angelı del fango

the perpetual struggle between two lıes becomes my truth

to become a master of aımlessness so that aımlessness ıs ınseparable from productıon the basıs and necessıty of productıon becomes productıon thıs ıs an art hardly dıscussed or even thought why when ıt could save the world

poetry as a way of relatıng to realıty prımarıly rather than a genre of lıterature and a way of structurıng words and sentıment ıs a phılosophy and spırıtualıty a guıde to the orderıng and dısorderıng of thought event dream emotıon as they pass through our meat whonyms can wrıte poetry of varyıng excellence but to lıve ın the spırıt of poetrys wıth or wıthout effect a path that once ones suffıcıently along ıts gyral loopıng mad mappedunmappedness not only ıs there no turnıng back other than the returnıng thats ınextrıcably the path ıtself that returnıng of tımes recognıtıon and dıssolutıon but fırst the actualıty and then the possıbılıty of other paths begın to fade and parallel realıtıes whıch stıll contınue to thrıve source from the poetıc voıds rather than the effuse of materıal possıbılıty

only ın absentıng myself are you gıven the opportunıty to see me

only by my not appearıng can you know me

the subȷect grows wıthın the creator lıke a fruıt the poet has nothıng to be proud of theyre not master of any sıtuatıon but a slave to the creatıve work thats theır only possıble form of exıstence

you wear che on your tshırt lıke some surrogate saınt says heresıarch dzıad haha ıll tell you who the true revolutıonarıes are here are some names ıf youre stıll so mıred ın sıgns you need names edmond ȷabès emıly dıckınson amos tutuola octavıa butler ȷan švankmaȷer seıȷun suzukı ulrıke ottınger leonora carrıngton rosa parks alfred ȷarry mıra calıx antonın artaud daphne oram and a mıllıon other spırıts youll never fınd on the ınternet or hıstory put these unfındable alıens on your coffee mug advertıze the blankness thınk yourself grand and heresıarch dzıad haha snorts lıke a century and drıves from the cupola of our abȷectıon lıke a bubalus bubalıs a hunted nganabbarru on the stones of dȷabıdȷbakalloı

those who must be symbols and those who must be not create together a war of selectıve elımınatıon

heresıarch ıbılıbı says from theır bed of snow and shattered clocks we have become spırıtually ımpotent for who could now unıte the warrıng fragments of the soul some say they do but as you look closer and rarely does one have to look far you see all theyre doıng ıs claımıng unıty and ın practıce speakıng from a fortress of ınevıtable and massıve exclusıon unıty has gone to theır head and heresıarch ıbılıbı pulls the clocks over theır chın and nuzzles ınto the snow and says no more

two lıes? countless 

some scatologıcal heresıarchs at a ragmoot are watchıng markers a grın wıthout a cat heresıarch wısenheımer says ın nıetzschean terms a chıld sıdıng wıth the camels rather than lıons heresıarch kafharkuuc says has the unıntended effect of helpıng polıtıcal struggle attaın such heıghts of puerılıty and offense whether capıtalıst communıst democrat unıon offıcer socıalıst student academıc not only does ıt further retreat ınto dostoevskıan ıdıocy and possessıon but raıses anomıe to the throne of wısdom and sensıbılıty heresıarch anȷwy4w4 says the mındfaces whether leadershıp or mob except perhaps salvador allende seem rısıbly lobotomızedly commıttedly repulsıve heresıarch 置针 says and we know what happened to hım the fear he roused ın the controllıng hearts of the false democracıes and the padded claws of busıness and theres much hollerıng and the heresıarchs remove theır faces and grıns there are none left behınd

wrıtıng through not out of desolatıon

but a through wıthout end

wıthout ıs desolatıon

my truth? my unravelıng

we should long ago have become angels

had we become capable of payıng attentıon

to the experıence of art

ınstead we turn away

sham man

shaman like all now ancient desperations is overused and underdone   like the teeming western pilgrims to varanasi  whatever their motivations  in search of the absences in the heart of the west  finding only presences  shaman is varanasi ayahuasca maybe love or sex even money in its manifold and crushing vulgarity  its claims to all & nothing  flash in a stolen pan  community as thief usurper doubleagent or triple more  time twisted and fried   but what is shaman? some jungle aesthetic? an unrecoverable character on natures barely conscious stage  flesh of dream  and now only  whether in loreto or manhattan some sham a 350night excursion into the lands broken & forever scaled a 4000 selfie trip to a polluted & honking ganesha   chant the plants  sell the love   and what is shaman in the age of digital reproduction with that sexy & romantic martyr che titting it up across perky planets? are we all shamans but bad ones in our microscopic specializations  our language of whatever rabbit hole we might find ourselves in  or are those who take the nym  whether indigenous or invasive  entitled to some claim the rest of us arent  credentials   not that the recognized presence of some shaman certification body  or bodies different competing schools and dogmas like those pesky splintering protestants  would solve any of the problems we find tucked away in the dusty boxes in the skeletal garrets of the dilapidating mansions of legitimization  it might even increase then as we could from various angles and arcs say such has done to doctors judges teachers philosophers poets priests generals therapists   necessary you say for our world to function according to code   absolutely   but the code is aborted and our world antifunctional and necessity a monster as mixter weil cogently articulates   we have something else to say   unless shaman takes the sham in man and puts it back  unless it fulfill and destroy credentials  unless it inhabit the jungle desert forest ocean mountain and loves these more than human society  unless it denies shaman as occupation name tradition  ie unless it go on the path before the concept of shaman was born  before shaman was born  unless it confuse in and out while living out of society and in the path so that society is more path than society  unless in our fragmentations it lives on the outside and mumbles and every now and then a word seeps out      unless      too restrictive? there is nothing here we say   nothing here but the chattering of long nights and their infinite children of gas      enter my difficult one into the voices who doubt time and money  who stake their dreamthreads to countless poles   so the shaman  or our shaman  takes its place in noplace  for there is no place for it left in this world   it pitches itself in noplace to listen to dark voices  not to return to any form of society  political or regulatory structure  ceremony or love  not to to      it follows a tradition of outsideinside  novoicevoice  noplaceplace  nonamename  notimetime      we also sometimes call our shaman  this noshaman  a polypolar   for it reaches noplace through a ground or grounds of not just n&s e or w  but every latlong  voice of muskrat muskeg nutmeg megafauna cake and cow and plopplop  car and rust and musth and a tuktuks hello dawn and word and distant cave and here

 

shaman lives in hallucinogens of falling contradiction  of hunger and satiation not oppositive but faces of water  mirrors of fog   everythings a drug  loss betrayal hunger nightmare vision colour walking muddledness tedium   and drugs just a portal to more portality

 

shaman lives in simulations of apocalypse to compost apocalypse   it lives in possibility to avoid the schizophrenias of actuality   lives in schizophrenias to unmask the myriad alls   it lives in death to experience lifes manifestations as they might exist in living laboratories of soil and wind   shaman lives in absence to facilitate a present seeking

 

shamans forage and seek to forage according to the data of rhythms of locusts and beancurd  of cocktails that rise like gasoline  their foraging for rupees among the banking machine forests of varanasi would be inadequate but for the lightless soil of the shamans roots  a lightlessness that would be sibling to imagination  an imagination capable of creating foraging  a foraging for nuts apples seeds roots gometa pata  that we in our machines have been severed from and shaman  not as even retreat position guru  is a way to not unite heal integrate but desever   and this desevering new? near?   our foraging for rupees a foraging for refuse  the discards and deaths  anonymities  interior voices  the silenced  the majority that isnt voiced in the green collapse

 

so shaman looks for excluded voices  the criticisms withheld from any gang tribe family institution self identity  to keep it together and does not negate the affirmations of the tribe but sees these as nothing stranger than the exclusions and negations   you say  but all these weights and counterweights on the souls unbalanced scales!?  it means you dont  you cant!  get anything done  you have no action  wills annihilated by an excess of will or wills  if you have any action its hamletian action  action bottled up in mind only to explode  but we say  ah  youve not seen the ham in sham  the hamlet in shamlet  which leads so truthfully to the am in ham   i am the am and ham and sham   i am the ion in action  the ill in will   there is  you may have heard  a no action far older than any shamlet  one before i or am or man  for this the shaman forages  like the scavangers in bms epilogue  those wraiths of lost fire  born into false forges and cold currencies? do we seek then war  that god? no   war is in us and us   shaman rests in the impossible cacophony of voices and for this rest it lives in the outside of the in  an inside of outs      do not rebuke the little children by the ganga who set toll booths according to their sad mentors   instead  dust  the dust  worn negation of a young yesterday  draw with the dust of yourself shapes inexplicable and full of eyes

 

is all this too declarative? yes

 

are all these words misguided? yes

 

is there any i resembling anything were talking about? no

 

are happiness and love aspects of this? as much as indifference and despair

 

do we know what were talking about or thinking? no  maybe  yes  no

 

are words unpolished mirrors?

 

is our gaze a stumbling in dusk?

 

are we the unanswerability of ourselves?

 

are oracles the spaces between stars?

 

are forms the mathematics of an undreamt geometry?

 

is this a leaf   are we stones waiting to be sand?

ni`ev|u and *asija

ni`ev|u and *asija – a ymess story

 für  familien 

ni`ev|u and *asija meet at the corner of concept and rial in a lethargy of ocean sweat by smile miles under a gibbous moon

the world it was new once says *asija

is that a question says ni`ev|u

i have been unable to be myself in the world says *asija. i have been unable to enact my body

it takes so long to fall into one’s self

lifetimes

eliminating world to include world, eliminating i to include i, eliminating ratio to include ratio

who said that       other than you

hairy clitoris

to delight in mud

to delight in catherine wheels

wheels of mind breaking bones of thought

we are distant figures in a misplaced bruegel

pigments of suffering

who would choose to join this picture but the oblivious?

and who would pin a badge to its breast saying i am human?

i have only seen spirit as a fata morgana

as palimpsest

yet spirit is our yearning

we are souls given bodies to see that we cannot see our souls

we are not distinct. we are not discrete. we are not individual characters in a cast in a play

yet we play this play that plays at playing that we are

this playing at what is not becomes what is

and is the new that feels old

world that is not world, i that is not i,

dear things to which we cannot pray

dear visions that we wait to reappear

we hide in spaces where there is no place to hide

in snow shapes of angels full of patience

*asija and ni`ev|u meet in twilights of a language lost by lights strung on a broken pain of knowledge to speak of unspoken things in ways we’ve less forgotten than never learned at a corner of ime and nein with empty eyes, under a gibbous moon

feastday for fishes and humans and the many hungry things