To:
Subject: ESP
Sent: Sat, Apr 22, 2006 2:47:15 PM
a forword
overleaves
Guidesmine
we stayed to surf
Atramentaceous
Kerouaccanalian
Furlinkyeti
Thus was Prometheus bound
Porpoise
GreyWolf
1 Morsatyrdanite
Vacuous Verities
D-1
I Feel A Poem Coming On
Read I, Recite I Not
Seas of Space
Blowin' It
Exspansieve
Autognomatic Writing
Reality is as you deem it,
Darkside
Reptilian Family Values
Eighty-eight
G'ddam Man
Maturation and Mastery
Notadream
The Game Is Not The Game
Pearls before swine
Ease Play
Everclear
Si ++?
Verbal Gerbils
Snowflake
Sur
To Be Movin’
Mike Called
Solipschism
Plato Knows
SimFriends
Onanomania
Journal - 2 A.D.
Half Empty Or Half Full?
Hey what the . . ."
The Look
Contumescent
Wagon Train to the Stars
Sixty-Five ('65 Scry)
Thiere
Usin Up The Future
Ruckus
Gaia’s Guerillas
Herstory
The Lady's Prayer
Midwinter’s Eve Again
Little John’s Last Lament
The Season Of Supposed Good- Cheer
Rain On the Heather
Propoetry
Nota Dream
It All
Dunitagin (Resolutely Free)
Kosmic Conscienciousness
God vs. evil
Sullied Similes
after The Deluge)
Rearward
Jyberwhacky
Memo To Michael
Backword
Thiere
I don’t look people in the eye much
anymore.
I just don’t really wanna see into there
souls
at all.
It seems that, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more . . .
misanthroperceptive and apprehincisive,
(or something) and
their is so much petty malevolence,
meanness and spite
in the world -
that I just don’t want to look
too deeply,
or for too long, into the eyes
of what few friends I have left
and find what I fear
in mine own
lurking
theire.
10/’92
1 Morsatyrdanite
Smallroom airpressure nosebleed soundwall tautaureally atmoshfearachewrecktonic. Cigabarettesmokearabasques
shaped by eonoverdriven airtones rise, as conchordilated
cilia writh, whelming enrapt in a subsemihemidemisonic tinnitususurrus. The Akashic Records distort, nanomomentearaholy trying to contain the burgeoning noiseffulgent waveforms.
More hair per capita than Berserkusly in its hey-heydaze
and no existential espresso dilemmalamas to dissemble and dissasimple. Any tonal comprehension fleesfastfowardpast
nueuralnets longsinceblown from maxinputpowders and continual sensauraloverload.
Ah ROCKANDROLL - Goddam RockandfuckingRoll - and Niles legendary Station, during its last year - April Fool’sday, no foolin’, suckin’ up booze and heavymetalhammer-ons till dawn so past “GOPAZZOUTONSUMMUNELSEFOOL” need moranmoranmoron c’mom, c’mon, c’mon . . . these soundwaves as radiosewlls willrushintospace, far past good taste and apace the speed of thought caught in a metalnightenregaleforcewind of smallclubthrashsoul.
(Just think - thistuff’le speed outward from Earth forever,
bigriffrippin’ at the speed-o’-light, out into the cocmos. Tearing gaping holes through diaphanous nebulae, aeuphonically wastewailing past gasping pulsars, perhaps even setting off some resonaolient scintillulullation in serene solar winds as it roars decadbescadent and godgoadingly loud offandaway.)
The ghost of poordeaddeaf Beethovan rotates on his astral axes at megamillion R.P.M. and SidVicious’s essence smiles the ectoribaldricraplasmically vacant grin of the theaetherically pithed, while everonward, a mobiustrippinkleinbottlenecknote
imbeds itself on the event horizon as I scream for another beer and count myself lucky to be hearing still and here on 1morsatyrdanite.
A Forword:
“They might not know their parentage, for the gods so dislike to be known among men that none can be found who has seen their faces wittingly . . . but they would have queer lofty thoughts misunderstood by their fellows, and would sing of far places and gardens so unlike any known even in dreamland that common folk would call them fools . . .”
- H. P. Lovecraft
after The Deluge)
. . . got up in the mist-dim morning,
threw on our suits and grabbed the boards, (all camo now of course),
running down;
down sepulchrally sylvan aisles,
‘tween ruddy wooden towers,
slipping unseen to the sea.
To catch waves being born in the murky dun morn,
hissing through grey on this another day,
(after The Deluge).
A time of sheer sport so unassailed by crowds
people being quite scarce, right here, right now;
an afternoon of hunting gamebirds abundant,
a woodsmoke cooked supper with sunsetwaves redundant
in their perfection and profusion.
It’s something to muse on:
things seem right fine to us, sad it all fell apart, still,
theres tons of tubes for everyone, we all get our fill.
So what we have to set pickets and snipe from the hills
at rabid Jonbirchers, sworn our hair to cut, crops to kill.
The post holocaust moon looks the same from this refuge
and the moon the surf frees still,
(after The Deluge).
Atramentaceous,
(in this verse so perspicacious
look it up, take the time,
can I this word subsequently
and ostentatiously so rhyme?)
Just how obscure can I be,
how obtuse my esoteric idiosyncrasy?
(Try to see . . .
. . . how deep delve these dactyls so deftly perverse,
how daunting this poesy dythyrambically inverse,
does it seem cacaphoric, dysphemistic or worse?)
If you these words follow closely then soon shall you see!
Let’s say: at the nexus in convergence lines of future probability
(only through erudite analysis empirical becomes evident efficacy)
fractal interfaces form fortuitous in elegiac effulgency.
This perception of time and such apprehension’s an ability,
(seemingly unique and all mine).
Developed pursuing lifetimes of timelines indefagitably
(these cubistic visions select possible paths to serendipity)
I can now comprehensively forefend portents perspicaciously.
Infinitesimally misaligned divergences detail chronology,
(developing as duly defined).
Thus in floccinaucinihilipilifilistic factsimile
(fraught with thoughtforms tightly wrought in taut threnody)
polyentendre’s purview scansive ensues as a scurrilous scatomancy.
So as a spurious paradigm this idiom savant sings a singular chantey:
(herewith in rhyme,
there’s been committed no crime,
I hope you these words followed
and found them sublime)!
. . . Oh yeah: “Hey, be mendacious!”
Autognomatic Writing
I guess I just felt the need
to chronicle this age fair
from a dictionarially doctrinaire
and prescriptive point of view.
So while my synapses as tiny enigmautomatons
conundrums in lockstep collage
my neural network conspire to imbue,
an anacolutic Kerouwackian persiflage
nevertheless from my flying fingers durst ensue
through adjectives as intransigent as that of any Solons’;
e’en though everyone here seems to suffer from ‘dumb ague’.
It seems almost as though
if I don’t use all these words at least once,
thus . . . and so,
they will fast and forever fade
none their passing to pursue
and their loss none know nor rue.
Bereft of their display, more dunce and fool you!
Backword
i hope i
transcribed these thoughts
as best as could be
and these then are the words
however much they suffer
from mind
to hand
to paper
to eye
Blowin’ It
Caught between the warp of imagination
and the woof of expectation
we spin, slowly.
Gyros gone, (bearings bad),
becalmed beyond a sea of stars
scintillant and sandlike
ubiquitously befuddled we blunder
blowin’ it.
Lost in a beer bottle littered
milieu of misdeeds and M.T.V.
A veritable vacuum of experience
wherein we sit:
spiderlike and semi-somnolent.
Trapped within thoughtships
whose trappings are silken
necessity.
Contumescent
This contumely, I fear:
Calliopes’ gift’s so severe.
It’s thus hard to adhere
to a vision quite so sere.
Where whim and caprice
intuition doth fleece,
inspiration and amusement retreats
from our now, from right here.
So instead of invoking a Muse, I utilize a ribald ruse;
and call up the spirit of James Joyce
(it’s kind of like praying to a saint
to intercede on my behalf)
to peruse, by scansion, the mews
of my rapturous vision and excuse
the pretentious perfidy inherent
in the pictures my words paint.
For at times thoughts are as dung
over ideafields long farflung.
Shall the plow then become
the Earths’ cicatrice?
It’s just contumely, my dear:
inspiration’s rarely clear.
Life’s tough, living drearer.
What the fuck, gimme a beer here.
D-1
(whereisshe?)
Away, along, a lass and a lad,
then thus so sad
a lack is had,
as has was abandoned
Done!
Seeheatonealone prithee
allone
seetheonewhereisshe?
Awayalongalasand
a lad
thenthusosad
alack his had
ashaswasabanned
one
D!
(whereisshe?)
Darkside
The dark side of the force is a god
who would utilize the mechanism of Darwinism as a means
for measuring the progress of his perfidious experiment.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would demand the sickness of a blood sacrifice from Abel
and then curse Cain for doing the same, save not with a sheep.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would drown all life on earth, except for brown-nosing
Noah, for supposed transgression of his spurious laws.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would obliterate Sodom and Gomorrah for experimentally
dysfunctional (from god’s point of view) breeding behavior.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would give Job boils on a bet.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would kill all the first-born children of the Egyptian people
and put plagues upon them as a demonstration of power.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would sanction the genocide of the Canaanites simply
because he wanted the Israelites to be living on their land.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would allow Bruno to be burned at the stake for stating
that the Earth actually revolved around the sun.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would allow the iniquity of the Inquisition.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would let his “chosen” people suffer hatred and have them
gassed in the Holocaust to supposedly make them strong.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would introduce the A.I.D.s virus into Earth’s gene pool in an
attempt to recondition Earthfolk into procreatively proper sex.
Resolutely Free
(Dunitagin)
(Claim)
“Train up a child in the way he should go,
and when he is old he shall not depart from it.”
—also sprach Jehovah/Yahweh
(Warrant)
Well, we’ve gone and done it again!
Haven’t we, Jondalf?
Once again you’ve somehow managed to persevere
(right well and successfully)
in searing what scant functioning synapses you have left to you,
in this obsessively ongoing search for experience through:
“TRUTH — JUSTICE — and the AMERICAN WAY!”.
Say hey, shall we, eh?
(Backing)
“Criticism is the attempt to quantify quality!”
— Thrasher, J.W. (Dec. 15th., 1991.)
By this one phrase shall ever I be
famous, or infamous, socio-philosophically.
Evermore known to this world, part of its historicity.
(Amazingly, it seems, no one’s ever said it before me!)
My man, Hegel and Marcuse would be right proud of thee.
This phrase,
the quintessence of my quondam quest’s quandary,
and the onus, and/or aegis (asymptotically)
for my compulsive resolution (reincarnatively)
doth quite well, I must see, (conclusively)
in communicating my raison d’ être and rationale (outrageously)
as an autochthonous avatar of all that is free.
Yes, believe it or not, my dear friends:
this is my “15 minutes of fame”.
Forthwith to be found, and forever fromheretoforwardly,
replete, in quotation’s dictionaries!
Seen as tag-ends concupiscent, quotidian well though they may be:
this only will I, as mine own, suffer to claim publicly.
[Far better for me and my goal (ultimately)
to be remembered for this phrase (exclusively)
than for any of those other undercurrents (subculturally)
which I have fostered (surreptitiously).
such as:
surftalk, thrashpunks, totaltruth, chumpmonks
“decent!”, “memorablabia”, portent, and aMused scrivenalalia.
So, thus and therefore, forever should all see
that, if, in opposition to our purpose, insistent are you thee
(e’en imprisoning Lucifer for supposed anti-theocratic acts of perfidy)
in repressive contumascinsouciancy
and contrary to Miltonian epistemology,
through the continuum of existence,
wrought widdershins, magically,
(irrespective of perception, chronologically):
Willfully,
skillfully,
wreaking a weasel’s havoc with guerrilla wit
(in bull-dogged determinacy).
Solipsistically assured, reincarnatively,
sustained by a molecularly genetic sense of ethical certainty,
everlastingly rebellious,
consistently contentious ubiquity
and ubiquitously unrepentant
are we.
Eighty-eight
Things are getting a little strange here and now
Yuno?
Alien biotechs abound,
at loose and at ease in the general populace,
wreaking ribonucleic ribaldry
upon the gene-pool.
Night deposits have doubled in the sperm banks
while germ-plasm gerrymandering
has determined the outcome
of the Super Bowl,
and ‘The Road to the Final Four’,
for the past five years.
I don’t know anymore what’s real
and what is solipsistically surmised.
Surprised I am constantly by
fractious fringe fellowships
whose surplices are suits and ties.
Their stock in trade
being surreptitious suggestion
and wholesale stupefaction
of rabid consumer factions,
(frabjous and fractious in frenzied dismay),
So I say:
the best laid plans of mullahs,
and obviously, D.N.A. . . .
. . . ‘aft gang agley’!
Everclear
Jesus, Ralph!
Did you see that pterodactyl fuck that squirrel?
Damn!
Exspansieve
In conversation with all of my friends
and almost all other people I meet these days,
I figure I’ve got about 15 seconds
to get my point across or they’ll be gone. Right?
Gone far away, their attention astray because I’m not speaking
in ‘sound bytes’ short enough not to lose them their way
(and just forget about polysyllabic contention in a dependent clause).
No mere lack of concentrative ability this
but an acute disinclination to think
for more than a few moments about anything.
As though any effort might cause their brains pain.
So I shall have to continue as a man of letters
at least, if not one of words
and with no notion of iambs import
fortunate to thwart
I can thus pursue this craft of verse
with no thought of responsibility
to anything other than Art, the Muse, the scrutiny of Time and me!
Furlinkyeti
Ferlinghetti, Mercury News, 3/14/92.
(“So I see this article in the newspaper one morning and - WHAM, I go all logomaniacal and obsessive; and its like: I’ve just gotta write this poem)[;>
Pardon my pleonasms, please
but,
the “death of poetry” is not “a computer”,
Mr. Furlinkyeti!
You’ve, evidently, become too cracked with age
(and synaptic stultification)
to be seen, anymore,
as the tar whereby
Calliope caulks her sultry scansive ships.
Why, some of the best shit I’ve ever seen
(verse-wise that is)
has emanated from the vitreous eye
of a small cathode ray tube, boob.
(Seems your acumen’s atrophied dude)!
So, excuse me if I allude
to your perhaps being passe,
or say that what works for you
is certainly not the only way,
is it, eh?
Your aspiration’s passing parsimonious
and pissing lackadaisical, I’m afraid.
After all,
every creation’s
simple exteriorization
of internal processes,
and as such,
electronic is better than mechanical!
I’m sorry your neural net’s
apparently
become so poorly paronomasianiacal!
Phoney byline of demand.
G’ddam Man
So, let’s see:
if “God” (or “Jehovah”, or “Yahweh” or whatever)
supposedly wrought form
from the primordial void,
then perhaps “God”
is Gravity!
Maybe the phenomena we perceive
is not a law
but simply the fractal intyerface
of an entity whos’ personality
affects the nature of our reality,
as dogma delivered transdimensionally.
Gaia’s Guerillas
There’s just something about her, you know:
Mother Earth, this one special world to us a home.
Just another planet ‘midst myriads to most she may stay
but to some, those that have heard the call, she’s MOM
and we are her army, nay - we’re her Special Forces better say.
Boddhisatvas be we, volunteers all you see to protect and keep free -
SHE
that called to the fallen
that so scared the saints
meanwhile a Saint called Catherine and an Angel named Michael
told Joan of Arc just what to do:
seek out Charles, (though he be unknown
and unheralded), give him The Message,
and then make him King.
This their alien plans to pursue.
The Creator,(slow moving) maintains his creations as vortices.
This I know, and this I do avow.
In other words: every incarnation is wrought widdershins,
wonderfully throughout and within, the very fabric of reality.
(But, unfortunately,) being is, usually, most egregiously misunderstood (and, more often than not) misapprehended.
A concatenatively contumacious condition of state
(a local phenomena) subject to modification
and subconscious conditioning, quite irrational
and, on the whole,
solipsistically insensate.
93 93/93
>> God vs. evil<<
Hello all, and, if I may, I'd like to opine. I believe this question to be the crux of a necessary paradigm-shift fast becoming incumbent upon us all. (To each his onus.);{> Unfortunately, our limited sensorium, and our hubris, cause most of us to attempt to anthropomorphize, through a missapprehension of manifest epiphenomena, what are, more probably, the effects of the fractal impingement of larger realities on ours.
IOW: Maybe what "God" really is, is not a "being", per se, but an effulgent creative FORCE. I, and others, call this "god": The Tao. (Works for me.);{>
Now, as to the subject of "good" vs. "evil", these are the opposite ends of a 'yardstick' (cartesian coordinate axes) your parents imprinted upon your pre-burn-in wetware when you were small. Years of therapy, LSD, or above average intelligence and psychological acumen can modify the position and direction of the scale, but, always, it will still just be a measurement of the local state phenomena of dualism with reference to one's own idiosyncratic ethical structure. (I just get this picture of a bunch of ants on a pool table attempting to label the path of any pool ball 'good', and/or "evil", and I hear some anty-messiah saying: "The black 8-ball crushed all your siblings Worker-12373889, it is 'Evil'!". Ya know?)
On a grand scale, much as we would like to elevate ourselves to the role of "Arbiter Of Universal Good/Evil", our attempt to place our own limited understandings and definitions upon the working of the universe, can only be a vainglorious, petty and incomplete projection of our own points-of-view.
"Karma (judgement, not: 'vengeance') is the way of the Tao (not: 'mine sayeth the Lord' - "God" does not 'possess')." (The way the biblical line was supposed to read!);{>
May your feet tread light upon your paths! -J-
93 93/93
GreyWolf
Under skies leaden
GreyWolf goes hunting,
his future tracking through days of haze . . .
. . . and if it were caught and slain,
how could that be?
Metaphorescent and red on the snow;
what would to be done then?
Promulgate the past with endless loops of leaps,
chasing that which has been
because that which will be is dead now-
can it then be
a fugue state of starvation
temporally?
Surely . . .
. . . unless,
pursuing, past sophistry turning
in a curve,
cramped and panting;
that which was spurns
purpose and presently
is\ will be
infinity.
As . . .
. . .under skies leaden
GreyWolf goes hunting,
the future tracking through days of haze.
Guidesmine
By way of explanation, most of my neologistic natterings are
extemporaneously effulgent - but supervised (and constantly critiqued) by my Spirit Guides:
e e cummings, William James, Rudolf Steiner and James Joyce.
(You don’t think I could come up with this stuff on my own, do you?)
They argue interminably over my scansion, about which latin root to put where, how much polyentendre is too much, how many puns I can put on the head of a pin - you name it. Honestly, its a wonder I can ever write anything at all, with all this astal bickering accompanying
my every attempt at creativity. Not to mention their inability to realize that I actually think in odd metres (like nonametric duodecameter, for instance).
Don’t get me wrong, I certainly couldn’t do without their assistance
as lexiconographers and vocabularians. {Voconstantabularrogantly profunctionalix vulvagrarians? [Sorry, I couldn’t resist. All of them (‘cept e e) seem to be put off by bodypartpuns.]}
Anyway . . . they collectively offer their erudite discarnate epistophilia and floccinaucinihilipilifelicitations. I know I can, at least, offer more than the bombastically banal badinage and banter of the boddhisatvacantly benumbed. So if you’re ever in the mood for some circumlocuteorhizomanticircumscript, as Euphonic Sesquipedalien Paronomasia . . . read me. - Jondalf
Half empty or half full?
I see the glass as half empty these days, I guess.
Having lost that perspective, that parallax
that enables one to gauge depth from a distance.
My eyes are tired, tired from having seen
too much pain in the mirror every morning,
and too much betrayal in the mind’s eye of my memory.
No motivation, no inspiration, and the glass is not a glass
but a sinking barge, water filling the bilge,
adrift on a sea of hubris
and I’m shackled
within this prison ship of circumstance,
and neither the pilot nor the navigator can see any stars
to take a bearing from.
And so I drift, from doldrum day
through numbing night
to doldrum day again.
No dreams of accomplishment,
no schemes of success,
only a sullen current-driven progress
through a Sargasso of somnolent intention
and the enforced sacrifice
of this incarnation.
Sent to this prison by my own distant soul, which doubtless
thought these lessons of double-cross
by everyone I ever loved, expedient, and good for my growth;
for reasons upon which I was not asked to concur,
and by whose contumely and ennui am I thus sentenced,
in durance most vile, to declamations of despondency like this.
It wasn’t always like this, though.
I can still remember a time when I didn’t see the perfidy
inherent in humanity, and misanthropy
wasn’t my constant companion.
(Are you pouring, or drinking?)
I remember when I laughed, and joked
and had hope.
All gone now it seems, swept away by storms of
treachery and dishonorable lust,
veritable hurricanes of deception and delusion.
Abandoned by those I trusted to watch my back,
as I protected theirs’,
I wasted my faith on ingrates
whose sole rationale was the recitation
of their own callous calumnies,
and the gratification of their
well-honed iniquitous insipidity.
So here I sit,
with naught but my melancholy to guide me,
and I doubt that I’ll ever see the happy land
of guileless relationships again.
And mostly it seems I wish to fetch up upon some disastrous shoal,
thereupon to founder and go down
into that abyssal “good night”,
suck the waters of solipsistic surcease deep into my lungs
and have done with this sad simulacrum of existence.
But the skow just continues to drift, and the glass refuses to break
so I’m stuck with my pain and the propinquity
of a life in which I can no longer enjoy living,
a ship I cannot steer,
and a glass that is, when stared at thus,
reflectively, with one eye closed,
indeed half full:
half full of gall.
-J-
12/4/98
Herstory
Most of the men who have made decisions
on a global scale, in human memory, have been mad!
(Now, I’m not talking about angry, or just irrational mind you,
but totally insane - due to tertiary syphilis).
Dumb lab animals driven to replicate and disseminate
their DNA, by the ‘indwelling of the Spirit’:
glowing dustmotes caught in the sunbeam of history
maddened by the exigencies of procreation
as they fall to the floor of Testube Earth, spent
and bent beyond repair in their belief.
Insidiously inculcated in cultural conditioning,
a Machiavellian malaise of manipulation manifests
itself as ‘Charismatic Christian Fundamentalism’.
Why do you think angels are always portrayed,
by ideations’ deprivation: in bright white, flowing gowns?
. . .
(What would you make of a lab coat, if you were a savage?)
“Hey what the . . .”
So what in the hell is going on here, huh;
and what the fuck has happened to this crew anyway?
Do the ideals we once held still in our hearts hold singular sway?
I suppose I’m struggling to simply say: “Are we all just getting older
and growing ethically decrepit, - ‘moldier’, or what, eh?”
(Seems like we’re losin’ it, you know?
How long’s your attention span, man?
Don’t just go with the flow!)
Be we by M.T.V.’s dulcet tune groomed
to conspicious concupiscence consume?
Deep in durance so vile it is
a veritable villenage of obsequious Spandex wiles,
be we just a market manipulated to a myopically cathodic cartharsis?
Molded by a miasma of modern mental mulch, omnipresent as piles,
do we defer our contumacious criticism
in surrendering to this simpering sussurus of subliminal lexiphanicism.
Are our ethics so thoroughly dulled
through an elegiac effulgency lulled,that a soporific despondency should thus descend stark and darkly
upon those former ‘misdeeds’ of daring, caring and sharing?
“We’re only growing more mature!”, you’ll say
in order to fake and make minor more minuscule amends.
(“My ass”,
I contend!
Say better: “We’re beginning to molder”,
and I’ll have to pass!)
So also may I say: “Perhaps we’re just not so bold
here and now, as we were, there and then!” . . .
. . . Can you remember it at all, and/or can you recall,
what was that we wanted; just how real was that call?
Where and when did those ideas, in conscious ken we forfend;
and what were the portents preceding our fall?
(. . . Long ago it was . . . and so far away, right around 1968).
So you see, our perusal of this: ‘The Great Co-option’:
in thisnow, thiswhen, simply shan’t or can’t wait.
While it seems as though
ribonucleic ribaldry has reduced us to mere shadows,
simple shades of ourselves as we were in those halcyon daze:
crazed by concatenations of crepuscular coincidence,
we linger, longsincelost, in a culturally supposed unseemly
and salacious satival, (hight Utopian), habitual haze.
Thus I necessarily insist, I now know and must inimitably so say:
“Real the vision, real the feeling, real the lustre of those days!
True the world-view, to ‘The Establishments’ rue,
true the myriad different ways,
we discovered: of perceiving and pursuing conditioning seen anew!
Through psychoneurologies intentionally changed for the better
by ‘acid’ and this then, our milieu!”
Bolstered so by these philosophicquizical realizations
so abundant and assiduously accrued,
we perspicaciously assumed personal ‘Aspects’ wherein
with ‘Attributes’ we were indubitably imbued.
Remember:
(back when there were innumerable people, quite cogent,
who believed religiously in everything that we then did;
while in believing and behaving as though we all were normal
nevertheless our neuralchemistry’s augmentation we,
for survival’s sake, habitually and unheroically hid).
So to this very day,
when we refuse to gainsay these sundry fool’s ruses,
abnegation disabilitating our plight,
still the calibration of perception compels us to conclude:
that chemical adjustment of ones own senses, whatever ensues,
is for all time in no way crude or rude
but fulsome and fine, (not dysfunctional), I opine;
and furthermore,
should be ours, and everyones, right!
I Feel A Poem Coming On
(as metamorphic metaphor)
Last night it was wet:
saltmist, a grey shroud, covering the coast
and in wonder we wandered around, mouthing animal boasts,
wending our feral way under transformers gone pellucid, aglow in shadow, way above our heads.
Watching sparks arc, high up on the telephone poles.
Like hungry early morning mutant current moles
we moved, snouts held high,
wanting somehow to chew through the heavy air
there, to sink teeth in those electric static snacks
snapping and sizzling in the seafog.
Wanting to wish the damp air to dirt so we could ascend,
burrowing to that wide open circuit, (whisker ends
quivering, lit up like little lightning rods in a storm,
forms pawing past buried muses sublime mired in phosphorescent fungal rhyme)
feeding like ravenous voles
on the edge of some rodential incandescence,
all the time.
Till, limned in lucent lemming forms we emerged on the voracious shores of that eclectic dielectric, where the eventides rime
(and our moldy souls
like those tall poles)
in constant ecstatic and solipsistic surfeit shine.
- Journal of the Second Year A.D. (After Divorce) -
8/8/95:
It still amazes me that I can wake up from a dead sleep, turn on my side, and worry, for a moment, at why she is not asleep beside me. Was she working late and never came home? Did we have another fight and she’s staying at a friend’s? My memory then groggily kicks in, and I once again relive the entire sequence of her leaving. But it’s been a whole year now, and if I’m getting over it, this sure is a slow and painful process.
I’ve had a few affairs, sure, but I’ve just never invested the time and/or energy in them that would turn them into relationships. I seem to be less than enthusiastic about entering into a new one when I can’t free myself of memories of the old.
I’m Fine
Do I fear people, places
or time?
The sublime torment of an intrigued,
or intiguing
glance, makes me wary of my own temerity,
and my reticence
belies my loneliness.
I do know
(this at least)
that I still strongly long for passion,
for languid interludes of loving
and lavish displays of affection.
Yet it seems so fearfully fraught with peril -
this touching of skin,
and soul -
this vulnerable vilification of
well wrought defenses,
that
although the desire is there
I wonder where
it all may end
(in more heartache? - undoubtedly.)
and I fair fear my self
laid bare, again,
one more time.
But . . .
. . .I’m fine, I swear
I’m fine.
- 7/1/95
I’m feeling very Bukowskian these days, worship of the grape provides some scant surcease from the brutal confrontation of reality with my long-cherished romantic ideals, and I’m getting some decent poetry written, actual poetry, mind, not the sesquipedalian paronomasia I’m so known for, but stuff about the human condition, replete with imagery even, (and few 40 letter neologisms). So I don’t know, ‘cogito ergo spud’, I guess (I think, therefore, I yam), or ‘spud ergo spud’ (I yam what I yam), something like that.
15th. Anniversary
I seem to have no past, at least
I can’t recall any details
of the last 15 years.
It seems gone, all gone.
Replaced by some
dull existential ache
that accompanies memory
these daze.
My memories of my marriage are
lost in some dim limbo of
aduous argumentationan
inefficacious communication that
cast a pusillanimous pall over
the wealth of shared detail
that 15 years of shared experience
should have
synaptically stored
and preserved in the privacy of one’s
mental make-up, my love, Diann, at times I
can’t even see your face in my mind. . .
. . . Alas (a lass), and alack (a lack)
A way, a long, a lass and
a lad, see?
Then thus,
so sad,
a lack is had, as he has/was abandoned.
Done!
Seetheeatonealone,
(prithee - allone?)
atoneality alongingone
seetheonewhereisshe?
Awayalongalassand
a lad,
thenthusosad
alackishad
asheaswasaband
one
d!
Where is she? . . .
. . . An apparent lack of recall recalls my marriage
a vague miasma of uneasy
truces, and eneluctable ennui
and hubris,
interspersed, here and there,
with the bright colours of
vacations to wonderfully scenic places,
and the scent of shared laughter
(at well spaced intervals, of course).
Away, along, alas, alack. Do I remember stuff like this when I am dis-incarnate? I wonder - do all the agreements I make between lives take these heartaches into account? For growth’s sake? ‘Tis the only reason I would ever agree to so much pain. To be betrayed and abandoned, again and again, in one life, by the women I love, am I paying off old debts, or chalking up karmic credit? I don’t know.
They say the soul is distant, unfeeling - I think this must be so, for I cannot imagine a feeling caring part of my being consigning my conciousness to such struggle as my due for so much caring, and sharing, and giving on my part. I have attempted to share as much of what I have learned about the cosmos, thru my 5,000 years of incarnative Sage-experiential existance with all I meet, and yet . . . and yet . . .
all I ever want in return
is some small appreciation
for data well gathered,
for dogma comparatively studied
and well discarded
for well wrought hypotheses,
and incisive leaps of faith.
. . . sometimes though, I do grow weary of the constant struggle to understand, and count myself no more than human, if I am occasionally beset with doubts, and overpowering moments of melancholia . . . sigh . . . ah well, struggling ever onward and upward as:
. . . vapid, variegated and verisimilitudenous
we vy,
and,
plying the repetitive metaphor of mannerism
we move,
through the sullied simile of being.
- Jondalf, © 1995
Jyberwhacky AI
TECHTESTTEXT
. . . and so that’s the story of how I was vested with the Bukowski
Chair at the WWW Univerity Of “n”th Dimensional Creative Neuraethiology© Physics. I passed my Orals with a rather lacklustre (I felt) 10 hour recital of my Onaneopus©: “Moribundant Museschatology©” (shortform); and was subsequently elected Salutightorian© of the obligatory Grand Piano Vomitory. But, needless to say, I digress.
Anyway, so, when the Angelic Host (Luciferian Rebels inclusive) manifestly decloaked on 9/9/99, and the ensuing ‘World Tao-Zones Index’© plummeted, my wetware startup company ThrashArt© went cortex-up, AND, then, my 1+?+? year Marriage Contract with ‘Celeclonal Drew Barrymore(©)#427’© was terminated in its third month for nonpayment of premiums, I felt pretty low. Lower than a dysmounted© HOLOSIMM on a melted microchip, I tell you true. Nevertheless, I rented a cheap cubi next to the downtown ‘Toke-It-Topium’© pissoir and dug in my plasteelheels, rationing my expenditures and flailing frantically, round the 10 hour metriclock©, with the ‘waldo(©)trol’© of my cubi’s holographic V-keyboard, trying to spewout enough CDopy© pusillanimous persiflage (at ¥1,000,000/word@Uscale) to keep me in tofusteaks, and trying to transmute my melancholy into something resembling remuneration. Transcribed pain always pays mohbettah bucks, brauae.
It was about that time, if you will recall, that President Hanks, just back from a State visit to Neowobblyville©, capital of the L-5 Republic, gave his now infamous “Religeosity-Industratareal Simplex (type XII)”© speech, which, I might add, was a freelance collabberation© of William Safire(©)wareAI23© and yours truly, and all heaven broke loose.
Feeling the heat of the Nutluddite© Fringe’s Basque ninjas on my exculpatory trail, I had my trendy Maoriyogibear-facitattoo© redone with a more inconspicuous mtlflkechatoyantGuernica-epicreep©, and decided to go hang out at ClubMadHedonism© Bayonne for a while, under a psuedonominative© personality rented from gNom-De-Plumes-R-Oui©.
Things just got stranger and stranger though. I ran into my 43rd wife
there, sporting new mams (she, not me), and a new beau (some codpiece-enhanced crackreek© CPA from Tierra Del Fuego North©, with a contiguwuss© eyebrow and betelnutrotted© plasteeth), at the nightly ‘JackoffJill Disco’©; humped them both perverunctoreally© (for Deco-rhum’s© sake) and ended up whipped and wayoverhung© at the Club’s Breakfastorgybar gimme-Buffet© trying to choke down a plate of ‘MagnoliaThunderpussy(©)Pooptarts’© and fresh jizcream©, while unSteadmanly dodgering© the OTTOmaided© cat-o-mime-tails© wilding Elviituvla’s© that were working the buffetline.
It was then that I had my now much valleywho-Op-ed© epiepiphany©, in an effuallgent© flash of agenbitinwitsitu©-IRMWsckt©-shortedtoground-threw-brainspam© so perspirinvidiouscicacious© that if froze the Synthlymph© in my stunned and reeling hydro-enSETHalamic© AIemplants©!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! - :
. . . “THE BANNED”©!!!!!!!!!!!!
I HAD TO PUT “THE BANNED”© BACK TOGETHER AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!
I was on a MISSION FROM COD!!!!!! I had regained my Guerilla WittgenSteiner© cummingsynsenessence© of NOHthrupFryedlike© centracontraility© of mythooze©, and myonaninkarnakitive© concupissantequiproseleGaiaSet-E©!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!GNARLYASSFASTANDSLIPFINFREECOOLDOODY©!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WAYRADITWAS, and well, the rest is herstory, as y’ll know, but those were theodoronodaze© my frskens, and that was how it all CAymendooBBing@. I gHesse© chew jest ad two Bea “ARThiere”©, don’cha’gnome©, don’cha’gnoumenon©! It’s just like Tiny Dr. Tim and/or Gandalf said, longague© in Fairway Park: ‘We’ve already won, all that’s left is the moppin’ up.”! The viewture will be shapesifted by GrindingrungrunniongrinninAOLollywaillin© young ThrasheRs with wetwirednetskateboards©.
{IMNSHO, there’s no reasonably probable [IOW: none now having greater than what I calcululate© to be an 11% (±2%) chance of consensocioccurrence© (percentages having permutatively decreased in conformance with the vaticinaderivation© of a geomatriaxially© continuiguous© AINcontraverticestringfractal-inaccessationablequationmodel© since ‘65)] bifurconcatenation©/line-of-’futurehistory’-force-vector-sum that will escape the substantive influence of of the 60’s, so get over it, already, all you fundittoheads and nostalgia buffs.} Progress, don’t repress or regress. ‘YAH don’t need TA wHETherman, for ‘lo, ‘WITCH-WAY’ this wind blows.’} -J- );{>
All comments cheerfully solicited - just a short one this, but this is what I feel I do best, I can, and will, if asked, define and/or explain any of the Neologisms hereinbefore created/used, and some of the polyentendre. Please though, be patient, I do have a “just-a-cog-in-the-gears-of-the-GNP” stultifyingly non-creative day job and some scant semblance of a life. Namaste.
*BTW - The Test: How many of the identified new words above can be attributed to citable sources previous to this publication? How does a Neologist make money from Neology? I haven’t a clue. Do you? Anyway, “(t)hank you for encouraging my behavior.” *
Kerouaccachanalian
There appears a definitive proclivity
to Bardic tradition so strong in me
it must inculcated be
in my chromosomal memory,
(spliced genetically).
Therefore modern ignorance be damned,
all my poems be Dithyrambs:
hymns of praise to all things Dionysian
whereby our spirits we raise,
invocations as free verse paeans
tersely sung, (in periastrophe).
So what if all allusive ability
on the part of the populace is in atrophy
we revel here in a philosophy
long predating Christianity,
and better by far seems it to me
than that dysfunctional eschatology,
(the one and only truly idiotic ideology!).
"Kosmic Conscienciousness": (transitive nominative),
an epiphanthetic compendium of perceptive/projective circumspection concomitant with an attempt at conscious apprehension and solipsistic calibration of, at least, a major portion of the collectively consensual conceivable totality of ongoing concatenate fractal oscillatory epiphenoumena.
Unfortunately, any rhetorician's prescriptive lexicography here may seem circumlocution, as the subject, intrinsically, appears almost ineffably abstruse . . . nevertheless, the concept is asymptotically accessible to hypothecation as an hyperbole involving a summary summation of the condign quondam probability-force-vector-calculus collegia effulgent, and, alas, will be comprehensively communicable colloquy only within commensurate shared sentient logomantic sets,
(the most perspicacious transliteration notwithstanding).
IOW: "The name that can be named is not THE Name".
Existentially speaking, "Cosmic Consciousness" may be experienced,
but not really well described.
[Many thanks to Rudolph Steiner, William James,
and my favorite spirit guide, James Joyce, for their collaberative though discarnate assistance with this attempt at an autonoenomically written denotation of a really recondite rubric.
{Oh, and by the way, as I and most of the cognoscenti
experientially concluded long ago, even major dosages of the purest etheogens, in the most pristine 'set and settings', could never be as salubriously effective a tool for metaphysically transcendent psychonuerochemical ratiocination catalysis as were
"Yellow Wedges",
(or even the experience of 'channeling' the Akashic Records );{>
Maturation and Mastery
Maturation and mastery most munificent,
(wily wizards will wince once and whine),
seem lessons so very evanescent
as confined we all are by our Time.
Phenomenescient and omniphenomenascent we loom
large in our ubiquitous cupidity,
whilst belligerently perfidious we bungle and barge
through life ,quite well programmed, we proceed.
Immersed deep in data to our detriment
missing all of the portents we do see,
passing judgment upon our perceptions
in this land, without honor, prophets be.
Unable as we are to calibrate
these myriad contentions crazed
wizened and whittled by would-bes
we continue, so blind, on our ways:
wandering within our experience
whence wasted and wanton we wheeze,
assuming the beneficence of the universe
still dumber we become by degrees.
So you see . . .
true wisdom lies in unlearning
those things taught to us when we’re wee;
thus life, and its’ living is suspect,
as we struggle, so hard, to be free.
Remember the 21st. of December
(Midwinter’s Eve Again)
This season, hight “Christmas”, has rolled round once more
And we’d like to remind you, as you’re shopping in stores,
That long ‘fore Christ’s religion co-opted this rite,
Down through thousands of years, allaying all fears:
The Winter Solstice a pagan holiday was, all day and all night.
Folks stayed up to celebrate, till dawn, with their friends.
Making sure Sun would come back, again and again.
Through cold rain and snow, ‘round fires all night long,
They sang songs and waited, misty breath unabated:
A vigil fair maintained, assuring naught would go wrong.
Thus we wish you good fortune, good cheer and fine plight,
And we wish so, remembrance, of this night’s true respite:
From the forces of Darkness, stagnation’s requite.
Enlightenment we evoke, from ignorance to invoke:
“Be excellent to each other!” and “Party down!”, its your right!
Mike Called
Sorry, but Michael wanted to interjectoplasmicate something to the effect that in almost all of theses cases a soul-fragment'(s)' "abdication" of either an incarnative vehicular choice, or a combination of primary, secondary, tert. etc. etc. had/ave caused an abrogation of the term's material manifest destinociation.
Rare instances of Taoic intervention, and/or entropry-embaptism due to mutualienexculpation (coruscantenative intentropic vortexveldtwellwall nexiall concresenthermiations, as it WereWilled).
For instance: the DNAvehicle this fragment now inhabituates was abandonated after clinical death, at 6 months of age, from anasthmaticpnuemenonalmalignment of the original bidder, in favor of the probibliorecombinawry "Gaiawilla-wit" of the present inhabitant within the projected purview of its milieau - body and new essence-extension revived, all traces of asthma and pnuemofAI;lure gone.
(A very rare, but quintesessentienThelemmaic Taoperoration:
AsinequantumnonetransmutantAeoneologikalicanthropaeagainAl'sLiberintentruedeathshun);{>
MR. V’S ONANOMANIA
Pound on, wonderbunswomen !
The future is about to come crashing down
on your seminalien Socraticed concupiscience:
gobs of bluecheeseviralslimeswallowing
sumshucksters circle revenently ‘round the women’s bidet
for a just a whiff of vintagestiff deathlustcurdcrust.
[ . . . meanwhile,, in an adjoining abbatoir,
carmelized all-iris-eyes shining with:
“Love me ‘cause I can lick my own, slick”; her ogleobsessed bloatedbratwursthunghusband
was whanking furiously on his priapic principles,
diddling with the livefeed display
where his wife was splayed and playing, plying her suckcesspool sublimnanalwitherkneeling succubusiness
whilst he watched, wondering who would get off
thisincarnatiedyad dharmaweal fistfirst . . . ]
‘Snatcwhoreorally, carnalicklewdin on this The Kid wasnot.
In Seminalaryan school all they had tauthemabutt booty
hardonly swerved to cunfewes him,
so he neversuspeckerheaded a thing,
banalthewile the massturdebaiting pimpherinhell
washaving herscrewineveryoneoncue, druggedandfrugged, whenever he could, consequimsays be dammed. Gofrigurs.
Anall this took f’revher to fingerout, buttwhim headiddled tit, tolerant hey new twat was twat, so nutbesotted gnomewhorewashe, she shed “whank who’s berrymunch” hand they wend their hairy ways.
The Kid’n’er leftownan lovived awiledinsin enemafarther
outinthewayback untrying two hurts to make amends
till atlassed they true grue apheart teachotheransplit.
Amoral? . . . dumbtotryno . . . I guess the testis:
en crudite verite.
Pearls Before Swine
“A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country.”
Funny, that a biblical phrase would be so apropos
with regard to one who is so opposed to the intent,
and efficacy,
of biblical prose.
Ah well,
what the hell,
even the Christians had some good ideas,
occasionally.
But, paronomastically, perhaps,
the perspicacity of my mental,
and verbal,
perambulations,
preclude my peers ability to perceive
their wherewithal and worth.
And the dearth of their perceptive acuity,
accrues to the conditioning inherent
(promulgated in perpetuity)
which is partially attributable to,
their inculcate inability to see
the acumen intrinsic in me,
and the syllogistic scrutiny wherewith I do view
this particular experience of reality.
Plato Knows
I seek not Truth
(other than in some ancillary fashion)
but rather Beauty
in order to bind Her to me
with strands of silken euphony
right well woven about
the corners of my consciousness
like a spider spins a web
with wonder for warp
and whimsy for woof
a fragile tapestry to trap
inspiration like a filigreed fly
buzzing inadvertent
into those strands
and sticking fast
to the fringes of my Art
PORPOISE
Our highest purpose
is to have no purpose
for in having no purpose
we imitate nature
in it’s great purposelessness.
Propoetry
The prime task of the poet
and the primal operation of poetry
is as with any birth:
to deliver the poem,
(conceived in some mystic mindspace
somnolent, nurtured and gestated in Id),
in as undamaged a form
as is possible.
(This,
and perhaps a possible predilection
to the sordid sin of solecism.)
Rain On The Heather
(For Wendy, a partial payment for future editorial services tendered.)
Silent silver rain
on blooming
purple heather
illuminates the day,
whatever my internal weather.
When I read your fructating phraseology ,
I feel your feelings ferally flowering
whether
you know it or not.
So this paltry poesy’s the
only way I have to say:
that your winsome wordsmythic worth
has been inspirative to me,
as a silent silver rain
somehow concantenatively constrains
the enternally effulgent coruscative lustre
of blooming purple heather.
Read I, Recite I Not
Not meant
most of my work is
to be read
loutloud.
Mind to mind’s what
I’d rather, and what
this stuff’s all about.
I feel I need not touch
your eyes your eyes
your your your
ears nose ears
your mouth
your your
. .
breasts breasts
*
Instead,
I wanna inject myself
straight into your synapses.
No chance of any dataloss,
no carnative delay
there, its right-
-here
one thought alone away.
So then, the hell with this
Iambic pentameter shit, its
way predictable, like
a time signature in 4/4
despondent and bored on a page—
—were talkin’ jazz as
instant apprehension here.
Politician’s gotta lie, just as cops’re always late,
only occasionally do I stand up and sing
(and then its usually in some odd time thing
like 5/4, 7/2 or 19/11/8).
And sometimes
through gaping scansive holes
In my verbiage
I fall . . .
. . . and I am, yes,
quite also unilaterally unkind
to my verbs, and smitten
with a monomaniacal mnemania
for modifiers.
And I don’t do
imagery
either!
A thousand words
(well said)
are worth more
than the sum of
ten-thousand light splashed
Seurat’s
plus one “Guernica”
added to seven Warhol’s
and a handprint
on that
philosophically absquatulate
and ineluctably infamous
cave wall.
Reality is as you deem it,
and I certainly won’t leave my footprints
in the proverbial, (or literal), sands of time
for,
being slightly cautious,
and wanting me and my ideas to survive;
I don’t feel like being followed, or hunted
down all the long lonely years (and incarnations)
by those who deem differently than I do
whilst accomplishing that which I Will.
Rearword
‘When a man has withdrawn from the world, it’s tumult often becomes unbearable to him. There are many people who in a noble pride hold themselves aloof from all that is low and rebuff it brusquely wherever it comes to meet them. Such persons are reproached for being proud and distant, but since active duties no longer hold them to the world, this does not greatly matter. They know how to bear the dislike of the masses with composure.’
- #44, Kou: Coming to Meet
(Nine at the top)
I Ching -
The Lady's Prayer
Our Mother,
who Art - The Earth;
hallowed be THY name!
Land green under Sun,
THY Will be done,
in the heavens
as well as on earth.
Give us this day
our daily breads,
and educate us past our ignorance,
as we may educate those who are ignorant to us.
Lead us not into degradation,
but deliver us from selfishness.
For thine is the effulgence,
and the power,
and the glory, eternally.
Awomaen.
The Look
As you walked out of the room where we first met,
glancing back on that place so filled with pleas and healing
met mine did your sad eyes from ceaseless weeping wet,
the look that you gave me sent my cringing wits reeling.
I saw compassion (and fear), interest (despair), and hope:
onlythelonely eyes through your long hair’s sultry strophe
with one look seared my heart’s cicatrice; ash and smoke
on the pyre of my misanthropy phoenixlike, feeling awoke.
I knew you not at all, nor did you know me
Unexpected and unbidden, began hopes wanton to grow
as stirred in me, something did, when you I first saw
and ignore it could I not, believing: ‘Love Is The Law’.
That one glance, as: “The Look”, always may I recall.
For looks such as that, forsaking Heaven , did Angels fall.
Of consequences heedless Helens’ tumble Troys’ walls,
as still for any chance of Love will fools Hope, and risk all.
Then I walked out of the room (where we never met),
glancing back I filled the room with wishes worth stealing.
No eyes met mine (still from ceaseless sad weeping wet),
so I imagined “The Look” I wanted so much to be feeling.
The Season Of Supposed Good Cheer
Well folks, once again, it is that time of year.
So let me tell you all a story, steeped, ages deep, in vainglory,
about this season of supposed good cheer:
Long, long ago when this world was quite young,
most people believed in a religion that said man and nature were one.
The symbol of this synthesis was half-animal and half man.
A totally harmless, flute playing sprite who reveled in life,
worshiping only the light, and all the folk called him—Pan.
Goat horned and hooved was he, a simple illustration, you see,
of the wide world in balance, nature and human life in close harmony.
But then a new religion arose, calling the innocent old faith perfidy,
based upon a concept of life as anthro(as opposed to eco)centricity.
With intolerance was it rife, and after its god it did hight—Christianity.
Thereupon, the folk all were told (andforced to say it was true)
that all the old ways were wrong, that the new god was so strong.
Thus the god of the older faith became the “devil” of the new!
Gross cruelty and persecution did then begin, and thereafter did ensue
the evil times, “The Dark Ages”, and more all should, to this day, rue.
So for all the gentle souls who were tortured, or at the stake burned,
for believing intheir religion, for persevering about Nature to care,
let us offer up a paean (or call it a prayer) to whatever god you dare:
that from theocentricity, hatred and bigotry be all religions turned;
that, no longer should anyone, because of their faith, have to fear!
Then this season might truly be, for all , one of good cheer!
Prometheus Bound
“Hey man, here,
think, damn you, think!” . . .
. . . and thus was Prometheus bound.
Un Canto De Desconsoledad
(Hello my friends. save this one for when you're 'up', and into trying to understand the experience OF despair - it's one of my better works, but, unfortunately, its quite depressing. . . . oh well, "Pain Pays", as they say);{>
Oigolo Pablo, y lo siento.
My lips like truculent tumescent clamshells,
bent on expelling that blue otherworldliness
that is sky,
purse and blow,
bilabially fricative IN seahoarsely proportions
(as real as romance was ever my wont-
AS WELL YOU KNOW);{>,
see me, imagine this man,
and watch me face my fate:
wending my wounded way through my thislife.
using what’s left of my wit I try to reply entertainingly to all the shallow conversational gambits that Bloviate my way of late . . .
So Still I hunker down,
digging my way backwards into the tubewormstrewn
notfullyfathomed muck
that is my memory of marriage..
Nada, nada, nada y algo nada de menos:
mi alma.
Even the gulls veer away
when they smell the decay of my dreams:
washed up on Eroded beaches of Passion Past eviscerated and gelatinous,
delaquesing weakly red
over thereandthen here - thinly blue, translucent jellies Delicately dying
strewn across the dunes,
Evanascent nacre, staining the clean sardonyx sand and
steaming in the sullen ochre sun.
That puling weak insignificant star
never quite dispells the oleaginous fog
that greyes my daze,
my gaze, my temples,
and my beard, Frosted by chill winters full of loves Feckless and fey, and aft gang agley
as once again happiness, in a most contumacious hauteur, hath fled.
Sputum of the sea, sputum of the sea -
sea that has become the world's sewer,
cover me with a placenta of courage
made from greenglowing E-coli soup.
Las gaviotas se mueren lo crepusculo.
Muda, mi amor matamese.
Tht waste-treatment plant that was
my heart,
still pumps sludge through Life’s outfall,
burying tiny pallid crustaceans of caring
in an effluvium of emotive tedium,
yet I totter down the dun dunes onward still.
in the waning sun of thiswhens afternoon
i stu,mble, numbly leprous as the ubiquity of unhappiness saps strength and spirit,
hair matted with seawrack
spattered gullshatseaweed covering my head like a caul.
Un hombre sin esperanza
que la mar sin las olas, y sin una playa.
Oigolo Pablo, y lo siento,
lo siento, lo siento tambien.
- Jondalf
Vacuous Verities
This judicious crafting of verse,
howsoever it seems hard and perverse,
appears as a whole universe, interior, to me.
Seeing people as paltry planets,
thoughts stratified like schistgreygranite,
with only writers able to transcend gravity.
So writing as such
produces just enough thrust
to achieve an escape velocity;
and ‘long starlanes seldom traveled
a myriad mysteries nebulous unravel
before our mindseyes’ trained inherent clarity.
(I mean, it’s kinda like latching on
to the tail of a comet
and being solarwindwhipped about
ones’ own ganglial galaxy!
If only all could, as I can, such scenes see!)
Writin’ by the light of dyin’ synapses firing’,
riding iceballs of insight so austere:
(probin’ parsecs of molecular dusts’ memory)
kalpas of nothingness becoming history,
pictures by mental instrumentality captured clear.
This singular stellar addiction to mindscrying transcription
warpdrives thoughts,through wrought wormholes of words,
as thoughtships’ cargo carrying visions back here to me.
So from spaced interdictions’ interpolation to pure fiction
it’s as fine a mindscape as had can be.
(Still the thrill of the ride, so damn dopplerdifficult to describe.)
These then must be only:
Vacuous Verities.
Verbal Gerbils
You know, it’s always such a tragedy when gerbils die.
Such innocuous vapidity and cretinous rodential cuteness
deserves a better fate than to decay to inconsequential dust
in some landfill far from home.
Rather they should perhaps ossify and then dessicate
to blow away dandelionlike on the breeze:
small clouds of tiny germinal gerbil spoors,
buff puffs of fecundity flying afar
and falling on fallow fields to root and grow . . .
. . . a new generation of gerbils who, kinda like lemmings
on their way to the sea, on a certain morning in May
emerge from their fields in various areas to line up,
all in a row, little paws outstretched, one dumpling digit extended
alongside roads leading to towns with pet shops, hitching rides,
and having reached the aforementioned shops they would present themselves to be bought and brought home
for the idle amusement of dimwits who have nothing better to do
than raise these microencephaletic, unresponsive
and totally vacuous examples of rodentia.
Then again,
good thing the little farts aren’t any smarter than they already are and exceptional good luck that they don’t talk,
or their ennervatingly endearing and pathetic presence
might provoke their being noticed more as animals
and not nearly so often as dustballs.
Can you imagine?
Verbal gerbils.
What a thought!
They’d most probably be incredibly sarcastic too.
I mean, after all,
these are the creatures who somehow,
down aeons of our evolution
convinced us to take care of them for no real reason I can fathom,
so their attitude
would probably be inversely proportional
to their size.
Think of the scandal if anybody ever found out
what animals really thought about us:
thousands of previously unsuspecting pet owners
awakening one day to the realization
that those small furry mounds of momentous mundanity
micturating on the mulch in the corner of their cages,
were actually acutely mawkish malingerers
who had millennia ago had malevolently manipulated mankind
into making a place for them, rent free!
Whee! What a sight that all those fallen faces would be.
That’s why the death of any gerbil is such a tragedy to me, you see.
Wagon Train to the Stars
So simple (really!), life is, shan’t you see,
though there will always be those
(and almost all shall they be)
who do a mockery make
of its compliasimplicity.
[Through philosophistry
(seen as historicity)
forever teleontology recapitulates
filialphilogeniessency]!
Thus, there’s naught that is aught,
save that that which one wills;
(no-thing happens from skills)
as all you cause to occur.
(For being is doing,
and ne’er Fate need aver)!
Nothing can you do
save that which ensues
from your choice
as incarnate, in full voice
and fine vision are we boist
(fair effulgent thus we foist),
our lifescry
according to our ken.
None and nothing can gainsay
this our purpose to purvey
failure save we learn
(and in learnings’ array allay)
that which caused us to here come:
from the humdrum ethereal down to here
forsaking every errant, migrant fear . . .
. . . we whilst whence we are wont
(for eternity’s contained within a tear).
we stayed to surf
What say,
the waves are totally buff
and some kinda’ tuff thiswhen, eh?
Waycool!
So hey,
while we in wonder wander willful
‘long these sandy shores of force
the oleaginous ontological ocean
betide, becomes our sole recourse.
Say what?
See,
we supposedly bogus beachbums be downright decent
at slashin’ glassmoothfast gnarlyass tubes,
cutback chiaroscuros’ limned liquidlucent
some nasty moves done by us demigod dharmadudes:
slithering sideslips to lipstrikes wanton freefin,
whitewater spumewhipped to windward away,
screamin’ ‘cross vortices breaking wildly widdershins,
shreddin’ swellwalls spunaesthetic in hyperspray!
Try to focus and understand:
that on the sands of time certain realities abide as ripples,
(epiphenomenological swirls microgranular in sand),
whose appearance and purpose permutate supereal
the ethereal collective unconscious and its’ surface tension
through scansion surreal and the expansion we feel’s
everdue our ideal.
So therefore,
when sometimes we with booze petition the muse,
of self induced epigramatic sententiousness we’re subtly subdued.
Still, as abundant as virgin births are these daze,
so we as metaviral avatars abide and abound.
Couched in our dangerous comedic sheathing we are found
to be ribonucleic acid gone awry!
Why?! . . :
‘Cause our vaticinal skew, thislife, thiswhen, thismilieau
is to train, and in training to remain:
warrior platelets, (everbidden), to nobility hagridden;
surfing waves on these seas in our brains,
surely our domain and dominion we claim.
While towards escape from replical overlordships’ repression
we move and the expression is: “slash the seratonin”;
(boards backlit and burnished by the light
of nightly neurotransmitterlit sessions).
I guess we gotta go for the ganglia gang. Trapped behind enemy timelines we play, hanging out and hanging in there.
Where?
Right here by this solipsistic surf
An ominous, but numbly numinous, sense of divinity ubiquitously
bitchin’, like catchin’ the best swell of the day, beckons:
one nerve,
one single synapse,
(‘just one more wave, eh’,)
away.
So you see:
we stayed to surf.
a forword
overleaves
Guidesmine
we stayed to surf
Atramentaceous
Kerouaccanalian
Furlinkyeti
Thus was Prometheus bound
Porpoise
GreyWolf
1 Morsatyrdanite
Vacuous Verities
D-1
I Feel A Poem Coming On
Read I, Recite I Not
Seas of Space
Blowin' It
Exspansieve
Autognomatic Writing
Reality is as you deem it,
Darkside
Reptilian Family Values
Eighty-eight
G'ddam Man
Maturation and Mastery
Notadream
The Game Is Not The Game
Pearls before swine
Ease Play
Everclear
Si ++?
Verbal Gerbils
Snowflake
Sur
To Be Movin�
Mike Called
Solipschism
Plato Knows
SimFriends
Onanomania
Journal - 2 A.D.
Half Empty Or Half Full?
Hey what the . . ."
The Look
Contumescent
Wagon Train to the Stars
Sixty-Five ('65 Scry)
Thiere
Usin Up The Future
Ruckus
Gaia�s Guerillas
Herstory
The Lady's Prayer
Midwinter�s Eve Again
Little John�s Last Lament
The Season Of Supposed Good- Cheer
Rain On the Heather
Propoetry
Nota Dream
It All
Dunitagin (Resolutely Free)
Kosmic Conscienciousness
God vs. evil
Sullied Similes
after The Deluge)
Rearward
Jyberwhacky
Memo To Michael
Backword
Thiere
I don�t look people in the eye much
anymore.
I just don�t really wanna see into there
souls
at all.
It seems that, as I�ve gotten older, I�ve become more . . .
misanthroperceptive and apprehincisive,
(or something) and
their is so much petty malevolence,
meanness and spite
in the world -
that I just don�t want to look
too deeply,
or for too long, into the eyes
of what few friends I have left
and find what I fear
in mine own
lurking
theire.
10/�92
1 Morsatyrdanite
Smallroom airpressure nosebleed soundwall tautaureally atmoshfearachewrecktonic. Cigabarettesmokearabasques
shaped by eonoverdriven airtones rise, as conchordilated
cilia writh, whelming enrapt in a subsemihemidemisonic tinnitususurrus. The Akashic Records distort, nanomomentearaholy trying to contain the burgeoning noiseffulgent waveforms.
More hair per capita than Berserkusly in its hey-heydaze
and no existential espresso dilemmalamas to dissemble and dissasimple. Any tonal comprehension fleesfastfowardpast
nueuralnets longsinceblown from maxinputpowders and continual sensauraloverload.
Ah ROCKANDROLL - Goddam RockandfuckingRoll - and Niles legendary Station, during its last year - April Fool�sday, no foolin�, suckin� up booze and heavymetalhammer-ons till dawn so past �GOPAZZOUTONSUMMUNELSEFOOL� need moranmoranmoron c�mom, c�mon, c�mon . . . these soundwaves as radiosewlls willrushintospace, far past good taste and apace the speed of thought caught in a metalnightenregaleforcewind of smallclubthrashsoul.
(Just think - thistuff�le speed outward from Earth forever,
bigriffrippin� at the speed-o�-light, out into the cocmos. Tearing gaping holes through diaphanous nebulae, aeuphonically wastewailing past gasping pulsars, perhaps even setting off some resonaolient scintillulullation in serene solar winds as it roars decadbescadent and godgoadingly loud offandaway.)
The ghost of poordeaddeaf Beethovan rotates on his astral axes at megamillion R.P.M. and SidVicious�s essence smiles the ectoribaldricraplasmically vacant grin of the theaetherically pithed, while everonward, a mobiustrippinkleinbottlenecknote
imbeds itself on the event horizon as I scream for another beer and count myself lucky to be hearing still and here on 1morsatyrdanite.
A Forword:
�They might not know their parentage, for the gods so dislike to be known among men that none can be found who has seen their faces wittingly . . . but they would have queer lofty thoughts misunderstood by their fellows, and would sing of far places and gardens so unlike any known even in dreamland that common folk would call them fools . . .�
- H. P. Lovecraft
after The Deluge)
. . . got up in the mist-dim morning,
threw on our suits and grabbed the boards, (all camo now of course),
running down;
down sepulchrally sylvan aisles,
�tween ruddy wooden towers,
slipping unseen to the sea.
To catch waves being born in the murky dun morn,
hissing through grey on this another day,
(after The Deluge).
A time of sheer sport so unassailed by crowds
people being quite scarce, right here, right now;
an afternoon of hunting gamebirds abundant,
a woodsmoke cooked supper with sunsetwaves redundant
in their perfection and profusion.
It�s something to muse on:
things seem right fine to us, sad it all fell apart, still,
theres tons of tubes for everyone, we all get our fill.
So what we have to set pickets and snipe from the hills
at rabid Jonbirchers, sworn our hair to cut, crops to kill.
The post holocaust moon looks the same from this refuge
and the moon the surf frees still,
(after The Deluge).
Atramentaceous,
(in this verse so perspicacious
look it up, take the time,
can I this word subsequently
and ostentatiously so rhyme?)
Just how obscure can I be,
how obtuse my esoteric idiosyncrasy?
(Try to see . . .
. . . how deep delve these dactyls so deftly perverse,
how daunting this poesy dythyrambically inverse,
does it seem cacaphoric, dysphemistic or worse?)
If you these words follow closely then soon shall you see!
Let�s say: at the nexus in convergence lines of future probability
(only through erudite analysis empirical becomes evident efficacy)
fractal interfaces form fortuitous in elegiac effulgency.
This perception of time and such apprehension�s an ability,
(seemingly unique and all mine).
Developed pursuing lifetimes of timelines indefagitably
(these cubistic visions select possible paths to serendipity)
I can now comprehensively forefend portents perspicaciously.
Infinitesimally misaligned divergences detail chronology,
(developing as duly defined).
Thus in floccinaucinihilipilifilistic factsimile
(fraught with thoughtforms tightly wrought in taut threnody)
polyentendre�s purview scansive ensues as a scurrilous scatomancy.
So as a spurious paradigm this idiom savant sings a singular chantey:
(herewith in rhyme,
there�s been committed no crime,
I hope you these words followed
and found them sublime)!
. . . Oh yeah: �Hey, be mendacious!�
Autognomatic Writing
I guess I just felt the need
to chronicle this age fair
from a dictionarially doctrinaire
and prescriptive point of view.
So while my synapses as tiny enigmautomatons
conundrums in lockstep collage
my neural network conspire to imbue,
an anacolutic Kerouwackian persiflage
nevertheless from my flying fingers durst ensue
through adjectives as intransigent as that of any Solons�;
e�en though everyone here seems to suffer from �dumb ague�.
It seems almost as though
if I don�t use all these words at least once,
thus . . . and so,
they will fast and forever fade
none their passing to pursue
and their loss none know nor rue.
Bereft of their display, more dunce and fool you!
Backword
i hope i
transcribed these thoughts
as best as could be
and these then are the words
however much they suffer
from mind
to hand
to paper
to eye
Blowin� It
Caught between the warp of imagination
and the woof of expectation
we spin, slowly.
Gyros gone, (bearings bad),
becalmed beyond a sea of stars
scintillant and sandlike
ubiquitously befuddled we blunder
blowin� it.
Lost in a beer bottle littered
milieu of misdeeds and M.T.V.
A veritable vacuum of experience
wherein we sit:
spiderlike and semi-somnolent.
Trapped within thoughtships
whose trappings are silken
necessity.
Contumescent
This contumely, I fear:
Calliopes� gift�s so severe.
It�s thus hard to adhere
to a vision quite so sere.
Where whim and caprice
intuition doth fleece,
inspiration and amusement retreats
from our now, from right here.
So instead of invoking a Muse, I utilize a ribald ruse;
and call up the spirit of James Joyce
(it�s kind of like praying to a saint
to intercede on my behalf)
to peruse, by scansion, the mews
of my rapturous vision and excuse
the pretentious perfidy inherent
in the pictures my words paint.
For at times thoughts are as dung
over ideafields long farflung.
Shall the plow then become
the Earths� cicatrice?
It�s just contumely, my dear:
inspiration�s rarely clear.
Life�s tough, living drearer.
What the fuck, gimme a beer here.
D-1
(whereisshe?)
Away, along, a lass and a lad,
then thus so sad
a lack is had,
as has was abandoned
Done!
Seeheatonealone prithee
allone
seetheonewhereisshe?
Awayalongalasand
a lad
thenthusosad
alack his had
ashaswasabanned
one
D!
(whereisshe?)
Darkside
The dark side of the force is a god
who would utilize the mechanism of Darwinism as a means
for measuring the progress of his perfidious experiment.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would demand the sickness of a blood sacrifice from Abel
and then curse Cain for doing the same, save not with a sheep.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would drown all life on earth, except for brown-nosing
Noah, for supposed transgression of his spurious laws.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would obliterate Sodom and Gomorrah for experimentally
dysfunctional (from god�s point of view) breeding behavior.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would give Job boils on a bet.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would kill all the first-born children of the Egyptian people
and put plagues upon them as a demonstration of power.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would sanction the genocide of the Canaanites simply
because he wanted the Israelites to be living on their land.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would allow Bruno to be burned at the stake for stating
that the Earth actually revolved around the sun.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would allow the iniquity of the Inquisition.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would let his �chosen� people suffer hatred and have them
gassed in the Holocaust to supposedly make them strong.
The dark side of the force is a god
who would introduce the A.I.D.s virus into Earth�s gene pool in an
attempt to recondition Earthfolk into procreatively proper sex.
Resolutely Free
(Dunitagin)
(Claim)
�Train up a child in the way he should go,
and when he is old he shall not depart from it.�
�also sprach Jehovah/Yahweh
(Warrant)
Well, we�ve gone and done it again!
Haven�t we, Jondalf?
Once again you�ve somehow managed to persevere
(right well and successfully)
in searing what scant functioning synapses you have left to you,
in this obsessively ongoing search for experience through:
�TRUTH � JUSTICE � and the AMERICAN WAY!�.
Say hey, shall we, eh?
(Backing)
�Criticism is the attempt to quantify quality!�
� Thrasher, J.W. (Dec. 15th., 1991.)
By this one phrase shall ever I be
famous, or infamous, socio-philosophically.
Evermore known to this world, part of its historicity.
(Amazingly, it seems, no one�s ever said it before me!)
My man, Hegel and Marcuse would be right proud of thee.
This phrase,
the quintessence of my quondam quest�s quandary,
and the onus, and/or aegis (asymptotically)
for my compulsive resolution (reincarnatively)
doth quite well, I must see, (conclusively)
in communicating my raison d� �tre and rationale (outrageously)
as an autochthonous avatar of all that is free.
Yes, believe it or not, my dear friends:
this is my �15 minutes of fame�.
Forthwith to be found, and forever fromheretoforwardly,
replete, in quotation�s dictionaries!
Seen as tag-ends concupiscent, quotidian well though they may be:
this only will I, as mine own, suffer to claim publicly.
[Far better for me and my goal (ultimately)
to be remembered for this phrase (exclusively)
than for any of those other undercurrents (subculturally)
which I have fostered (surreptitiously).
such as:
surftalk, thrashpunks, totaltruth, chumpmonks
�decent!�, �memorablabia�, portent, and aMused scrivenalalia.
So, thus and therefore, forever should all see
that, if, in opposition to our purpose, insistent are you thee
(e�en imprisoning Lucifer for supposed anti-theocratic acts of perfidy)
in repressive contumascinsouciancy
and contrary to Miltonian epistemology,
through the continuum of existence,
wrought widdershins, magically,
(irrespective of perception, chronologically):
Willfully,
skillfully,
wreaking a weasel�s havoc with guerrilla wit
(in bull-dogged determinacy).
Solipsistically assured, reincarnatively,
sustained by a molecularly genetic sense of ethical certainty,
everlastingly rebellious,
consistently contentious ubiquity
and ubiquitously unrepentant
are we.
Eighty-eight
Things are getting a little strange here and now
Yuno?
Alien biotechs abound,
at loose and at ease in the general populace,
wreaking ribonucleic ribaldry
upon the gene-pool.
Night deposits have doubled in the sperm banks
while germ-plasm gerrymandering
has determined the outcome
of the Super Bowl,
and �The Road to the Final Four�,
for the past five years.
I don�t know anymore what�s real
and what is solipsistically surmised.
Surprised I am constantly by
fractious fringe fellowships
whose surplices are suits and ties.
Their stock in trade
being surreptitious suggestion
and wholesale stupefaction
of rabid consumer factions,
(frabjous and fractious in frenzied dismay),
So I say:
the best laid plans of mullahs,
and obviously, D.N.A. . . .
. . . �aft gang agley�!
Everclear
Jesus, Ralph!
Did you see that pterodactyl fuck that squirrel?
Damn!
Exspansieve
In conversation with all of my friends
and almost all other people I meet these days,
I figure I�ve got about 15 seconds
to get my point across or they�ll be gone. Right?
Gone far away, their attention astray because I�m not speaking
in �sound bytes� short enough not to lose them their way
(and just forget about polysyllabic contention in a dependent clause).
No mere lack of concentrative ability this
but an acute disinclination to think
for more than a few moments about anything.
As though any effort might cause their brains pain.
So I shall have to continue as a man of letters
at least, if not one of words
and with no notion of iambs import
fortunate to thwart
I can thus pursue this craft of verse
with no thought of responsibility
to anything other than Art, the Muse, the scrutiny of Time and me!
Furlinkyeti
Ferlinghetti, Mercury News, 3/14/92.
(�So I see this article in the newspaper one morning and - WHAM, I go all logomaniacal and obsessive; and its like: I�ve just gotta write this poem)[;>
Pardon my pleonasms, please
but,
the �death of poetry� is not �a computer�,
Mr. Furlinkyeti!
You�ve, evidently, become too cracked with age
(and synaptic stultification)
to be seen, anymore,
as the tar whereby
Calliope caulks her sultry scansive ships.
Why, some of the best shit I�ve ever seen
(verse-wise that is)
has emanated from the vitreous eye
of a small cathode ray tube, boob.
(Seems your acumen�s atrophied dude)!
So, excuse me if I allude
to your perhaps being passe,
or say that what works for you
is certainly not the only way,
is it, eh?
Your aspiration�s passing parsimonious
and pissing lackadaisical, I�m afraid.
After all,
every creation�s
simple exteriorization
of internal processes,
and as such,
electronic is better than mechanical!
I�m sorry your neural net�s
apparently
become so poorly paronomasianiacal!
Phoney byline of demand.
G�ddam Man
So, let�s see:
if �God� (or �Jehovah�, or �Yahweh� or whatever)
supposedly wrought form
from the primordial void,
then perhaps �God�
is Gravity!
Maybe the phenomena we perceive
is not a law
but simply the fractal intyerface
of an entity whos� personality
affects the nature of our reality,
as dogma delivered transdimensionally.
Gaia�s Guerillas
There�s just something about her, you know:
Mother Earth, this one special world to us a home.
Just another planet �midst myriads to most she may stay
but to some, those that have heard the call, she�s MOM
and we are her army, nay - we�re her Special Forces better say.
Boddhisatvas be we, volunteers all you see to protect and keep free -
SHE
that called to the fallen
that so scared the saints
meanwhile a Saint called Catherine and an Angel named Michael
told Joan of Arc just what to do:
seek out Charles, (though he be unknown
and unheralded), give him The Message,
and then make him King.
This their alien plans to pursue.
The Creator,(slow moving) maintains his creations as vortices.
This I know, and this I do avow.
In other words: every incarnation is wrought widdershins,
wonderfully throughout and within, the very fabric of reality.
(But, unfortunately,) being is, usually, most egregiously misunderstood (and, more often than not) misapprehended.
A concatenatively contumacious condition of state
(a local phenomena) subject to modification
and subconscious conditioning, quite irrational
and, on the whole,
solipsistically insensate.
93 93/93
God vs. evil<<
Hello all, and, if I may, I'd like to opine. I believe this question to be the crux of a necessary paradigm-shift fast becoming incumbent upon us all. (To each his onus.);{> Unfortunately, our limited sensorium, and our hubris, cause most of us to attempt to anthropomorphize, through a missapprehension of manifest epiphenomena, what are, more probably, the effects of the fractal impingement of larger realities on ours.
IOW: Maybe what "God" really is, is not a "being", per se, but an effulgent creative FORCE. I, and others, call this "god": The Tao. (Works for me.);{>
Now, as to the subject of "good" vs. "evil", these are the opposite ends of a 'yardstick' (cartesian coordinate axes) your parents imprinted upon your pre-burn-in wetware when you were small. Years of therapy, LSD, or above average intelligence and psychological acumen can modify the position and direction of the scale, but, always, it will still just be a measurement of the local state phenomena of dualism with reference to one's own idiosyncratic ethical structure. (I just get this picture of a bunch of ants on a pool table attempting to label the path of any pool ball 'good', and/or "evil", and I hear some anty-messiah saying: "The black 8-ball crushed all your siblings Worker-12373889, it is 'Evil'!". Ya know?)
On a grand scale, much as we would like to elevate ourselves to the role of "Arbiter Of Universal Good/Evil", our attempt to place our own limited understandings and definitions upon the working of the universe, can only be a vainglorious, petty and incomplete projection of our own points-of-view.
"Karma (judgement, not: 'vengeance') is the way of the Tao (not: 'mine sayeth the Lord' - "God" does not 'possess')." (The way the biblical line was supposed to read!);{>
May your feet tread light upon your paths! -J-
93 93/93
GreyWolf
Under skies leaden
GreyWolf goes hunting,
his future tracking through days of haze . . .
. . . and if it were caught and slain,
how could that be?
Metaphorescent and red on the snow;
what would to be done then?
Promulgate the past with endless loops of leaps,
chasing that which has been
because that which will be is dead now-
can it then be
a fugue state of starvation
temporally?
Surely . . .
. . . unless,
pursuing, past sophistry turning
in a curve,
cramped and panting;
that which was spurns
purpose and presently
is\ will be
infinity.
As . . .
. . .under skies leaden
GreyWolf goes hunting,
the future tracking through days of haze.
Guidesmine
By way of explanation, most of my neologistic natterings are
extemporaneously effulgent - but supervised (and constantly critiqued) by my Spirit Guides:
e e cummings, William James, Rudolf Steiner and James Joyce.
(You don�t think I could come up with this stuff on my own, do you?)
They argue interminably over my scansion, about which latin root to put where, how much polyentendre is too much, how many puns I can put on the head of a pin - you name it. Honestly, its a wonder I can ever write anything at all, with all this astal bickering accompanying
my every attempt at creativity. Not to mention their inability to realize that I actually think in odd metres (like nonametric duodecameter, for instance).
Don�t get me wrong, I certainly couldn�t do without their assistance
as lexiconographers and vocabularians. {Voconstantabularrogantly profunctionalix vulvagrarians? [Sorry, I couldn�t resist. All of them (�cept e e) seem to be put off by bodypartpuns.]}
Anyway . . . they collectively offer their erudite discarnate epistophilia and floccinaucinihilipilifelicitations. I know I can, at least, offer more than the bombastically banal badinage and banter of the boddhisatvacantly benumbed. So if you�re ever in the mood for some circumlocuteorhizomanticircumscript, as Euphonic Sesquipedalien Paronomasia . . . read me. - Jondalf
Half empty or half full?
I see the glass as half empty these days, I guess.
Having lost that perspective, that parallax
that enables one to gauge depth from a distance.
My eyes are tired, tired from having seen
too much pain in the mirror every morning,
and too much betrayal in the mind�s eye of my memory.
No motivation, no inspiration, and the glass is not a glass
but a sinking barge, water filling the bilge,
adrift on a sea of hubris
and I�m shackled
within this prison ship of circumstance,
and neither the pilot nor the navigator can see any stars
to take a bearing from.
And so I drift, from doldrum day
through numbing night
to doldrum day again.
No dreams of accomplishment,
no schemes of success,
only a sullen current-driven progress
through a Sargasso of somnolent intention
and the enforced sacrifice
of this incarnation.
Sent to this prison by my own distant soul, which doubtless
thought these lessons of double-cross
by everyone I ever loved, expedient, and good for my growth;
for reasons upon which I was not asked to concur,
and by whose contumely and ennui am I thus sentenced,
in durance most vile, to declamations of despondency like this.
It wasn�t always like this, though.
I can still remember a time when I didn�t see the perfidy
inherent in humanity, and misanthropy
wasn�t my constant companion.
(Are you pouring, or drinking?)
I remember when I laughed, and joked
and had hope.
All gone now it seems, swept away by storms of
treachery and dishonorable lust,
veritable hurricanes of deception and delusion.
Abandoned by those I trusted to watch my back,
as I protected theirs�,
I wasted my faith on ingrates
whose sole rationale was the recitation
of their own callous calumnies,
and the gratification of their
well-honed iniquitous insipidity.
So here I sit,
with naught but my melancholy to guide me,
and I doubt that I�ll ever see the happy land
of guileless relationships again.
And mostly it seems I wish to fetch up upon some disastrous shoal,
thereupon to founder and go down
into that abyssal �good night�,
suck the waters of solipsistic surcease deep into my lungs
and have done with this sad simulacrum of existence.
But the skow just continues to drift, and the glass refuses to break
so I�m stuck with my pain and the propinquity
of a life in which I can no longer enjoy living,
a ship I cannot steer,
and a glass that is, when stared at thus,
reflectively, with one eye closed,
indeed half full:
half full of gall.
-J-
12/4/98
Herstory
Most of the men who have made decisions
on a global scale, in human memory, have been mad!
(Now, I�m not talking about angry, or just irrational mind you,
but totally insane - due to tertiary syphilis).
Dumb lab animals driven to replicate and disseminate
their DNA, by the �indwelling of the Spirit�:
glowing dustmotes caught in the sunbeam of history
maddened by the exigencies of procreation
as they fall to the floor of Testube Earth, spent
and bent beyond repair in their belief.
Insidiously inculcated in cultural conditioning,
a Machiavellian malaise of manipulation manifests
itself as �Charismatic Christian Fundamentalism�.
Why do you think angels are always portrayed,
by ideations� deprivation: in bright white, flowing gowns?
. . .
(What would you make of a lab coat, if you were a savage?)
�Hey what the . . .�
So what in the hell is going on here, huh;
and what the fuck has happened to this crew anyway?
Do the ideals we once held still in our hearts hold singular sway?
I suppose I�m struggling to simply say: �Are we all just getting older
and growing ethically decrepit, - �moldier�, or what, eh?�
(Seems like we�re losin� it, you know?
How long�s your attention span, man?
Don�t just go with the flow!)
Be we by M.T.V.�s dulcet tune groomed
to conspicious concupiscence consume?
Deep in durance so vile it is
a veritable villenage of obsequious Spandex wiles,
be we just a market manipulated to a myopically cathodic cartharsis?
Molded by a miasma of modern mental mulch, omnipresent as piles,
do we defer our contumacious criticism
in surrendering to this simpering sussurus of subliminal lexiphanicism.
Are our ethics so thoroughly dulled
through an elegiac effulgency lulled,that a soporific despondency should thus descend stark and darkly
upon those former �misdeeds� of daring, caring and sharing?
�We�re only growing more mature!�, you�ll say
in order to fake and make minor more minuscule amends.
(�My ass�,
I contend!
Say better: �We�re beginning to molder�,
and I�ll have to pass!)
So also may I say: �Perhaps we�re just not so bold
here and now, as we were, there and then!� . . .
. . . Can you remember it at all, and/or can you recall,
what was that we wanted; just how real was that call?
Where and when did those ideas, in conscious ken we forfend;
and what were the portents preceding our fall?
(. . . Long ago it was . . . and so far away, right around 1968).
So you see, our perusal of this: �The Great Co-option�:
in thisnow, thiswhen, simply shan�t or can�t wait.
While it seems as though
ribonucleic ribaldry has reduced us to mere shadows,
simple shades of ourselves as we were in those halcyon daze:
crazed by concatenations of crepuscular coincidence,
we linger, longsincelost, in a culturally supposed unseemly
and salacious satival, (hight Utopian), habitual haze.
Thus I necessarily insist, I now know and must inimitably so say:
�Real the vision, real the feeling, real the lustre of those days!
True the world-view, to �The Establishments� rue,
true the myriad different ways,
we discovered: of perceiving and pursuing conditioning seen anew!
Through psychoneurologies intentionally changed for the better
by �acid� and this then, our milieu!�
Bolstered so by these philosophicquizical realizations
so abundant and assiduously accrued,
we perspicaciously assumed personal �Aspects� wherein
with �Attributes� we were indubitably imbued.
Remember:
(back when there were innumerable people, quite cogent,
who believed religiously in everything that we then did;
while in believing and behaving as though we all were normal
nevertheless our neuralchemistry�s augmentation we,
for survival�s sake, habitually and unheroically hid).
So to this very day,
when we refuse to gainsay these sundry fool�s ruses,
abnegation disabilitating our plight,
still the calibration of perception compels us to conclude:
that chemical adjustment of ones own senses, whatever ensues,
is for all time in no way crude or rude
but fulsome and fine, (not dysfunctional), I opine;
and furthermore,
should be ours, and everyones, right!
I Feel A Poem Coming On
(as metamorphic metaphor)
Last night it was wet:
saltmist, a grey shroud, covering the coast
and in wonder we wandered around, mouthing animal boasts,
wending our feral way under transformers gone pellucid, aglow in shadow, way above our heads.
Watching sparks arc, high up on the telephone poles.
Like hungry early morning mutant current moles
we moved, snouts held high,
wanting somehow to chew through the heavy air
there, to sink teeth in those electric static snacks
snapping and sizzling in the seafog.
Wanting to wish the damp air to dirt so we could ascend,
burrowing to that wide open circuit, (whisker ends
quivering, lit up like little lightning rods in a storm,
forms pawing past buried muses sublime mired in phosphorescent fungal rhyme)
feeding like ravenous voles
on the edge of some rodential incandescence,
all the time.
Till, limned in lucent lemming forms we emerged on the voracious shores of that eclectic dielectric, where the eventides rime
(and our moldy souls
like those tall poles)
in constant ecstatic and solipsistic surfeit shine.
- Journal of the Second Year A.D. (After Divorce) -
8/8/95:
It still amazes me that I can wake up from a dead sleep, turn on my side, and worry, for a moment, at why she is not asleep beside me. Was she working late and never came home? Did we have another fight and she�s staying at a friend�s? My memory then groggily kicks in, and I once again relive the entire sequence of her leaving. But it�s been a whole year now, and if I�m getting over it, this sure is a slow and painful process.
I�ve had a few affairs, sure, but I�ve just never invested the time and/or energy in them that would turn them into relationships. I seem to be less than enthusiastic about entering into a new one when I can�t free myself of memories of the old.
I�m Fine
Do I fear people, places
or time?
The sublime torment of an intrigued,
or intiguing
glance, makes me wary of my own temerity,
and my reticence
belies my loneliness.
I do know
(this at least)
that I still strongly long for passion,
for languid interludes of loving
and lavish displays of affection.
Yet it seems so fearfully fraught with peril -
this touching of skin,
and soul -
this vulnerable vilification of
well wrought defenses,
that
although the desire is there
I wonder where
it all may end
(in more heartache? - undoubtedly.)
and I fair fear my self
laid bare, again,
one more time.
But . . .
. . .I�m fine, I swear
I�m fine.
- 7/1/95
I�m feeling very Bukowskian these days, worship of the grape provides some scant surcease from the brutal confrontation of reality with my long-cherished romantic ideals, and I�m getting some decent poetry written, actual poetry, mind, not the sesquipedalian paronomasia I�m so known for, but stuff about the human condition, replete with imagery even, (and few 40 letter neologisms). So I don�t know, �cogito ergo spud�, I guess (I think, therefore, I yam), or �spud ergo spud� (I yam what I yam), something like that.
15th. Anniversary
I seem to have no past, at least
I can�t recall any details
of the last 15 years.
It seems gone, all gone.
Replaced by some
dull existential ache
that accompanies memory
these daze.
My memories of my marriage are
lost in some dim limbo of
aduous argumentationan
inefficacious communication that
cast a pusillanimous pall over
the wealth of shared detail
that 15 years of shared experience
should have
synaptically stored
and preserved in the privacy of one�s
mental make-up, my love, Diann, at times I
can�t even see your face in my mind. . .
. . . Alas (a lass), and alack (a lack)
A way, a long, a lass and
a lad, see?
Then thus,
so sad,
a lack is had, as he has/was abandoned.
Done!
Seetheeatonealone,
(prithee - allone?)
atoneality alongingone
seetheonewhereisshe?
Awayalongalassand
a lad,
thenthusosad
alackishad
asheaswasaband
one
d!
Where is she? . . .
. . . An apparent lack of recall recalls my marriage
a vague miasma of uneasy
truces, and eneluctable ennui
and hubris,
interspersed, here and there,
with the bright colours of
vacations to wonderfully scenic places,
and the scent of shared laughter
(at well spaced intervals, of course).
Away, along, alas, alack. Do I remember stuff like this when I am dis-incarnate? I wonder - do all the agreements I make between lives take these heartaches into account? For growth�s sake? �Tis the only reason I would ever agree to so much pain. To be betrayed and abandoned, again and again, in one life, by the women I love, am I paying off old debts, or chalking up karmic credit? I don�t know.
They say the soul is distant, unfeeling - I think this must be so, for I cannot imagine a feeling caring part of my being consigning my conciousness to such struggle as my due for so much caring, and sharing, and giving on my part. I have attempted to share as much of what I have learned about the cosmos, thru my 5,000 years of incarnative Sage-experiential existance with all I meet, and yet . . . and yet . . .
all I ever want in return
is some small appreciation
for data well gathered,
for dogma comparatively studied
and well discarded
for well wrought hypotheses,
and incisive leaps of faith.
. . . sometimes though, I do grow weary of the constant struggle to understand, and count myself no more than human, if I am occasionally beset with doubts, and overpowering moments of melancholia . . . sigh . . . ah well, struggling ever onward and upward as:
. . . vapid, variegated and verisimilitudenous
we vy,
and,
plying the repetitive metaphor of mannerism
we move,
through the sullied simile of being.
- Jondalf, � 1995
Jyberwhacky AI
TECHTESTTEXT
. . . and so that�s the story of how I was vested with the Bukowski
Chair at the WWW Univerity Of �n�th Dimensional Creative Neuraethiology� Physics. I passed my Orals with a rather lacklustre (I felt) 10 hour recital of my Onaneopus�: �Moribundant Museschatology�� (shortform); and was subsequently elected Salutightorian� of the obligatory Grand Piano Vomitory. But, needless to say, I digress.
Anyway, so, when the Angelic Host (Luciferian Rebels inclusive) manifestly decloaked on 9/9/99, and the ensuing �World Tao-Zones Index�� plummeted, my wetware startup company ThrashArt� went cortex-up, AND, then, my 1+?+? year Marriage Contract with �Celeclonal Drew Barrymore(�)#427�� was terminated in its third month for nonpayment of premiums, I felt pretty low. Lower than a dysmounted� HOLOSIMM on a melted microchip, I tell you true. Nevertheless, I rented a cheap cubi next to the downtown �Toke-It-Topium�� pissoir and dug in my plasteelheels, rationing my expenditures and flailing frantically, round the 10 hour metriclock�, with the �waldo(�)trol�� of my cubi�s holographic V-keyboard, trying to spewout enough CDopy� pusillanimous persiflage (at �1,000,000/word@Uscale) to keep me in tofusteaks, and trying to transmute my melancholy into something resembling remuneration. Transcribed pain always pays mohbettah bucks, brauae.
It was about that time, if you will recall, that President Hanks, just back from a State visit to Neowobblyville�, capital of the L-5 Republic, gave his now infamous �Religeosity-Industratareal Simplex (type XII)�� speech, which, I might add, was a freelance collabberation� of William Safire(�)wareAI23� and yours truly, and all heaven broke loose.
Feeling the heat of the Nutluddite� Fringe�s Basque ninjas on my exculpatory trail, I had my trendy Maoriyogibear-facitattoo� redone with a more inconspicuous mtlflkechatoyantGuernica-epicreep�, and decided to go hang out at ClubMadHedonism� Bayonne for a while, under a psuedonominative� personality rented from gNom-De-Plumes-R-Oui�.
Things just got stranger and stranger though. I ran into my 43rd wife
there, sporting new mams (she, not me), and a new beau (some codpiece-enhanced crackreek� CPA from Tierra Del Fuego North�, with a contiguwuss� eyebrow and betelnutrotted� plasteeth), at the nightly �JackoffJill Disco��; humped them both perverunctoreally� (for Deco-rhum�s� sake) and ended up whipped and wayoverhung� at the Club�s Breakfastorgybar gimme-Buffet� trying to choke down a plate of �MagnoliaThunderpussy(�)Pooptarts�� and fresh jizcream�, while unSteadmanly dodgering� the OTTOmaided� cat-o-mime-tails� wilding Elviituvla�s� that were working the buffetline.
It was then that I had my now much valleywho-Op-ed� epiepiphany�, in an effuallgent� flash of agenbitinwitsitu�-IRMWsckt�-shortedtoground-threw-brainspam� so perspirinvidiouscicacious� that if froze the Synthlymph� in my stunned and reeling hydro-enSETHalamic� AIemplants�!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! - :
. . . �THE BANNED��!!!!!!!!!!!!
I HAD TO PUT �THE BANNED�� BACK TOGETHER AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!
I was on a MISSION FROM COD!!!!!! I had regained my Guerilla WittgenSteiner� cummingsynsenessence� of NOHthrupFryedlike� centracontraility� of mythooze�, and myonaninkarnakitive� concupissantequiproseleGaiaSet-E�!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!GNARLYASSFASTANDSLIPFINFREECOOLDOODY�!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WAYRADITWAS, and well, the rest is herstory, as y�ll know, but those were theodoronodaze� my frskens, and that was how it all CAymendooBBing@. I gHesse� chew jest ad two Bea �ARThiere��, don�cha�gnome�, don�cha�gnoumenon�! It�s just like Tiny Dr. Tim and/or Gandalf said, longague� in Fairway Park: �We�ve already won, all that�s left is the moppin� up.�! The viewture will be shapesifted by GrindingrungrunniongrinninAOLollywaillin� young ThrasheRs with wetwirednetskateboards�.
{IMNSHO, there�s no reasonably probable [IOW: none now having greater than what I calcululate� to be an 11% (�2%) chance of consensocioccurrence� (percentages having permutatively decreased in conformance with the vaticinaderivation� of a geomatriaxially� continuiguous� AINcontraverticestringfractal-inaccessationablequationmodel� since �65)] bifurconcatenation�/line-of-�futurehistory�-force-vector-sum that will escape the substantive influence of of the 60�s, so get over it, already, all you fundittoheads and nostalgia buffs.} Progress, don�t repress or regress. �YAH don�t need TA wHETherman, for �lo, �WITCH-WAY� this wind blows.�} -J- );{>
All comments cheerfully solicited - just a short one this, but this is what I feel I do best, I can, and will, if asked, define and/or explain any of the Neologisms hereinbefore created/used, and some of the polyentendre. Please though, be patient, I do have a �just-a-cog-in-the-gears-of-the-GNP� stultifyingly non-creative day job and some scant semblance of a life. Namaste.
*BTW - The Test: How many of the identified new words above can be attributed to citable sources previous to this publication? How does a Neologist make money from Neology? I haven�t a clue. Do you? Anyway, �(t)hank you for encouraging my behavior.� *
Kerouaccachanalian
There appears a definitive proclivity
to Bardic tradition so strong in me
it must inculcated be
in my chromosomal memory,
(spliced genetically).
Therefore modern ignorance be damned,
all my poems be Dithyrambs:
hymns of praise to all things Dionysian
whereby our spirits we raise,
invocations as free verse paeans
tersely sung, (in periastrophe).
So what if all allusive ability
on the part of the populace is in atrophy
we revel here in a philosophy
long predating Christianity,
and better by far seems it to me
than that dysfunctional eschatology,
(the one and only truly idiotic ideology!).
"Kosmic Conscienciousness": (transitive nominative),
an epiphanthetic compendium of perceptive/projective circumspection concomitant with an attempt at conscious apprehension and solipsistic calibration of, at least, a major portion of the collectively consensual conceivable totality of ongoing concatenate fractal oscillatory epiphenoumena.
Unfortunately, any rhetorician's prescriptive lexicography here may seem circumlocution, as the subject, intrinsically, appears almost ineffably abstruse . . . nevertheless, the concept is asymptotically accessible to hypothecation as an hyperbole involving a summary summation of the condign quondam probability-force-vector-calculus collegia effulgent, and, alas, will be comprehensively communicable colloquy only within commensurate shared sentient logomantic sets,
(the most perspicacious transliteration notwithstanding).
IOW: "The name that can be named is not THE Name".
Existentially speaking, "Cosmic Consciousness" may be experienced,
but not really well described.
[Many thanks to Rudolph Steiner, William James,
and my favorite spirit guide, James Joyce, for their collaberative though discarnate assistance with this attempt at an autonoenomically written denotation of a really recondite rubric.
{Oh, and by the way, as I and most of the cognoscenti
experientially concluded long ago, even major dosages of the purest etheogens, in the most pristine 'set and settings', could never be as salubriously effective a tool for metaphysically transcendent psychonuerochemical ratiocination catalysis as were
"Yellow Wedges",
(or even the experience of 'channeling' the Akashic Records );{>
Maturation and Mastery
Maturation and mastery most munificent,
(wily wizards will wince once and whine),
seem lessons so very evanescent
as confined we all are by our Time.
Phenomenescient and omniphenomenascent we loom
large in our ubiquitous cupidity,
whilst belligerently perfidious we bungle and barge
through life ,quite well programmed, we proceed.
Immersed deep in data to our detriment
missing all of the portents we do see,
passing judgment upon our perceptions
in this land, without honor, prophets be.
Unable as we are to calibrate
these myriad contentions crazed
wizened and whittled by would-bes
we continue, so blind, on our ways:
wandering within our experience
whence wasted and wanton we wheeze,
assuming the beneficence of the universe
still dumber we become by degrees.
So you see . . .
true wisdom lies in unlearning
those things taught to us when we�re wee;
thus life, and its� living is suspect,
as we struggle, so hard, to be free.
Remember the 21st. of December
(Midwinter�s Eve Again)
This season, hight �Christmas�, has rolled round once more
And we�d like to remind you, as you�re shopping in stores,
That long �fore Christ�s religion co-opted this rite,
Down through thousands of years, allaying all fears:
The Winter Solstice a pagan holiday was, all day and all night.
Folks stayed up to celebrate, till dawn, with their friends.
Making sure Sun would come back, again and again.
Through cold rain and snow, �round fires all night long,
They sang songs and waited, misty breath unabated:
A vigil fair maintained, assuring naught would go wrong.
Thus we wish you good fortune, good cheer and fine plight,
And we wish so, remembrance, of this night�s true respite:
From the forces of Darkness, stagnation�s requite.
Enlightenment we evoke, from ignorance to invoke:
�Be excellent to each other!� and �Party down!�, its your right!
Mike Called
Sorry, but Michael wanted to interjectoplasmicate something to the effect that in almost all of theses cases a soul-fragment'(s)' "abdication" of either an incarnative vehicular choice, or a combination of primary, secondary, tert. etc. etc. had/ave caused an abrogation of the term's material manifest destinociation.
Rare instances of Taoic intervention, and/or entropry-embaptism due to mutualienexculpation (coruscantenative intentropic vortexveldtwellwall nexiall concresenthermiations, as it WereWilled).
For instance: the DNAvehicle this fragment now inhabituates was abandonated after clinical death, at 6 months of age, from anasthmaticpnuemenonalmalignment of the original bidder, in favor of the probibliorecombinawry "Gaiawilla-wit" of the present inhabitant within the projected purview of its milieau - body and new essence-extension revived, all traces of asthma and pnuemofAI;lure gone.
(A very rare, but quintesessentienThelemmaic Taoperoration:
AsinequantumnonetransmutantAeoneologikalicanthropaeagainAl'sLiberintentruedeathshun);{>
MR. V�S ONANOMANIA
Pound on, wonderbunswomen !
The future is about to come crashing down
on your seminalien Socraticed concupiscience:
gobs of bluecheeseviralslimeswallowing
sumshucksters circle revenently �round the women�s bidet
for a just a whiff of vintagestiff deathlustcurdcrust.
[ . . . meanwhile,, in an adjoining abbatoir,
carmelized all-iris-eyes shining with:
�Love me �cause I can lick my own, slick�; her ogleobsessed bloatedbratwursthunghusband
was whanking furiously on his priapic principles,
diddling with the livefeed display
where his wife was splayed and playing, plying her suckcesspool sublimnanalwitherkneeling succubusiness
whilst he watched, wondering who would get off
thisincarnatiedyad dharmaweal fistfirst . . . ]
�Snatcwhoreorally, carnalicklewdin on this The Kid wasnot.
In Seminalaryan school all they had tauthemabutt booty
hardonly swerved to cunfewes him,
so he neversuspeckerheaded a thing,
banalthewile the massturdebaiting pimpherinhell
washaving herscrewineveryoneoncue, druggedandfrugged, whenever he could, consequimsays be dammed. Gofrigurs.
Anall this took f�revher to fingerout, buttwhim headiddled tit, tolerant hey new twat was twat, so nutbesotted gnomewhorewashe, she shed �whank who�s berrymunch� hand they wend their hairy ways.
The Kid�n�er leftownan lovived awiledinsin enemafarther
outinthewayback untrying two hurts to make amends
till atlassed they true grue apheart teachotheransplit.
Amoral? . . . dumbtotryno . . . I guess the testis:
en crudite verite.
Pearls Before Swine
�A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country.�
Funny, that a biblical phrase would be so apropos
with regard to one who is so opposed to the intent,
and efficacy,
of biblical prose.
Ah well,
what the hell,
even the Christians had some good ideas,
occasionally.
But, paronomastically, perhaps,
the perspicacity of my mental,
and verbal,
perambulations,
preclude my peers ability to perceive
their wherewithal and worth.
And the dearth of their perceptive acuity,
accrues to the conditioning inherent
(promulgated in perpetuity)
which is partially attributable to,
their inculcate inability to see
the acumen intrinsic in me,
and the syllogistic scrutiny wherewith I do view
this particular experience of reality.
Plato Knows
I seek not Truth
(other than in some ancillary fashion)
but rather Beauty
in order to bind Her to me
with strands of silken euphony
right well woven about
the corners of my consciousness
like a spider spins a web
with wonder for warp
and whimsy for woof
a fragile tapestry to trap
inspiration like a filigreed fly
buzzing inadvertent
into those strands
and sticking fast
to the fringes of my Art
PORPOISE
Our highest purpose
is to have no purpose
for in having no purpose
we imitate nature
in it�s great purposelessness.
Propoetry
The prime task of the poet
and the primal operation of poetry
is as with any birth:
to deliver the poem,
(conceived in some mystic mindspace
somnolent, nurtured and gestated in Id),
in as undamaged a form
as is possible.
(This,
and perhaps a possible predilection
to the sordid sin of solecism.)
Rain On The Heather
(For Wendy, a partial payment for future editorial services tendered.)
Silent silver rain
on blooming
purple heather
illuminates the day,
whatever my internal weather.
When I read your fructating phraseology ,
I feel your feelings ferally flowering
whether
you know it or not.
So this paltry poesy�s the
only way I have to say:
that your winsome wordsmythic worth
has been inspirative to me,
as a silent silver rain
somehow concantenatively constrains
the enternally effulgent coruscative lustre
of blooming purple heather.
Read I, Recite I Not
Not meant
most of my work is
to be read
loutloud.
Mind to mind�s what
I�d rather, and what
this stuff�s all about.
I feel I need not touch
your eyes your eyes
your your your
ears nose ears
your mouth
your your
. .
breasts breasts
*
Instead,
I wanna inject myself
straight into your synapses.
No chance of any dataloss,
no carnative delay
there, its right-
-here
one thought alone away.
So then, the hell with this
Iambic pentameter shit, its
way predictable, like
a time signature in 4/4
despondent and bored on a page�
�were talkin� jazz as
instant apprehension here.
Politician�s gotta lie, just as cops�re always late,
only occasionally do I stand up and sing
(and then its usually in some odd time thing
like 5/4, 7/2 or 19/11/8).
And sometimes
through gaping scansive holes
In my verbiage
I fall . . .
. . . and I am, yes,
quite also unilaterally unkind
to my verbs, and smitten
with a monomaniacal mnemania
for modifiers.
And I don�t do
imagery
either!
A thousand words
(well said)
are worth more
than the sum of
ten-thousand light splashed
Seurat�s
plus one �Guernica�
added to seven Warhol�s
and a handprint
on that
philosophically absquatulate
and ineluctably infamous
cave wall.
Reality is as you deem it,
and I certainly won�t leave my footprints
in the proverbial, (or literal), sands of time
for,
being slightly cautious,
and wanting me and my ideas to survive;
I don�t feel like being followed, or hunted
down all the long lonely years (and incarnations)
by those who deem differently than I do
whilst accomplishing that which I Will.
Rearword
�When a man has withdrawn from the world, it�s tumult often becomes unbearable to him. There are many people who in a noble pride hold themselves aloof from all that is low and rebuff it brusquely wherever it comes to meet them. Such persons are reproached for being proud and distant, but since active duties no longer hold them to the world, this does not greatly matter. They know how to bear the dislike of the masses with composure.�
- #44, Kou: Coming to Meet
(Nine at the top)
I Ching -
The Lady's Prayer
Our Mother,
who Art - The Earth;
hallowed be THY name!
Land green under Sun,
THY Will be done,
in the heavens
as well as on earth.
Give us this day
our daily breads,
and educate us past our ignorance,
as we may educate those who are ignorant to us.
Lead us not into degradation,
but deliver us from selfishness.
For thine is the effulgence,
and the power,
and the glory, eternally.
Awomaen.
The Look
As you walked out of the room where we first met,
glancing back on that place so filled with pleas and healing
met mine did your sad eyes from ceaseless weeping wet,
the look that you gave me sent my cringing wits reeling.
I saw compassion (and fear), interest (despair), and hope:
onlythelonely eyes through your long hair�s sultry strophe
with one look seared my heart�s cicatrice; ash and smoke
on the pyre of my misanthropy phoenixlike, feeling awoke.
I knew you not at all, nor did you know me
Unexpected and unbidden, began hopes wanton to grow
as stirred in me, something did, when you I first saw
and ignore it could I not, believing: �Love Is The Law�.
That one glance, as: �The Look�, always may I recall.
For looks such as that, forsaking Heaven , did Angels fall.
Of consequences heedless Helens� tumble Troys� walls,
as still for any chance of Love will fools Hope, and risk all.
Then I walked out of the room (where we never met),
glancing back I filled the room with wishes worth stealing.
No eyes met mine (still from ceaseless sad weeping wet),
so I imagined �The Look� I wanted so much to be feeling.
The Season Of Supposed Good Cheer
Well folks, once again, it is that time of year.
So let me tell you all a story, steeped, ages deep, in vainglory,
about this season of supposed good cheer:
Long, long ago when this world was quite young,
most people believed in a religion that said man and nature were one.
The symbol of this synthesis was half-animal and half man.
A totally harmless, flute playing sprite who reveled in life,
worshiping only the light, and all the folk called him�Pan.
Goat horned and hooved was he, a simple illustration, you see,
of the wide world in balance, nature and human life in close harmony.
But then a new religion arose, calling the innocent old faith perfidy,
based upon a concept of life as anthro(as opposed to eco)centricity.
With intolerance was it rife, and after its god it did hight�Christianity.
Thereupon, the folk all were told (andforced to say it was true)
that all the old ways were wrong, that the new god was so strong.
Thus the god of the older faith became the �devil� of the new!
Gross cruelty and persecution did then begin, and thereafter did ensue
the evil times, �The Dark Ages�, and more all should, to this day, rue.
So for all the gentle souls who were tortured, or at the stake burned,
for believing intheir religion, for persevering about Nature to care,
let us offer up a paean (or call it a prayer) to whatever god you dare:
that from theocentricity, hatred and bigotry be all religions turned;
that, no longer should anyone, because of their faith, have to fear!
Then this season might truly be, for all , one of good cheer!
Prometheus Bound
�Hey man, here,
think, damn you, think!� . . .
. . . and thus was Prometheus bound.
Un Canto De Desconsoledad
(Hello my friends. save this one for when you're 'up', and into trying to understand the experience OF despair - it's one of my better works, but, unfortunately, its quite depressing. . . . oh well, "Pain Pays", as they say);{>
Oigolo Pablo, y lo siento.
My lips like truculent tumescent clamshells,
bent on expelling that blue otherworldliness
that is sky,
purse and blow,
bilabially fricative IN seahoarsely proportions
(as real as romance was ever my wont-
AS WELL YOU KNOW);{>,
see me, imagine this man,
and watch me face my fate:
wending my wounded way through my thislife.
using what�s left of my wit I try to reply entertainingly to all the shallow conversational gambits that Bloviate my way of late . . .
So Still I hunker down,
digging my way backwards into the tubewormstrewn
notfullyfathomed muck
that is my memory of marriage..
Nada, nada, nada y algo nada de menos:
mi alma.
Even the gulls veer away
when they smell the decay of my dreams:
washed up on Eroded beaches of Passion Past eviscerated and gelatinous,
delaquesing weakly red
over thereandthen here - thinly blue, translucent jellies Delicately dying
strewn across the dunes,
Evanascent nacre, staining the clean sardonyx sand and
steaming in the sullen ochre sun.
That puling weak insignificant star
never quite dispells the oleaginous fog
that greyes my daze,
my gaze, my temples,
and my beard, Frosted by chill winters full of loves Feckless and fey, and aft gang agley
as once again happiness, in a most contumacious hauteur, hath fled.
Sputum of the sea, sputum of the sea -
sea that has become the world's sewer,
cover me with a placenta of courage
made from greenglowing E-coli soup.
Las gaviotas se mueren lo crepusculo.
Muda, mi amor matamese.
Tht waste-treatment plant that was
my heart,
still pumps sludge through Life�s outfall,
burying tiny pallid crustaceans of caring
in an effluvium of emotive tedium,
yet I totter down the dun dunes onward still.
in the waning sun of thiswhens afternoon
i stu,mble, numbly leprous as the ubiquity of unhappiness saps strength and spirit,
hair matted with seawrack
spattered gullshatseaweed covering my head like a caul.
Un hombre sin esperanza
que la mar sin las olas, y sin una playa.
Oigolo Pablo, y lo siento,
lo siento, lo siento tambien.
- Jondalf
Vacuous Verities
This judicious crafting of verse,
howsoever it seems hard and perverse,
appears as a whole universe, interior, to me.
Seeing people as paltry planets,
thoughts stratified like schistgreygranite,
with only writers able to transcend gravity.
So writing as such
produces just enough thrust
to achieve an escape velocity;
and �long starlanes seldom traveled
a myriad mysteries nebulous unravel
before our mindseyes� trained inherent clarity.
(I mean, it�s kinda like latching on
to the tail of a comet
and being solarwindwhipped about
ones� own ganglial galaxy!
If only all could, as I can, such scenes see!)
Writin� by the light of dyin� synapses firing�,
riding iceballs of insight so austere:
(probin� parsecs of molecular dusts� memory)
kalpas of nothingness becoming history,
pictures by mental instrumentality captured clear.
This singular stellar addiction to mindscrying transcription
warpdrives thoughts,through wrought wormholes of words,
as thoughtships� cargo carrying visions back here to me.
So from spaced interdictions� interpolation to pure fiction
it�s as fine a mindscape as had can be.
(Still the thrill of the ride, so damn dopplerdifficult to describe.)
These then must be only:
Vacuous Verities.
Verbal Gerbils
You know, it�s always such a tragedy when gerbils die.
Such innocuous vapidity and cretinous rodential cuteness
deserves a better fate than to decay to inconsequential dust
in some landfill far from home.
Rather they should perhaps ossify and then dessicate
to blow away dandelionlike on the breeze:
small clouds of tiny germinal gerbil spoors,
buff puffs of fecundity flying afar
and falling on fallow fields to root and grow . . .
. . . a new generation of gerbils who, kinda like lemmings
on their way to the sea, on a certain morning in May
emerge from their fields in various areas to line up,
all in a row, little paws outstretched, one dumpling digit extended
alongside roads leading to towns with pet shops, hitching rides,
and having reached the aforementioned shops they would present themselves to be bought and brought home
for the idle amusement of dimwits who have nothing better to do
than raise these microencephaletic, unresponsive
and totally vacuous examples of rodentia.
Then again,
good thing the little farts aren�t any smarter than they already are and exceptional good luck that they don�t talk,
or their ennervatingly endearing and pathetic presence
might provoke their being noticed more as animals
and not nearly so often as dustballs.
Can you imagine?
Verbal gerbils.
What a thought!
They�d most probably be incredibly sarcastic too.
I mean, after all,
these are the creatures who somehow,
down aeons of our evolution
convinced us to take care of them for no real reason I can fathom,
so their attitude
would probably be inversely proportional
to their size.
Think of the scandal if anybody ever found out
what animals really thought about us:
thousands of previously unsuspecting pet owners
awakening one day to the realization
that those small furry mounds of momentous mundanity
micturating on the mulch in the corner of their cages,
were actually acutely mawkish malingerers
who had millennia ago had malevolently manipulated mankind
into making a place for them, rent free!
Whee! What a sight that all those fallen faces would be.
That�s why the death of any gerbil is such a tragedy to me, you see.
Wagon Train to the Stars
So simple (really!), life is, shan�t you see,
though there will always be those
(and almost all shall they be)
who do a mockery make
of its compliasimplicity.
[Through philosophistry
(seen as historicity)
forever teleontology recapitulates
filialphilogeniessency]!
Thus, there�s naught that is aught,
save that that which one wills;
(no-thing happens from skills)
as all you cause to occur.
(For being is doing,
and ne�er Fate need aver)!
Nothing can you do
save that which ensues
from your choice
as incarnate, in full voice
and fine vision are we boist
(fair effulgent thus we foist),
our lifescry
according to our ken.
None and nothing can gainsay
this our purpose to purvey
failure save we learn
(and in learnings� array allay)
that which caused us to here come:
from the humdrum ethereal down to here
forsaking every errant, migrant fear . . .
. . . we whilst whence we are wont
(for eternity�s contained within a tear).
we stayed to surf
What say,
the waves are totally buff
and some kinda� tuff thiswhen, eh?
Waycool!
So hey,
while we in wonder wander willful
�long these sandy shores of force
the oleaginous ontological ocean
betide, becomes our sole recourse.
Say what?
See,
we supposedly bogus beachbums be downright decent
at slashin� glassmoothfast gnarlyass tubes,
cutback chiaroscuros� limned liquidlucent
some nasty moves done by us demigod dharmadudes:
slithering sideslips to lipstrikes wanton freefin,
whitewater spumewhipped to windward away,
screamin� �cross vortices breaking wildly widdershins,
shreddin� swellwalls spunaesthetic in hyperspray!
Try to focus and understand:
that on the sands of time certain realities abide as ripples,
(epiphenomenological swirls microgranular in sand),
whose appearance and purpose permutate supereal
the ethereal collective unconscious and its� surface tension
through scansion surreal and the expansion we feel�s
everdue our ideal.
So therefore,
when sometimes we with booze petition the muse,
of self induced epigramatic sententiousness we�re subtly subdued.
Still, as abundant as virgin births are these daze,
so we as metaviral avatars abide and abound.
Couched in our dangerous comedic sheathing we are found
to be ribonucleic acid gone awry!
Why?! . . :
�Cause our vaticinal skew, thislife, thiswhen, thismilieau
is to train, and in training to remain:
warrior platelets, (everbidden), to nobility hagridden;
surfing waves on these seas in our brains,
surely our domain and dominion we claim.
While towards escape from replical overlordships� repression
we move and the expression is: �slash the seratonin�;
(boards backlit and burnished by the light
of nightly neurotransmitterlit sessions).
I guess we gotta go for the ganglia gang. Trapped behind enemy timelines we play, hanging out and hanging in there.
Where?
Right here by this solipsistic surf
An ominous, but numbly numinous, sense of divinity ubiquitously
bitchin�, like catchin� the best swell of the day, beckons:
one nerve,
one single synapse,
(�just one more wave, eh�,)
away.
So you see:
we stayed to surf.
