DEATH IN JUNE

Dirge Written Upon The Theft Of A Democracy

By Michael J. Clark

House 35a

Alley 31/46

Xuan Dieu Road

HoTay District

Hanoi, Vietnam

mclark7@mindspring.com

home telephone

84 4 221 92210

DEATH IN JUNE

DANGER IN THE FORECAST

I.

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 market 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 night-town,

Head uncovered, partly exposed,

Cranium painted with an invisible eye of the bull.

II,

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.

III.

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 among family members

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 awaken but the sirens suffocate my designs.

June 1, 2008

HE IS LOST – AND HE IS LOSING ALTITUDE

He is lost.

He has been dealt a deadly blow.

Someone has killed him.

The bore Castration has gored him under his right rib-cage.

He has died from too much exposure.

Time is lost.

Flight buckles.

The deception is not enough to make him bold again.

The bubble bursts.

Air goes out.

Sparks fly; but sparks fly all in the wrong directions.

Herr Greenspan listens.

He listens.

And then he resigns.

Where are the angels now?

Why are the angels not looking for me,

Saying hello again to me, to the man of their dreams?

Why is the world turning black again,

Blue with intrigue,

Sad, lonely, incapable of touch, incapable of honor,

Devoid of integrity?

Someone asks where Noah’s telephone number can be found.

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 death and rebirth?

What is the fantastic excruciation we remember, Osiris?

***** ***** ****** ***** *****

Now, today, retirement completed, I am nothing again.

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.

The secret lies in self-generation.

This much I know.

How much of this is possible?

How much strength can I regain 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 except through prayer?

How can I pass through this darkness and rise again, toward my beliefs?

Down-sizing has begun.

Emptying-out is now the law.

The Full Moon starts getting small once again.

3 June 2008

WHERE ARE THE RUDIMENTS?

I.

Where are the rudiments?

We know that the Apocalypse –

Wherein all parts collapse –

Is inching closer, in the guise of Red Men Units,

Penetrating 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.

There will be tragedy in this.

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 ritual of greed and gain –

The bankers’ creed of false friendship greeting --

And Death seeks to exact the great price,

Turning loose upon the earth

All the troubled cadavers who take pleasure

In a failing drama

And in crucifying man.

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 a Primordial Force.

II.

Where are the rudiments?

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, Tantalus,

A paltry god prefiguring hypnosis as a frequency inside of which

Creative affixation can be begun.

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 fixed 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.

Death in June.

What comes next?

Where are the rude demons then?

Those who congregate on the edge of town?

Contraction has begun.

The God of Contraction stands above life

Shaking a fist and inaugurating mortality.

A contract has been revoked.

A coven’s aunt stands on a hill and shrieks shrike-like

About revenge about to be exacted.

Eighteen years of remission

Following eighteen years of contrition.

You must come to understand that you, yourself,

Are the Principle of Eternity, the preacher said.

That inside your own self

Runs the course of grave demise and inflated current manifest destiny.

If you do not grasp this thoroughly,

Then prepare to extinguish your light.

Game is done.

6 May 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 yet come.

But something has changed;

And the new-found reason (stipulation as 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 White Giant becomes the Black Giant through Sin,

Through the blackening of the Soul;

The Black Giant becomes the White Giant through the Fiery Holocaust,

Through the Fire turning the blackened matter white as ash.

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 occur because of an external factor:

Saturn’s cutting off of Time

And castigating the Sun Hero with wound and condemnation –

This starts the castrating act of the White Giant –

And the falling of the world in to a deep hole

And into spiritual despair.

The White Giant manufactures summer,

Wealth and all the other forms of life-pleasure.

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,

And by the elemental water.

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 as the Romantic Man appears

Leading humanity back toward an embracing of the Mother, the Black Queen,

Nature.

The White Giant becomes the Black Giant in time;
And the Black Giant continues to lighten and becomes the White Giant in time,

Becoming Renaissance Man at the balance however, at the Dawn,

Leadiing humanity back away from the Mother, away from Nature,

Back toward an embracing of Man, Civilization, Law, Empire and the City.

Matter.

Spirit-Matter.

White Man’s rule is a triumph of Practical Religion.

Pragmatism, of course, is a ‘skin of clothes’ designed by Satan

To make Man believe that the worship of money is, in fact,

An act of religion.

The world is a giant paint mixer.

Hell is eternal; Heaven is eternal.

But the elements composing each

Are in constant change and recirculation.

In goes Flux; out goes Re-Flux.

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 each,

Even as these are both created by the Pandemonium,

After the Pandemonium awakens from its sleep.

The Pandemonium, of course, is the paint-mixer itself.

Sleep comes first; then Evolution and Activity;

Then Sleep returns.

That is the law.

Sleep governs the evolution of anti-matter, the dream;

Daylight governs the evolution of matter.

Get ready to relax.

Think of falling in love.

The Night is designed for falling in love.

5 June 2008

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 --

Rots the 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

And cannot swim.

Alan Greenspan is a lost thought.

Greenspan is a lost man in a lost continent in a lost invective.

Nothing much good coming out of this,

Except the try-athletic quest for a man capable of achieving

The ability to disappear when the winds begin to blow

Hard enough.

Hank Paulson? Did he save Goldman-Sachs?

Ben Bernanke? Will he prove to be as great an enemy to America

As Alan Greenspan has been?

The white Protestant mafia on Wall Street

Is falling on its head, like an over-ripe plum in Eden.

The last grasp at survival is to let the investment bankers

Raid the American Treasury

One last, epic time.

Hank Paulson is leading this raid for the rabid rich.

Bernanke and Geithner go along for the ride.

Oh, well – let them fall.

Wall Street is doomed, as an idea.

As an idea, Wall Street is heading into a Winter Season

A hellish complication,

A freeze.

Then a dismemberment.

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 a new 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 be robbed and abused.

And to fight one another for grim methods of survival.

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

The Bible, after all, is history as an archetype,

This pattern of Nature’s most irregular regularities.

During Day-Cycles: the ‘Lord gives’.

18 years of plenty: 1983-2001.

During Night-Cycles: the ‘Lord takes away’.

18 years of hardship, political crisis, and social disintegration:

2001-2019.

16 June 2010

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

There is nothing in this simile that can 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 even ruder historical necessity f\

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 that became a contagion?

13 June 2008

WHERE DO THE DEAD GO WHEN IT IS TIME TO HIDE?

Where do the Dead go when it is 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?

Turn on the TV: watch anything but the news.

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.

Because I call for an honoring of the decent, peaceful and prosperous nature.

And no one believes there ever has been such a condition.

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 Chief of State Obama because his skin is black.

Or yellow.

Or brown; maybe gray.

It doesn’t matter.

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 today are turned against all other dogs.

Can I make myself invisible for a year or two?

Is that too much to ask?

Is that too much to bargain?

16 June 2008

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; something spatial.

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 before,

The one who never leaves.

The one.

Who is this one who is coming?.

It is not BHO.

It is not HBO.

Turn on the TV: they will tell you.

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.

That’s why he wants to hide for two or three years,

To try to get his vision back

Abstract the future; and then reap the cyclone.

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

20 June 2008

WHO IS HAVING THE VISION NOW?

Who is having the vision now?

Who is the man who can peer into the black cannister

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?

Knowledge is a numerical association with space;

Time’s girdle worn by a queen of approximate advantage.

And what does destiny do for us now?

As we fear the fall of the Wall Straight’s Old Parr,

And his subsequent internment in the land down under,

We are reminded that the Sun builds empires

And the Moon oversees that 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

Greedy vanity and condemning man’s arrogance to replace Him as God.

Jehovah is not my enemy.

Jehovah is my temperament.

Jehovah is my dream.

I speak in Saturn’s voice now.

The Sun believes in the unity of the spirit.

The Moon believes in the separation of parts,

Back toward a new unity through subtraction.

21 June 2008

THE EXAGGERATION OF WATER

There is an exaggeration in water.

There 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 ascend,

Mostly through the homage fire pays to absolute monarchs

And killers of children.

The harshest manifesto possibly 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 as they touch,

Becoming the apostles of their opposites and then becoming again

The antithesis of these oppositions.

Unity does not ask which side of the tree you are one.

Unity embraces all sides and understands

That the drama of life has only light and shade,

Has only misconception and immaculate 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 Noah,

The army of ravens and the army of doves.

And this presents to our eye a picture of reality

That triggers in us again a reason for our own existence.

22 June 2008

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,

Oor 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 cotton-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 the pops, the Sun breaks down;

The Moon Body takes over,

Water rising,

Destiny fragmented;

Time stopped abruptly.

Arbitrarily

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 circle.

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 carry me forward in my search.

But I cannot find the river.

I cannot find the river.

26 June 2008

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.

27 June 2008

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 fear 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 same 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 inside me 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 its pause in the nothingness;

The re-appearance of Horus).

Cunt’s traction.

Cunt’s trick, son.

Cunt’s vehement covenant, through God’s vain agreement to soldier on.

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 sinking in to blindness,

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 of 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 Crazy Moon, in the form of the talking 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 ludicrous 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 among 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 stars,

The explosive Wintry evacuations,

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 of 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 Night Soul,

In which the Sacred Spirit takes in refugees

And hides from savagery.

November 11, 2008

THE MASTERS OF DECEIT

Who are these men from after 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 having promised 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, better more exotic car,

A second or third yacht,

More investment for the future of your children:

Where does it stop?.

The world is a huge bird that flies and cries

And you have murdered this bird

And now you are all hoping

We will not notice what you have done.

But we have noticed.

We are beginning to circle you;

Perhaps you have not noticed this.

We are circling you,

Trying to decide what kind of punishment is most appropriate for you:

You who have turned our country into a garbage heap.

Objects vanish.

That is the nature of objects.

They appear; they are touched and explored;

They vanish.

Why do you worship so these object that vanish by nature?

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 remain 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?

Finally: 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.

Our own wealth is not the primary concern.

If we fail in a great undertaking,

Well, at least we can then claim

That we have tried to achieve something great noble at least.

Before we have vanished.

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,

Un 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, then north to south,

Subscribing a square, where the two axes touch:

This square is the Arc of the Covent

Made with God through Spiritual Man

And his opposite Animal Man,

And their fight to possess woman, the Fourth Incarnation.

This wheel is us and is not us.

This wheel is a carnival ride; but it is more, and less, than 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 own perceptions.

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.

And then everyone sleeps.

Everyone reverts back to One.

Then One becomes Nothing.

Then everyone sleeps.

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 in a rubber fire,

And then vanishes too.

Banks close their doors.

Fathers hang themselves when their wives go looking

For dandelion stems beyond the park to make a thin broth.

Mothers seek dinner for children

From the remainder of someone else’s dreams,

Raiding abandoned gardens where ghosts attack sluggish stragglers

With garden shears made of gold.

Here we are, dislocated from Time,

Stripped of our confidence,

Suddenly disoriented and cowed

Because of some magistrate’s intent to rob every last breath

From the old women living 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 confiscated by the government.

Citizens can only deposit money in local banks –

Any attempt to withdraw funds will be construed as an act of treason.

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 after night.

Stars walk in rapturous glory,

While foolish idolizers forget their own tragic sur-names

And believe their personal failures are insignificant,

Compared to the chlorine-smoothies being served between movies

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 and phrases

Renders them incapable of continuing to frown.”

That is enough to drive the masses

To ask for bottles of chlorine.

Chlorine makes one smile.

Eventually.

For ever.

The chlorine grave erupts.

It is good to die.

The earth is open.

What is the point of being bitter

About being deceived

And being 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 else 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!

Money has trickled through me,

Making me appear like a sieve,

A calendar with holes punch in every New Moon!

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 will recognize the new man I have become,

The new man who walks upon the tightrope

Seven miles above the earth

With no netting below to protect him.

He needs no surface protection now,

For he has become immortal.

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

Inclining gently now 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;

second, 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 a possibility?

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 something one can attain.

The American Dream is about much more than

Helping the bank to own one’s 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’s viewing of us,

Using our own words to most visciously,

Most successfully,

Most diabolically

Condemn ourselves.

Loser.

Failure.

He aint got a pot to piss in.

These are all vulgar descriptions of the brain

At war with its own creation,

The shadow creeping down below his judgments

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

And have said good-night,

And then jumped.

We can laugh, if we wish, just as easily

As fasten a noose.

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,

Rise 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 of Hecate.

What does the Moon mean to me?

Ghosts and demons and dragons of light.

Psychologically vast. Psychologically cruel.

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.

And arrogant pride.

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 manifests the king.

Holdfast, the king.

The Day Body breeds children and makes the women

Idealize its robust virtues.

But the Day Body pops.

The clock expires; the alarm goes off.

The Sun takes his wound – 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 breaks down, implodes, 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,

Becoming ponds for our own reflection.

The Moon nourishes the inner bodies;

And it also re-creates the seed within.

The seed in the proud father plant decays and falls back to Earth.

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 of life inside,

Where the amino acids are already forming again.

It is water that gives life;

But water also creates madness.

Up the mountain, down the mountain;

The push and pull of the tides.

Prince on one ecliptic;

Anti-prince on the other.

Imagery as ripe as myth, and as practical as myth.

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

Is that the Sun-Child already in the belly of the dragon down below?

Burning at a low heat, surrounded by waves, surrounded by darkness?

Cooking in an alchemical stew?

A stew through which the Soul transforms itself back

Into Solar Gilt?

The star knows nothing; but the star is everything.

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 here,

Peering down, as it does,

With an armory of steel exposed,

Looking for victims,

Looking for gratuities.

The Moon speaks Arabic at these moments of frail illumination.

The Moon 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,

Epithets of judgment,

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.

And Darkness is a friend of the lover,

A friend of erotic madness,

A friend of true love, unpractical love.

In the Darkness the god comes down to meet his own moon,

A daughter of man,

And kiss her with the spear of anointment,

Poison her with his talk of eternities,

Potions of magnetic hypnotic promises

That his love will be grander and more durable and more complete

Than any other man’s love ever could possible be.

And she believes him – because he is not real – not made of real flesh.

And then he vanishes.

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.

Because nothing from here to there,

From the apex of light through the apex of night,

Will be easy again.

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-Hero had been murdered.

Tammuz cried.

He cried out that he was being killed,

Murdered by political 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 Saturn, no doubt,

Blindly Brutal,

Brackisly Brokered,

Brilliantly Blackened,

Snuck into the garden and snuffed out the flame.

Tammuz cried.

Tammuz had a sister, Ishtar – Ishtar the Orchid --who also cried.

Tammuz had a wife, Ishtar, -- Ishtar the Orchid -- 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 operation 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 was certain;

War and poverty had been born,

Although the priests loyal to the king

Promised him that nothing of note had occured.

Tammuz cried.

Ishtar followed him down into hell,

Hoping she could save the world from its black cycle

If only she could re-assemble and resurrect Tammuz 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, their right to be rich,

And the fertility of life.

And he spends half a year with the hopeless,

The poor, the wounded and the unfortunate.

And when Tammuz is down-under,

With the unfortunate,

Nothing grows,

Businesses fail,

Money stops its circulation –

Money is blood afterall –

Money is the blood in the human form –

Contraction rules up above.

Tammuz has died.

He will come again some day.

He will come back again, to be re-born, at the dawn.

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

I am Tammuz.

I am also Ishtar, dressed in seven sets of clothes.

And the Law is immutable.

Cry if you must.

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 yet?

And have the builders all been sent to the Eastern Front

To oppose and seek to destroy the rising archons of Islam?

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 – t

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 conquistadores

Of noble material conquest.

Are we broken yet?

George Bush: smash us some more!

Hank 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 fornicating souls.

Organza does not talk –

But it weaves a record of lives

And a record of sedentary sedimentary natures

Whose thoughts take on material substance,

And, because of this, affect Time.

Who are wearing the brown-shirts now?

An edifice falls. Jews will be blamed. Blacks blamed. 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,

Rilke and Dylan Thomas,

Blake and John Donne.

.

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 the thunder 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 to be

The conquistadors of the new 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 association with matriarchal natures and its motherly contrivances.

Some Reichstagboys 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 the carnival 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? Is that you, Abraham?

Brahma walked here first,

When there were only shadows among us,

Only intimations of bodiless men

Who passed through here wearing smocks and smiles,

Similes and featureless conditions later described as 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 manly 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 now?

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 door to the dark kingdom

In order to save the Sun, her brother and lover?

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 dishonorable.

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 dead expansion,

Reducing us to rotten fruit, seed husks, seeds, then precious points

Inside the circle.

We breathe quietly, hoping no one will hear us,

Hoping 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 another word for this.

It has a name, a foreign name –

But it is not foreign;

We have not heard its real name yet.

And we will be shocked to discover its true 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 a-right a-gain,

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 ruins of discord

On the backs of a new set of commandments.

But then the same greedy bastards will ruin it.

The same greedy bastards will explain that their profits are 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 glowering again,

Idol-fueled and insane,

Vituperative and filled with the strength of its half-truth vengeance.

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 plan methodically,

ne 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 the chasm somewhere,

Hiding like a gnarled hideous venomous black 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 the Gap.

But he does not know, in his very fiber,

If he will be able to survive this monster, this absence,

This precipice, an active heritage,

With inverse dimension.

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;

Mortality now hides 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

In an attempt to begin to re-build the central core.

I dream.

I manufacture meanings I have carried inside my heart

In 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 Dawn 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 you own.

The Man wearing Black designates your town for destruction.

It may be a dream;

It may be a distortion of reality,

Manufactured by fears.

No matter what source creates this image:

It is real and it is etched upon this landscape by blood.

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 brother,

The inarticulate part of himself,

he 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 eventually die,

In order to return to the Shadow Land again,

o return to his most essential and natural root,

Which is himself;

And, again, his brother.

The man and his shadow are endlessly intertwined.

The Cowboy and the Indian are endlessly intertwined too.

They fight and kill one another too, but not endlessly.

They do not hate one another endlessly.

That is what is meant by ‘endlessly intertwined’.

Roots endlessly intertwine.

God intertwines roots;

And then the clock goes off,

And the roots go wild,

One root growing up,

And the other root growing 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 cut off his light,

To cast him in shadows,

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 its Summer 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

Named after your own father.

There is nothing that computes the dry mathematics of fatality’s point.

There is nothing that dictates taste, mechanism, or the machinery 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 part of the 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 heavenward, 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 centered on financial security.

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

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.

He touches the mast.

Someone has strapped him to the mast. He can hear the songs of the sirens – but he can’t take a step, left or right, toward some comfort.

29 January 2009

READY TO GO DOWN?

Are you ready to go down? Are you ready to roam the streets at night

To 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 that is gaining momentum and will slacken soon.

If the fall doesn’t kill you, then the impact will surely wake you.

Black burns and turns to ash.

The moon is golden.

The moon is the color of wheat, the color of a yellow rose.

This means that the moon is being observed through a dark pond, reversed.

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, the common doctrine of achievement.

Crude natures are now celebrated.

Decency is not a humorous exaltation of bad innocence.

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 arriving.

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

Praying 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, carrying cherries he will give to children.

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 factory 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 or 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 with annual donations.

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 us: ‘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, theft, con-jobs, greedy lies.

The gristle tastes like fat. The gristle does not make us salvage our truest 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 and sacred natures.

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 machinery for the perpetual increase of the capital system. This system-as-machine will endure for a millennium if nurtured and respected and, of course, protected by the government.

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 buildings ds not fall on us; or even insure ourselves so that we make a killing when the building does fall on us. That is the risk we take…but fortune favors the brave.

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

The businessman and the bankers have sold their souls to the American Devil.

The world is ending.

Saturn will now get his periodical revenge.

You had better keep your head down if you live on the north side of the moon.

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.