whatever room you put me in I'll fill w/ light & luxury * *with mirrors to see me xx a red-ink squiggly under snake, i've penned. i'm a seeker of Commentary, i'm Rush's diligent reader, yet: my margins in Mating are empty. xx the line, i decide, is comment enough. the squiggly is the snake, i say: excessive, just like itself. xx this is perfect Metaphor ---humbly, i say, for the squiggly is the snake. xx the serpent's bite is its word--the serpent's word is Death. xx by Serpent's word is Tsau remade to Shadow Play: in friezes Eight, a fatal Progress. xx from Archetype to Anthropology, from Sacred myth to Ecology---Serpent morphs to boomslang ; acacia now the Tree--- xx Incarnation is this gathering of specificities. xx I thought we should take it, the biltong she means--I thought we should take the meat of beings whose african, afrikaans name evades me-- it's not what they called themselves, anyway. xx coming War for she'll not abide his newfound silence or style of meal---his emphasis on cold cooked grains. xx she's rested well, on eggs and cold sirloin tips breakfasts. xx with sheaves of The Economist she loads his sickbed, she integrates Eden's economy--- xx the massacred herd shall henceforth flow through yearly. xx i've cantilevered ashtray over mutual lapspace--left elbow propped on my overcrossed thigh--my forearm rising to a limp-wristed pedestal--- xx an apex flat, the Olympus ring envisioned by Genet--where combatants embrace in their mutual beauty, and collapse. xx i'm languourously smoking, hazily staring through slits to some Beyond---i'm fussily ashing, daubs of a dilettante's brush to the palette. xx you are annoyed with the ashtray itself, so pure & autistic your Straightman. xx am sometimes told i have the following habit: a spasmic laugh, retracting fast into a face devoid of all compassion---then, an Awkward Silence---that rouses us to laughter---faltering soon to a second calm, that reminds us of the first---so on we go, raucous & calm---till mute & enmirrored, opposed we stand, swooning in wonder. xx your impetuous gaze, a two-tone card, these rigorous months has been taped to my fridge. my locker's mirror, mousepad-sized, in the steamy light of a change-room now seems the same blown up & blooming into color. xx we're entities twinned in hatred---the virtue of one, by envy's acid, burns the other's face. xx the lines that trace the past will in the semidarkness form a face, a sleeping face- your Damning, or your lift among the Elect. xx a sleeping face, faithful, still, unchangeable-- xx dreamer is an Ingénue---never amazed to be singled out xx dreamer is an Ingénue---all you've done was done to yourself xx Face is the cut of a skull, overlaid--- Mind is the back of a face. xx i often feel i have too much face. i get manic, chatty, desperate to work it off the cheeks. xx Lonely looks like lovely sounds like only. in last case our face decays to feral, grinning skull. to speculative hominids, this made Death a gleeful predator, and our smiles memento mori, frightful flashes of skeletal destiny. xx had skulls seemed serene, & had Helen of Troy's nose been longer, they'd've been less keen to save her, Blaise Pascal claims. xx a sparse loft, our upper Office--a modular prop-set for any conceivable scene. xx billowing gauze, waning LIGHT, far above the honk & grime xx all shelves empty, dippled & braced w/ alloy for fussy re-angling. xx surfaces, all, in murals shall be overlayed--- shelve-piece slapped in vanilla paint, a primer that our etching pen shall crackle xx on milkcrates arraised, a fat slab of drywall: our Table. xx our heads are in conference--among legs unseen, playfully engaged, a Protocol emerging--terms of a future Polity. xx we'll name an element, call forth a force-- assign it a colour & vague behaviour. xx the people agreed are themselves the power McElroy speaks of. xx we're subtle past enactable [*Death--our mouths are fraught w/ harmless War--how long we've fed on hollow chant ! ] xx century to century: their Meeting achieves specificity--Angels arrive at century's speed-- centuries are: the speed of history, of Empires arising & receding--History, the City, is measured in centuries--a hundred or so centuries: the Age of the City. xx power vacuum / a vacuum's power--in vacuum's vicinity, Being must strive--extension becomes a tiring demand, an active claiming of space. xx the trick is up, his skull is open---he's an ape in the headlights, dying wide in the distance between (i) Seductive Display; and (ii) Murderous Intent xx [ there's a scene in Black Robe, in a longhouse prison: "Girl distracts the Nightguard". xx the moment he softens, she surges into horrid unfocus---a giant Head in cellophane, the front of Goat's Head Soup.] xx working thru the Longhouse bit--pacing into cursive rain in a Bloorcourt laneway--i spoke the line aloud, & alley did recede into an infinite Enclosure, long as it was tall-- xx lightning flashed my staggered frames-- xx it was me alone, in my wing-back trenchcoat, thane of my own shady corridor. xx in recenter Versions, from night-terrors i am drawn--down to street, down cobblestone slick in floodlight's sweep, w/ alarm sounding death from above. xx light & shadow oscillate, so eqivocate this endtime scene to something less a spectral projection. xx violent Partition, the flight of the Pandits, the scouring of the Valley & a World War prior: all within the decade ahead. xx Days of dread, of Dream's end. xx Workshop pics in my Kripalu Fall Catalogue, so far removed from this! xx Then it becomes fabulous--- Nelson had been delirious---then there were bees, different versions---then there was more, and worse---he'd heard their songs, been let into the society of insects. xx in a paradise of pain---had visions of presences or a presence---then, the blackbacked jackals came. xx bees had discouraged the jackals or the boomslang- -in version Three, the bees sway all in an Inclusive logic---: the bees surprise both jackal & snake with a common animal language. xx the bees arrive, are UFOs--a hovering hive, an undulating orb. xx the godvoice comes at the peak of stress--a cry from the wreckage of failed conventions. the gods are extremophiles, thrive in dissemblages xx stress just is: the animal undecided--& relief the correction by "Phoebus repli'd". xx to let in gods, scatter your drama w/ Phoebus repli'd. xx neutral prose, a god's remove: an ego's lone penstroke may undo. xx a single I, unbound in quotes, unhides the self--a thousand lines of god's-eye plot, remade as intimate Address. xx before logging in, before the doc loaded---a title, bold, inserted itself xx centered, huge, orders above the older. insert img. a hovering mothership, held aloft by its own motive xx my verse is parasitic---i have no Play to call my own. xx on drywall behind rise umbral summons--concentricly nested, a taunting Three--dancing Witches, cast by Me--- xx a nervous ellipse of flames do run from me to mirror, & mirror to me xx i often dream of a DeLillo blew wayward: a fullpage paragraph, fragile and vague. xx it emerges per word w/ my dreamself's panning gaze. emerges from the blasted white of page. xx it may be a single, serpentine sentence. xx the central action is an Agent sent far, who slinks unnamed, his Missive implicit. xx in voice, conflates the bureaucratic & the mystic. xx its dominant image: shadow wings agape that flap a slow path overland, casting of a sun-grazing Seriff. xx i've yet to see the actual words: angel, wing, shadow a missive implicit. xx i arise in awe for Delillo thinking at first it his. then wonder what sayings on HIS bed are dreamt; ventriloquies of which dread author? xx Libra it could suit, if rendered italic, if set like the Outer Dark arias. xx light dissolved by body-selves, in workshop with Grace Kimball---the body is light, forgetting itself---the body a roadblock light morphs into. xx Was it angel, animal, mineral, chemical, chemotherapeutical? in their perfect aporeia, angels may wonder---so might a Seventies' body-selve. xx McElroy writes a sign that says City Limits. the writing itself is McElroy's Pop. sign: we're not in some hamlet where leaving's unwarned---whose limits are seen from wherever, within it--- we're given a range to guess within. xx the photo's trouser stiff behind with wind, some starch of motion---a zoom-level wide from the paragraph prior, from the computed grain of what pocked interplanet's ground. xx the trouser is paper, is a textured cardstock--the photo entire is some starch of motion, dry & inert. xx & starch is "sartorial", is also metaphor. xx we're somehow now on the postwar Interstate, in a backseat kidsgame--the rural flaneurship, the lazy namings of an August Monday. xx Landing was surprising as unhumid Mumbai, as lunar maria we rose to touch down on xx whatever just said, made a metaphor for Buddhism. xx his key conflation being his Planetary Realism w/ a language of Eternity. his jargon-sublime, the noumenal-banal. xx Jokes resound when one sounds the other--as in Breathers, every line. xx we pick up what else but the will of a slow worm in there. xx the will is one path from a dreamy girl's many--the will is a tapeworm's chosen track. xx the will of another: a tapeworm's track, while one's own is a writhing, felt within--a striving prior to its visible effect. xx lens has her angled, plaintive in profile--her cheek made canvass for a cooling light-- bearing all her sadness, it seems-- though our notes won't say is it a window or mirror she peers through / at-- my point being this: she has a choice xx her passport held fast---she sends unjealous friends a card by Borderguard: Poster Art of English Rock, on whose back she's penned Having fun in the outside world, having a blast! Is not all Comrade this & that! xx from angel's height, our Ingenue is still e.g. xx from angel's height: an everyoung, once wed xx on falling they'll know Grace Kimball- on falling they'll know her as me xx Time disrupts what Daughter means, would rush us into bastardy. xx in Time will seem she has no, had no, Father. xx socially shy, she moves with an entourage of uncles-- xx non-cute flip-flops, squinting up thru glasses, sweet, her head in inquisitive angles-- xx from housecoat pocket, hands her card, her only card, warm w/ softened edges-- :[a bakery run from home ] xx her uncles eye me warily. they're lazy guards. they may be muslim, kashmiri. are chatting regarding the state of Gerrard. they've allowed her to stray into exogamies. xx she cocks her head, puppy-tells- thinks i've got her koan wrong, her name misspelled. xx how affix-encumbered enlightenment-- by a latinate gang, the aspirant Soul been pressed into a "happening". xx enlightenment is light, w/ bureaucratic upkeep- w/ a latinate clergy clustered around, occluding that you seek. xx You're doing it wrong they're saying to me, the ever-penitent meditator---i'm terrible at it, i'll never do it profoundly. xx i'll sometimes say things i don't even know what i'm talking about--with each rebuke i'm eleven again, kneeling in line at the YMCA--- xx my Sensei the war vet, a gruff caucasian pacing the dojo, hands at his cocyx, folded-- giving ex tempore his hardwon politics, often over our heads--- xx he warns of unending Agon---of half the world behind our backs, of---[he pauses, assesses we boys-to-men]---[snaggs his thumbs in judogi beltloop, his package placed in parantheses, in the hanging curves of his slightly taut hands] xx up goes my arm, the oh-oh-ohs of a faggity knowitall, hand queenly twisting. xx again, again: Avoiding Relationship? All of your ills from avoiding relationship, postponing your own Presence--- xx Go say relationship, alone in a mirror-- xx Any random query or koan may be ridden unto enlightenment---Hold your fourlimb form afore you, still as stained-glass--- xx In a body-long mirror, speak the strange motto---w/ android efficience, the motto, the motto ---your own V.O. is the god. xx their world foresung, they now must descend & invest it-- must live their Song from within. xx Soliloquey is achieved: being alone he'd thoughts of his own, not of his brethren-- xx a Mind's pride-no point in space-now has the center. xx Melkor covets, tells the Valar this Earth is mine: a mine divinely scripted, for his words are all Iluvatar's. xx the present hums along with him, it keeps its perfect pace with him--all the while sealing him into History. xx yet Melkor knows the Song from inside, he owns this song of Iluvatar-- xx it was loud, vain, and endlessly repeated--had little harmony, was a clamorous unison--was many trumpets, on a few notes braying-- xx was a status-rap, loop-based-- was a capitalist toast-to-Self- -was enemy of a graceful alaap, of Speigel im Speigel. xx Line one of three, my eye's first flutter-- only there could Fish compell me xx Line one of three, saccade's first pass-- only there could Fish impress xx the ratio is ludicrous, clear, i contend: Wand to Pine as Pine to Spear-- xx these Angels are creatures, huge, with actual weaponry. versus FISH, or : damned The [harassed] Reader in [Paradise Lost]; this, my Essay xx by trebling speed thru the swirling orrery, back to the Eye at its Glass-- xx no via negativa, unspeakable bodytricks-- xx no paradox, it's camera tracks. xx Line one of three, my eye's first flutter- only there could Fish compell me-- xx Line one of three, saccade's first pass-- only there could Fish impress xx The security of sequence is soon taken away-all deceptions a single instant, forever recurring-- his similes pressed to a central core, beyond all hope of extraction- xx however many times the simile is re-read, the "yet never saw" is unexpected---Milton slips by the "now" of line 54. xx The unianimous reply is "surprise"--and an involuntary question. xx You are now with Satan, in Hell-- and the present tense of "torments". xx looking inward, seeing a halo that dwarfs & engulfs him-this spatially makes no sense-and sinister light is oversimple, sinister is a psychic complex. xx at tower's apex, his eyes twin in a circle of light, in which luminous currents swirled and eddied-- details of fireworks, little Psychology. xx Profundity is violence, brahminized-his aggression bent inward, held fast upon a thought. xx the sun is up, his eyes are open, and alive comes his scepticism---did sun in sympathy rise with him? was sun all along the effulgent halo?--- xx but the sun is external, had not that splendour---but the sun is internal & splendorous, to itself--- it 'Sent Her Radiations', and this is not reductive-- -She, too is a happy god. xx nothing of his dreams that night-of his exaltation, impossible to describe- we'll later read of kids downstairs the whole time---of the office he goes to, his Duties parodically generic, a shuffling of chits. xx Victorian the idiom, his formal turn of tongue--it's an Empiricist's journal, a Madman's epistolary, pulled from his smouldering lab. xx we need more registers, an intersubjective guage of his state--we desire his wife, a sensitive Mirror. xx was not projected toward the Future but What Was Always Already The Case Was Revealed In every moment- xx a thus for but would explain--the but here hides what happened, that day. xx but just means surprisingly, and xx he used to feel as if poised in midair without any feeling of body around me---Liberation looks like this, like a levitating meditator---a levitator is as if been liberated. xx Profound Submission Of attention, his Practice--Profound contains the mystery, entire--his secret is named, not shared--Profound stands in for a style of will, for a certain intensity-- for a bent of mind somehow that hour effective. xx the thoughtful lag been whittled down by repetitive force-- till no small space of the Self untried in light of the Choice. xx for temptings late, my own TOLLE LEGE + bookflip: <<no central control-an anarchic system of competitive elements.>>* * Daniel Dennett, "The Logical Geography of Computational Approaches: A View from the East Pole" in Brainchildren: Essays in Designing Minds [M.I.T., 1998], p. 227. xx you never said NO with all of yr being-- your freedom was always a freedom from- inhabit that body, though you may, doesn't mean it's yours. xx Relentment's cost increases w/ Resistance, Pleasure's promise varies w/ fear, xx o i do fear a satan of the 21st Century. xx let him who has ears--a warning, aloof--bolder than verily verily. xx the valorous live from the solar plexus-- he is a brahmin, is in his head, is a nondimensional point of awareness-- his trunk and limbs a faint extension, dropping from his brainstem. xx Seems as if he'll act, avenge; the last word undermines him. the twelfth line ends in a dot dot dot, & the thirteenth adds a not [unwept]: our scope for syntax fraught, says Fish. xx never had a war of my own so whaddo i know-- xx gums i nip w/, puppy nubs i soffly chomp w/ xx not v.good at breathing, i'm forever out of turn. xx Voice, my finer PHENOTYPE, paper trace of gesture all repel-- xx my body-gestalt, vastly circuitous as uszhe- my talk-to-self, peppered with apologies. xx never had a war of my own so whaddo i know. xx for every potent penny thus up-rounded we've :a negative theology :a bronzèd Queen's victory o measure u what vast & crazy dealings do ensue from above-said policy! xx u haughtily laugh, adjust from fulllotus to half--u drive this cab I'm shotgun in--u keep thy metered penance thru the neon stream- our roaming desert wars i text were woos by other means & now our hearts are under siege xx those who work for you inherit your strength---Master's powers pass to Slave---Master's offspring dabble & wane xx I shall not leave this threshing floor- (loudly so the invisible forces could hear)- I shall not leave without hearing God--a sensible plan, if Desert is a film set. xx and he's a Star on strike, demanding his words with the Director--as Engineers solve improbable mic-rigs in a flurry around him. xx am weary of hearing voices in the air: enough pareidolia, peripheral whispers--speak like a Man! xx but then it won't be God you hear! xx The sign of your Father is movement and repose--a working of the self in its stillness--a practised pulse, a voiding act to the sub-self relegated. xx Denoon e.g. with every breath; Denoon e.g. by frames of black per sec. xx Of Heaven And Hell: a Borges list. the title divides it. xx the poem is a ruse, his excuse to name: the Dane's staunch sword and the Persian's moon, tigers & his mirrors that are music; his Concentric theory of thrones. xx he lost his colours one-byone--blue & yellow somehow blended--and was left with yellow, a vivid yellow.* Profile of a Writer: Jorge Luis Borges [David Wheatley, 1983] xx he lives, now, in the center of a luminous [four? syllables]--among shapes that are not darkness yet. xx to Borges, blind, the eye is an enemy of Eternity-- xx to Borges, blind, the eye is the corrupter of Youth. xx to Borges, blind, women are what they were many years ago. xx Undeciphered and alone, for anything I may stand--a bronze prayer or a saying that encodes the flavour of a life--in the darkness, leave me, my card untranscribed--I am anything. xx the Simsun says the specificunsayable--in memory's hall, Borges/Bell stand-- xx his poem, Signs, is sized for a gallery info-plate, or epitaph. xx My brother, he said you were innocent and pure, like every animal--a goat for Man, men will hear, a symbol of themselves-But men, the cowards, their sins made you bear-- xx men cannot hear: their Savior aligned with the animals. xx River & her residents align, rejoice--unfold their fins and shake their tails in natural obeisance-- while Chaldeans, Mukhtians, Israelites hide their eyes, shiver and wail. they fall face-down in the mudbank. xx the hearts of these warmongers, slaverunners, sheepkillers, feasters and fornicators are dense & insentient---the thoughts on their brow are depraved---they cry out to be saved. xx was a dove or one of Jehovah's Seraphs-- or a dove who serves as Seraph--- xx the Messiah's true name is called from the margins, a mingled cry of bird & beast--- from those whom men have stoned off-scene- --the humble first to gather round in kinship. xx his Smile was structurally condescending. xx A fable, I thought. No, a parable, god help me--she's snorting her way into his fable: as it occasions, as he predicts. xx their sceptical love lives on, in her--we're witnessing a funeral, she's quizzing the Revisitor--she's mourning the days he'd seen fit to tease her re her caesuras--- her roving irony, wit & word-play, all he once was game for now indulging. xx his body laid in living Wake, made holy-- blessings come to all w/in his wave-range. xx she is otiose, in the way; he, in his masterful silence, aligns with the Author, with Rush himself. xx a whole world held held w/in her sceptic's epoché---hence no quote marks, i scrawl around the Dedication page--- xx or she's a trick of ventriloquy: all her neologies mimic Adam's prerogative--- xx Tsau is his, is Nelson / Norman's. it's his world she's telling---under the Acacia tree, the Dedication's tensions work out. xx alone he finds completion--in rescue, she'll follow, come to his desert. xx she was late to the Eden she leaves, by end. Tsau's become a cult she wants out of. xx the Boy was always ectomorph---in his own way perfect, already---the Boy is his own endless story---it had to end badly, tragically--- xx Nelson she'd have starvation-skinny--- ribs discernable, countable through his lessening flesh. xx we grow evermore curious re how things are made--- xx till Film is outrun by visual essays, revealing outtakes, DVD addenda. xx in Microhouse, the bitrate-snare been shrunk of late to a snippet-crunch, as if to say: here's where the snare-drum historically went xx attentions retune to the music of the room--midi-flips, faders stuck in morning light un-eerie xx attentions retune to the music of the room--compressor clicks, a basal shush of evening traffic. xx we hearken still unsated to the voices of the Sea--Ear awaits in shuffling wave a pattern of Eternity xx we meek remains shall bake w/in ancestral hovels-- shoot the breeze re how it was, how it all went-- xx from Kubrick's oeuvre alone we've uncountable frames. xx are ushered in-line, plied in turn w/ squares of tin flashing in the sunlight-- xx each receives: orange scissors, cute & ergonomic --each receives: water, cool, a splash of in styrofoam cup--- xx some know this as 'Arts & Crafts'-- xx some they don't like this. xx grudges ceded in our bodies' alignment--in operon labour we're brought to compose, to apparent complicity-- xx yet another sin of this Slavery- -am made to seem agreeable w/ my fellow man! xx angels are human relations: no less real than our planet's true core, a person, or a metaphor. xx an angel: an arrangement of Face, from effects. xx an animal's face, a local angel: the soul's most intimate spread. xx are they real enough to grow by human means? enough here means both only so / ever so-- xx Feuerbach's equation [God = Man] never reduces, runs both ways. his Equation enlarges each term's range. xx BEGIN in Runaway majesty-- Deadman's Posture, later, END-- late A.M., my boyhood bed--jeans & Cons caked in mud--the last-ofacid jitters & bends. xx the nine-year-old Me shall be the nine-year-old Me-not me Tuesday, commandeering Monday's pliable body. xx am mad to see u write of lakes, a love i cannot share u who've learned the names of clouds, u ragged last of native space xx my female report, her Yes / No to my ON / OFF query-- xx sevrl. million latchstrings over sevrl. styles of <?> deployed-- xx on gatefold crease, mondegreens gleaned---senseless rhyme from a Ladies' sangeet. xx am perhaps best thought of as having recently gotten fully underway i.e. as the sound of my own grammar. xx fingers miming keytap--fingers springing fiendishhigh, i'm marionette & Master. xx my heart did seize in a rigorous fist-- xx w/ crumpled notes to be found on my person, taken for my Requiem-- xx on pad's top sheet are impressions, still, of my ravings. xx my life seemed a stammering long apology. xx Hell is the great within; Hell is the Self, the centre of narrative gravity [Dennett]--- xx Hawaii Island, foot to Keep, fortyfive x hundred layers of horked-up hell-flame. xx Olive garden's recompense / the boiled egg of Entropy-- -yr very own Mohenjo-daro mound xx Heaven is a grainy hall of mirrors xx your eidos, you'll notice, in tracers adjascent, in Seventies special effects xx a Halo Council, horseshoed around your head xx a floating chorus, your angel Parade xx the self you shook off, in multiples remade. xx <<to YOU we GIVE : "emotion & the planning of movement" YOU we GIVE : [ notice of compliance under Notice of Compliance with Policy Conditions ] the wunderdrug, Ca tena : : the Omnivod, for scenes of Earth, from every time & angle xx gliding thru the parting cliques-- -in parallel streams, a faltering Party, running thy Periphery--- xx your Mission w/ much less work et cet--arising therefrom, random effervescences. xx mornings are for Socratic chatter, for making cheer with the newly retired, the a.m.'s later patrons xx noons are for: warmish pints with the p.m.'s first at the Imperial Pub, a nest of old crows on Yonge & Dundas Square. xx onto the Timmy's, the COFFEE TIMES; to the Coffee TIPS on ungentrified strips, the franchise-defectors w/ tapedoff signs. xx the Priceless is there, where sand is unending--the Priceless, there, where no one makes a claim. xx maps of ours tend towards: property lines-- xx from Inns of Court to exurbs bland, maps of ours tend toward- our intensities radially arrayed. xx the Priceless is there, where sand is unending--the Priceless, there, where no one makes a claim *the Greeks held the heart as our locus of thought--in our subvocal stirrings heard inward mimesis of public Dialogue. a stethoscope thus could read my thoughts--yet they wouldn't be mine! Friend add me, for I have thee---Write to me pls in the preterite tense of Frenchest Femm Lit--oh but pity the poor Translator!