts and frightened manners of intricate gain. That puts death on a higher plane than virtue; that sees the image quest as the sacrosanct plank of common living.

The world gets ugly down here. The world gets evil and dark and lost and anxious and starved and crippled and cruel and anticipates apocalypse. We are, all of us, angels forced into a dark zone, against our will. We have been thrown out of the Garden, out of the good life, by a force of order that appeals not to our sorrow or suffering, but who sentences us to death, to mortal collisions with fatality’s vague promise, extended in space like a trap that leaves us no sense or thought of feeling or emotion but dread.

The Common Dread is, itself, the Tempest. The Tempest is coming, gaining speed over the water. Gaining a brutal name and a brutal condition of equalization. Blow down everything: that is his goal, his epidemic template. He will singe the world, collapse brick and concrete, scatter decent and greedy souls in the same wind. The Tempest will strike everyone, will not applaud the rich and the specially treated. Everyone is equal – and equally abused – and equally culpable – in the eyes of the Tempest.

The Tempest has orders: he will strike down everyone in his path, high and low, old and young, male and female, hostile and kind.

The Tempest is coming. There will be no rainbow until 2019.

5 June 2009

INESCAPABLE TROUBLE APPEARS

Inescapable trouble appears. What are we now? Are we particular shadows that seek to devastate the land or the landed aristocracy? Are we troubled incendiary griefs which produce multiple associations of broken conveniences both in social order and in economic contrivances? Tarpaper producers of unrest? Eschatological remissions from the grave teleology of Ezekiel? Gloom managers hovering on the white cliffs of Dover, preparing some magical injection of torpor into the bloodstream of rational men and reasonable societies, declaring war and pestilence and a prophet’s jest (with a long face) upon the sad innocent faces of abundantly decent families, stern men and supporters of the current order of peace, prosperity, kindness, clever remonstrances, and convenient defense of the existing calendar and ordering class.

If we just maintain our positive frame of mind we will continue to lead the world in living standards, military might and the most square footage per individual residences in the world – nothing to worry about.

But inescapable trouble appears, first as a man’s frightened face, then as a bent left small finger, an emblem of an open Devil’s contract with implicit trouble for the near future. White faces all coalesce around the dead face of a boy who has fallen down a deep hole from the high sky and without whom the Earth will not be able to proceed in a straight line. All progress escalates into the solid core of nothingness.

The Solar God has been killed.

It was an accident. No one wished to kill the Golden Goose who laid the Golden Egg – but now the act is done. Inescapable trouble appears, and steadily expands. It cannot be stopped. It is like a large pool of magnesium that grows larger when fed with like contaminants. It will swallow the world. Nothing will be left except gaps and chloride vengeances, and broken veins in old women’s legs that tell story after story about how things could have been different, how things could have been more benign, if only we had exercised self-discipline and good judgment.

Inescapable trouble now appears on the horizon. In each man’s life there is a time of light and a time of darkness. If the light comes in the first half of life, the darkness comes in the second.

15 June 2009

THE CHAPEL IS CLOSED

The chapel is closed. The doors have been locked. The congregation have all been given passes to Rick’s Sauna and the Crocodile Lounge and the Green Acres Nursing Home and the Twilight Bowling Center. There will be fun for everyone – until the fellow in the black suit shows up to begin collecting the debt, that is. Then the sorrow becomes manifold. Then the lack of a chapel begins to make sense as a symbolical occasion for the interpretation of a lost condition of soul. And then it’s too late.

The ‘tittie bar’ will be open all night. One can drink whiskey and talk about old love and whine about preoccupations with power’s decline, the waning of youth, and the promise of pills to reinstate phallic composition and wealth (for the two are mates apparently). The man can convince himself that little has been lost. But the truth is much more difficult to digest, since the truth is a kind of medicine that strips all pretense away, exposing bone and sinew, culpabilities, and shames.

The chapel is closed. It is not that the chapel being open would have made a difference – because the life of the soul had already vanished and been replaced by a middle-class, suburban spiritual motif, one in which wealth was the new garment, and plastic, sterile cleanliness was the new metaphor of healthy solar living. One in which extroversion was the law; and the laws of God and Christ were dismissed with a few self-flattering words, since everyone knew now that the biblical period was over, that the realistic phase of adulthood demanded different responses to problems that myth and superstition provided for a nation of shepherds and such composite congregations living in the dark land of medieval misunderstanding of the daylight.

The churches shrank and the banks got bigger. The churches shrank; office buildings got larger. Everything got larger: houses, farms, portfolios, breasts, lips, phalluses. Everything got bigger. But churches got smaller. And then the smallest church of all was merely closed, locked; and the pastor was sent away. No one needed him any longer. Everything was perfect. Everyone was rich. The land didn’t really need a god any longer. There was peace, prosperity; there was success and sexual delight; drugs and conditions of godhood.

Lock the door. Everything is fine.

11 June 2009

APOCALYPSE BY EDEMA

Apocalypse by edema. There is too much water here. We need to dry out; we need to unpuff ourselves, scatter our debt to the wind, scatter our calendars, scatter our scenarios of death by water. We have become unconscious with matter. Too many kings scaling too many mountains of wealth and glory. But that has all ended now. We are drifting lower and lower. There is a kind of death that has occurred as the great spirits have fallen down into matter, down into the pursuit of death, the pursuit of the defiled nature, through the womb of pleasure into the womb of doubt and destruction. Death. Edema. Tumescence. Holding on to things we don’t deserve and should not have too long as we fear to give them up, fear to have to face life without the objects that seem to shield us from all the bad energies associated with living, such as dark turns, poverties, losses, damages.

Apocalypse by edema. We are swollen. We think that we are fine but we grow fatter and fatter, thinking that this fatness is somehow the triumph over darkness, rather than a symptom of the darkness itself. Our fat features are implications that our lifestyle has become a problem, leading away from life, not into life, not closer to the core of life. A bubble that removes us from life, further isolating us from our real nature, our real family of friends, and creating the kind of situation where only a catastrophe, an apocalypse, can regenerate us.

Apocalypse by edema. We are heading into deflation. We are heading into a lost generation.

19 June 2009

END OF VARIETY

We have fallen under the spectre of the angry female. And now we are faced with a decidedly unpleasant transcendence: the end of variety has appeared. All the hopeful scenarios that were attendant upon the rise of the Moon and the setting of the Sun have collapsed – and we are now left only with speculation of shrinking categories of utter terror.

Nothing is for certain. Nothing except more angry women attacking their husbands for the destruction of credit, the loss of jobs, the loss of credence, the advent of shame, the horrible collapse of the dream of solvency.

Contractions precede what? The doctor asks.

leechummy@yahoo.com

delordjulien@yahoo.fr