Winter 2022
1:10:2023
My crooked sprawling fingers
work their way into these grooves,
finding their home in the physical pattern.
I recognize this instrument.
Not as an extension of myself,
as the embodiment of my self beyond
what I know, bone-to-bone, now-to-now—
here I am, in this chaos-called-current,
nostrum-named-noise, hero-heard-how.
I'm no hero, but I'm sure it must be nice.
I'm no monster;
I just can't tell veil from vice.
How could love ever suffice
when love's a word
just like the rest of them?
I'm not interested in words;
I want what all these words are after.
I'll save Satan from his details;
I need motion: spelled-out laughter.
There's no story written down;
it all comes from the sound
of moments lost and meanings found.
The manna up, the migrate down.
Telling The Story
1:13:2023
I can't say I've ever felt this way before—
really, sometimes I fall back into my own
illusions, illusive narrations
that prod at my side while I'm by the wayside.
Quick— hide!
I think we're not in Kansas anymore;
I think my body keeps the score
while I'm at an away game,
baited by beauty and honor and
name me a reason that isn't the same,
and I'll fold stone-cold.
I'm not sobered by clarity; she wonders me,
and I'll always oblige.
After all, I fit nature's design:
fate was hers, never mine.
I believe we make history—
like a seed from a tree
or a sword pulled from stone.
How could things be alone?
How blind see through a tone:
mystery, in the zone!
In another dimension I feel in my bones.
With some other intention I steal like God's throne.
You were never alone; life is telling you so.
Evolution's direction demanded inspection:
what else might it know?
1:17:2023
I forget New Physics each morning;
My dreams strip logic
Like emperors from sheep’s clothing,
Folding metaphors into themselves
Like saltwater taffy.
I forget it each morning—
I remember every night.
It’s the I preceding I,
The all-preceding Eye:
Aye aye!
My body is telling me that
Nonsense is words,
that the only thing words ever mean
Are more words, more trouble.
But dream words breed New Physics;
Dream words put the sex back into tired statistics.
Why do you need reality to be probable?
My very being means probability’s demise—
We have so many terms;
Every word is a term for some thing in the world,
Every number and symbol a fickle embellishment—
But reality’s term, it exists in your eyes!
Through your heart, through your mind!
Every term boils down to one!
Each New Physics fights the sun!
1:19:2023
You believe that this is communicating;
You believe that you are somehow understanding me as you read.
What you are doing
is engaging in fantasy.
The reason why I write is always a selfish one:
the ego, my ego
refuses to be
without documentation.
In a desperate bid for attention, he whines:
Write that down! Write that down!
And I do— because I’m in love
with the way my illusions might fool me.
1:20:2023
Oh, how I fear what exists beyond time,
Mortality’s finality whose fate turns on a dime.
Oh, how I fear what exists beyond dimension,
Locality’s causality whose fate eludes invention.
Oh, how I fear what exists beyond Story,
Reality’s modality whose fate reads Purgatory.
Oh, how I fear what exists beyond this Life,
Plurality’s centrality whose fate is all but rife.
Oh, how I fear what exists beyond me,
Totality’s neutrality whose fate I’ll never see.
Oh, how I fear what exists beyond it all,
Mentality’s tonality whose fate comes when I call!
1:25:2023
What on Earth (is not of the Earth)?
I’m convinced, at this point:
I’m the only one who remembers
Which word in outer space
Deserves the emphasis—
We are always in space!
And when it gets cold, that space
Comes creeping back in,
the holiest thing I know.
That senselessness of nothingness,
That seamless theory-practice feedback loop
ensnaring me into me-ing,
reaching for my idea of God
over and over again.
All I can say’s that whoever God is,
By the way I live now, God’s my friend.
My invented perfection that I’ll never see,
God reads my prayers like typos:
No, no; that’s not how it goes—
Add this there; put that in.
Then the silence begins,
and I feel the Earth spin,
and I transmute the ending
and I ask my self again:
What on Earth (is not of the Earth) —
And how do I want this to end?
I’m convinced, at this point:
I’m the only one who remembers
Which word in outer space
Deserves the emphasis—
We are always in space!
And when it gets cold, that space
Comes creeping back in,
the holiest thing I know.
That senselessness of nothingness,
That seamless theory-practice feedback loop
ensnaring me into me-ing,
reaching for my idea of God
over and over again.
All I can say’s that whoever God is,
By the way I live now, God’s my friend.
My invented perfection that I’ll never see,
God reads my prayers like typos:
No, no; that’s not how it goes—
Add this there; put that in.
Then the silence begins,
and I feel the Earth spin,
and I transmute the ending
and I ask my self again:
What on Earth (is not of the Earth) —
And how do I want this to end?
Cake (2:3:2023)
You really want your Cake?
or you want some of mine?
or you want some of mine?
Give me a break!
It's so obvious, isn't it?
That we're all full of shit?
That with each word we pride,
Truth has lied?
If you think that's contrived,
just you wait!
Theologians will never hear the end of debate
(They'll die long before then);
Mathematicians will run out of angles
For all of their angels in two dimensions;
Poets will no longer shroud themselves
(conveniently) in the mysteries
of their own methodologies;
Each thought will be indexed according to its pragmatic affect:
It's so obvious, isn't it?
That we're all full of shit?
That with each word we pride,
Truth has lied?
If you think that's contrived,
just you wait!
Theologians will never hear the end of debate
(They'll die long before then);
Mathematicians will run out of angles
For all of their angels in two dimensions;
Poets will no longer shroud themselves
(conveniently) in the mysteries
of their own methodologies;
Each thought will be indexed according to its pragmatic affect:
in effect, the exact set of text
will spit person-ality back out
as literary reality, a fleshy-type-set.
And the scientists
(bless their sweet chemical souls)
will all gamble themselves into ruin
for reasons purely elemental,
temperamental like next fashion’s season:
more or less to pass the time.
will spit person-ality back out
as literary reality, a fleshy-type-set.
And the scientists
(bless their sweet chemical souls)
will all gamble themselves into ruin
for reasons purely elemental,
temperamental like next fashion’s season:
more or less to pass the time.
You really want your Poem?
or you want me to rhyme?
or you want me to rhyme?
Get Out! (2:5:2023)
Get out of your eyes;
they are not the same as you,
they are not the same as you,
Get out of your mind;
it can only attempt to explain what you do.
it can only attempt to explain what you do.
Get out of the way so that God can shine through!
Get out of your body
before it returns you to Death,
before it returns you to Death,
Get out of your lungs;
don't hold on to their breath.
don't hold on to their breath.
Get out of your words to hear God’s Shibboleth!
Get out of your heart;
don't distract your Lifeblood,
don't distract your Lifeblood,
Get out of your thirst;
don't detract from the Flood.
don't detract from the Flood.
Get out of your self
so that God might make friends with the mud!
so that God might make friends with the mud!
2:17:2023
My body weighs me down
In ways I’m still learning to pronounce.
Names feel foreign in my mouth;
They get drowned out
by endless seas of situations,
Connotations
I would rather do without.
Sometimes I doubt
that all these sights and sounds
Could ever truly shape me,
Save me from all of the stories
I’ve been telling my self lately,
Help God to scrape up
the time it would take
Just to rip me from dust
all the merry again.
In-form-ation:
The act of things coming to form,
Being born—
See you then.
In ways I’m still learning to pronounce.
Names feel foreign in my mouth;
They get drowned out
by endless seas of situations,
Connotations
I would rather do without.
Sometimes I doubt
that all these sights and sounds
Could ever truly shape me,
Save me from all of the stories
I’ve been telling my self lately,
Help God to scrape up
the time it would take
Just to rip me from dust
all the merry again.
In-form-ation:
The act of things coming to form,
Being born—
See you then.
2:18:2023
What is it that determines Truth?
I had a dream last night
That equations only solved for functions,
A range determined by almighty probability,
A dogma made quantum.
I had a dream last night
That I met this strange beast in a library;
She showed me a page buried deep in some tome
Wrought with symbols I barely recognized as so.
I re-cognized them: I had seen them before,
Somewhere a million lifetimes ago,
(Does she even want to know?)
but my memory’s sore from the straining,
and the Thing must've seen the poor look
on my face, ‘cause she showed me the door.
What is it that determines Truth?
The point at which you know no more!
The limit defines its own boundaries;
the body keeps its own score—
what words want that you see
Is conflation between two anatomies.
I had a dream last night,
But the light pilfered all of my vagaries.
What is it that determines Truth?
Why, whatever performs all these synchronicities!
I had a dream last night
That equations only solved for functions,
A range determined by almighty probability,
A dogma made quantum.
I had a dream last night
That I met this strange beast in a library;
She showed me a page buried deep in some tome
Wrought with symbols I barely recognized as so.
I re-cognized them: I had seen them before,
Somewhere a million lifetimes ago,
(Does she even want to know?)
but my memory’s sore from the straining,
and the Thing must've seen the poor look
on my face, ‘cause she showed me the door.
What is it that determines Truth?
The point at which you know no more!
The limit defines its own boundaries;
the body keeps its own score—
what words want that you see
Is conflation between two anatomies.
I had a dream last night,
But the light pilfered all of my vagaries.
What is it that determines Truth?
Why, whatever performs all these synchronicities!
2:18:2023
My body’s a story
And God is a cop-out
(the word, anyway)
But she's still the one telling it.
Today gave its speech
through the glorious way
My mind thought of the twilight as glowing,
as scattering, as rare when compared
to the infinite default of night outer-there.
The Nothings outweigh all the Somethings,
that's clear; yet the Somethings mean more
‘cause they travelled to here,
to a light I can claim by eyesight,
over-easy-star-light, through a sound I can hear.
If I'm right, then I am.
If I'm wrong, I still am—
so then being must be
far more righteously than!
Stories don't need our words;
they just crave them like sweets.
Indulge caricature;
Live out body as lifelong conceit!
And God is a cop-out
(the word, anyway)
But she's still the one telling it.
Today gave its speech
through the glorious way
My mind thought of the twilight as glowing,
as scattering, as rare when compared
to the infinite default of night outer-there.
The Nothings outweigh all the Somethings,
that's clear; yet the Somethings mean more
‘cause they travelled to here,
to a light I can claim by eyesight,
over-easy-star-light, through a sound I can hear.
If I'm right, then I am.
If I'm wrong, I still am—
so then being must be
far more righteously than!
Stories don't need our words;
they just crave them like sweets.
Indulge caricature;
Live out body as lifelong conceit!
Prisoners-of-War
(3:1:2023)
(3:1:2023)
Laws are man-made; they
Rely on however humanity deems
Life ought to be. So how is it
Laws explain gravity?
Surely, we are only speaking metaphorically,
Of measurable tendencies,
A mischaracterization of causalities.
An apple that falls, after all,
Isn’t actually obeying any laws—
What it shows us are flaws
In our methods of representation.
By our own calculations,
We’ve implied infinity, derived reality,
Neglected our symbols’ discrepancies
In favor of formality.
By what authority are we
To delineate totality?
Who am I to blame light
For its meeting my eye; why
Distinguish our sight from what’s seen?
No one ever asked me,
so now I’m asking you:
What to do?
Should we keep wagging fingers
At laws who don’t mind us,
Surrender like enemies do?
Rely on however humanity deems
Life ought to be. So how is it
Laws explain gravity?
Surely, we are only speaking metaphorically,
Of measurable tendencies,
A mischaracterization of causalities.
An apple that falls, after all,
Isn’t actually obeying any laws—
What it shows us are flaws
In our methods of representation.
By our own calculations,
We’ve implied infinity, derived reality,
Neglected our symbols’ discrepancies
In favor of formality.
By what authority are we
To delineate totality?
Who am I to blame light
For its meeting my eye; why
Distinguish our sight from what’s seen?
No one ever asked me,
so now I’m asking you:
What to do?
Should we keep wagging fingers
At laws who don’t mind us,
Surrender like enemies do?
Oink!
(3:1:2023)
(3:1:2023)
I wallow in moments
Like pigs do in mud:
Shamelessly,
Gleefully,
Skillfully.
Like pigs do in mud:
Shamelessly,
Gleefully,
Skillfully.
Life’s cheaper than dirt
And it’s thicker than blood:
Painlessly,
Greedily,
Willfully.
And it’s thicker than blood:
Painlessly,
Greedily,
Willfully.
And I’m just some animal
Caught in its flood:
Sacredly,
Easily,
Filthily.
Caught in its flood:
Sacredly,
Easily,
Filthily.
Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes
God is whatever
and that's all there is to say.
Sometimes sometimes sometimes
Death's as good as never
and there's something anyway.
Sometimes sometimes sometimes
absence makes peace with the angels
and you laugh with it more
than you do your own face.
Why do you look alike?
Who do you care?
And what in the world's going on in there?
A sanctioned inter-face:
I'm between like a threshold,
plotting holes just like lace.
It's the negative space
which determines your pattern;
and opposites aim to re-place.
There's no stagnancy, clearly:
the speed at which you operate
leaves little room for things like fate,
and so we all approximate,
tell each other stories of
sometimes, sometimes, sometimes,
articulate what God dares not corroborate,
collaborate: sometimes sometimes sometimes even communicate.
and that's all there is to say.
Sometimes sometimes sometimes
Death's as good as never
and there's something anyway.
Sometimes sometimes sometimes
absence makes peace with the angels
and you laugh with it more
than you do your own face.
Why do you look alike?
Who do you care?
And what in the world's going on in there?
A sanctioned inter-face:
I'm between like a threshold,
plotting holes just like lace.
It's the negative space
which determines your pattern;
and opposites aim to re-place.
There's no stagnancy, clearly:
the speed at which you operate
leaves little room for things like fate,
and so we all approximate,
tell each other stories of
sometimes, sometimes, sometimes,
articulate what God dares not corroborate,
collaborate: sometimes sometimes sometimes even communicate.
Goodbye
God is not some plaything,
Heaven no Barbie dream house
rife with close-enough versions
of things largely known,
cheaply thrown together
for our own aesthetic use.
God's not a toy, not some boy,
Not a ploy—
you're the one who's been
pulling all these strings,
inventing all these things,
perpetuating their ruse,
making me choose.
I don't make meanings true,
I repeat them to you.
I don't have a damn clue,
I'm just telling you.
I don't want to pretend
like I know how this goes in the end—
I don't have to.
God is not some plaything;
God plays things like us through.
God be with you.
Heaven no Barbie dream house
rife with close-enough versions
of things largely known,
cheaply thrown together
for our own aesthetic use.
God's not a toy, not some boy,
Not a ploy—
you're the one who's been
pulling all these strings,
inventing all these things,
perpetuating their ruse,
making me choose.
I don't make meanings true,
I repeat them to you.
I don't have a damn clue,
I'm just telling you.
I don't want to pretend
like I know how this goes in the end—
I don't have to.
God is not some plaything;
God plays things like us through.
God be with you.