309-13,
316-27, 330-34.
sic
transit gloria mundi
Thus
does the new moon lie cradled in earth-
light,
intelligent and shy,
at
the
nightly gathering, call it
a
party, Jupiter and Saturn, attendant
strains
singing in
procession,
stars
entering
through
a door in the east, leaving through a western door,
drunken
wanderings of asteroids,
Orion
rising midway
on
his journey, song
on
charmed
air,
epos,
tales of glory, recensions and reticulations, deep
shine
--how
will it sound on leaving? will
it
echo in your being?--
til
morning breaks into
bud
and bird like some nervous
reaction,
I always wanted to write
about
the resurrectional powers of the world
so
I have waited
'til
my faith is waning.
Perhaps Romanticism is a system of habits as Burns suggests,
not a series, does he sense a presence in that system? Waking
to a silence as though someone has just spoken your name and is
about to say something.
I was thinking this morning about
transference and transformance in communication even when we hear
ourselves, especially when we hear ourselves! Surely thou shall
not die, sinuous baseline from a luminant corner. Any word,
say natural as a system of intertwining concepts moving like
a colony of jellyfish or seaweed, as motion is given to all things
living, each uniquely feeding and dying, yet each permeated with
a presence, pull or longing across that gap which is what is meant
by intelligence the word itself suggests, life
is
preoccupation with itself, warm
rain
Saturday afternoon, fields
running
to
the horizon, ponds, trees stepped
in
risen green, as presence to waking
dream
amid such sleep as this
may
be . . .
we
are preoccupied
Surely thou shall not die, from the recesses, canyons, articulations
of flesh and mind, sensuous reticulum enfolding hands and eyes,
enveloping the senses, species knowledge, knowledge before that,
as sound, what is it to know anything? and to be alive, as I was
telling my students, even to a portion of what's going on at any
moment can be almost all so borne of delight, why Kathy Acker drove
a spike through her clit or shoved a vibrator up her cunt to write.
I might not have a future here, or anywhere I can imagine for that
matter, yet everything seems to say, sotto voce singly and
at once, concrescence, caducean harmonic awash through the mind,
this forgotten flower, Surely thou shall not die.
400-01.
sic
transit
sun and tree, field, brush, scrub, cattle, egrets, heron, pickups
and cars, the highway
each
morning rises
to
the eye,
verdant,
the daily
mystery
of color
its
meditations and
vibrations,
movement
of
light into mind
the
liquid streaming
lens
or
edge
it
is
preoccupied
489-90, 495-97, 499-506, 509-10, 517.
sic
transit
Congeries
of beginnings each
morning,
sun and birdsong pouring in
the
mind's four
windows,
the
soul
light
from sleep rises
to
coffee, new mown
hay,
egrets following the tractor
for
what
turns
up, grass-
hoppers,
cut
grubs,
wounded,
given
to light
torso
and limb
the
calculus of being
feel of your skin, taste of your mouth, smell of your body, bed
and house, is why outside is preferred, what makes death interesting
857- .
Economics
of Metonymy: Sic transit
Matrix alive in limb, pseudopod, tenthril, voice
with eyes' eruction, light pouring down for days, lonely
voice lost in its own century, Where have you been?
To lose the voice is to lose the self, weightless lyrical orb
tugging the vinculum in space, depthless, amniotic, wakes
from vowel-soaked dreams, plunges onto morning's
talus, coughing bricks of fur and small bones, You've
been at it again (jizzed-on tits, your toe-nails painted to match
your favorite dildo, shreds of crinoline in your stool). Homer lost
in a voice over 400 years, aspirant wandering whirlwind of
elements, cicadan thwirl, sibilance wrapped in gases, adrift
on glissandos waving in the mesh, rising, falling off, over,
as a cliff, into deep summer, echo in eyeless dark.
Matrix
of vein in leaf, in leaves, surge and resurgent, forth and
back, as rivers flow forward, yet turning, ever seek their
source, like the heart, its founding waters. Pathetic and
lovely to watch a man discover his own mortality. Winds
die into breezes, breezes along walls where he wakes,
alone. A strut loose in his eyes, the hemorrhage of referents,
recognition, he knows, as do few, the utter truth. Darkness
beneath the sky, or beyond in summer, the infinite rising
and passing away which itself neither rises nor passes. Last
night I dreamed of a communal bathroom for the faculty,
sweating shithole in lounge filled with people you wish
you didn't know and where there were also baskets
of chocolate, fragrant, amelt. Promises, promises.
Light
turning the corner into thicket, breakfast and sex
leaking from pores, matrix of season as form, boundaries
fluid, spilling like eyes or mushrooms in and out, morning
sun on desk instead of battle, socks and shirt, talk rubbing its
genitals on my leg, whereas eyes as the stem of brain touches
light rose on highway's abyss, mounted as sunset (Hath not
the highest chambers of my being rang with song?), mind a-
wash in color, as world, the balm on her eyes lead her to
hallucinate a blind man who beckoned her to hell, or the light
of anticipation that shook with you as you waited in line
to fuck your sister, the way goeth, or leadeth hither, or
thither, cream on dirty fingers held to windows or mind, as
though you could so arrange to be the displacement of either.
Matrix of contiguities, polar and blind, as is future.
Whereas
ways cannot go nor proverbs speak. Silence
of language passed over in science. Airy spaces within
sounds, letters, words, between letters and words more
spaces, systolic and diastolic silences, aphasic abyss in each
moment, distension of oblivion in paragraphs, margins, all
the talk of worlds. Road stretches across morning, time
and space. Matrix of contiguities, limbs and eyes taking
form, stiffening, crowded out of emptiness, where anything
comes from. Cancer is eating at a friend. I don't know which
one. I will soon enough. Polar and blind. Silence is the
future. Once Silence came from the Woods of Future and
sat down and began to talk and so on. It was his heart
in the words . . . (ask Borges). An edge on the silence
that it might be heard . . . (ask Spicer). The most puerile
excuse for juvenile ardor, ask your sister. No thing not so
much in words, the old joke, nor in the world as well.
Motion
is the grammar of forms, of which death is answer.
Declensions of color, shape, and movement. Tree and sky for
calibration, the entrance and exit of the phenomenal almost
simultaneous, not quite, a recognition of the nameless in the
named, of such is body. Colors float across the eye, woven
in the visual cortex into their shapes, which is of essence (a
question), and motion, boat drawn across water and evening give
rise or words through black holes of intracranial space suddenly
appear, locus observandi, the intersections of trees in
dream. Echolalia of worlds within words, where anything
rhymes, like the nausea of its own condition you can't get
away from in a redaction for heaven, one of our assumptions
has always been it may be the same going in and out of bodies,
we've forgotten. The mint on the pillow is for when the
animal sacrifices are over and you're trying not to smoke.
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