say the little words

i say the little words

they come to me from sleeps shredded dictionary

i say the light is blue

or i dont like the violet cloth

as if these were the only words i knew

and im in some place for those whove lost the words

where they store the ones outside the proper dictionaries

i could say like those who say the little words say me

for who am i to know who says what or knows or sleeps or says

and if the words that are said have anything to do with i or that

whatever this or this

i wait for the little words that come

and they come until they dont

and i say them when they do

things inconstant

consuming art is no virtue compared to the destructions of explicitly mercantile consumptions, despite any autorighteousness various culture puffs claim. art – to get to us – voraciously destroys in orders of magnitude not dissimilar to those of straightup capitalism, even when its ostensible content is cultural critique. so art is the rough inheritor of the hypocrisies of institutional religion and we who eat it the devout who bloody our knees on the hard steps leading to cathedrals of nowhere

everything we need to know and admire is in a square metre of soil

heresiarch t’t smesa, mycogod, has humans, fungi, plants, and bacteria working in conscious concert for the planet’s health. in a world in which humans can’t even cooperate with themselves let alone other species (surely we’re entitled to eat everything!) … what cross-kingdom collaboration!

new dreams –

i envision landscapes customized with mycelial matrices

how can i align myself with any system that depends fundamentally on force and fear for its survival?

it may be the distance between the ‘greatest’ human and the ‘least’ is greater than the distance between the ‘least’ human and the monkey (though this seems insulting to monkeys), but the distance between the ‘greatest’ human and god (consciousness, the everything of all) is far greater than that former distance. and so i mistrust the measures of the human, which focus on the former gap and not the latter, to humanity’s false aggrandisement, its delusional placement at the lead (but there is no lead) on the universe’s vast gameboard, and the degradation and soiling of its only home

humans envied the fear produced in them by nature. they wanted to be that cause (the cause of themselves?). technology has been a vehicle to that being. and now we scramble with each other to be near the top of the heap of fear (or any top of any fearpile). but humans are insufficient to be nature’s replacement, with or without technology. we can only be infinitesimal aspects

this rising talk on consciousness, while not unwelcome – is it not just mapping the extant god-mystic talk onto other language sectors? science the slow rather inept reason that has to plod along to even partially and belatedly translate what mysticism’s been advocating for millennia

humans evolve from the butterfly of childhood to the caterpillar of adulthood, often promoting their slow earthboundness, their voracious eating, as wisdom or necessity. if their slowness emerged from a true intimacy with the earth rather than a regulatory morass, a bureaucratic indolence, and an inability to transcend exploitation and extinction, who would not celebrate?

earth cannot be reduced to human flesh

human flesh cannot bear this burden

a function of therapy is to (re)integrate humans into society, but this society is precisely what has become questionable as a worthy habitat for living

autism might be a reflex response of the human to the preponderance of the human

from sin to mental illness through alienation – these adaptive cultural concepts, bludgeons of orthodoxy, linguistic cages for the gap between our barbarisms and our vision (which – despite the close of medieval war, religion, and torture, despite the death of god and heaven’s crumbling – hasn’t diminished but only grown!:

our barbarisms expanded through technology and unbridled pervasive attitudes of human supremacy, our idealism transferred from another life to this one)

polypolars, having to develop techniques to stave off madness and chaos, being experimenters in the unnamed, having within them myriad sets of eyes all gazing and blinking, …

… when a polypolar goes solo into the desert with those eyes and the landscape becomes nothing but eyes, eyes on eyes and in eyes, …

being a polypolar primarily involves the arts of waiting and psychic customs procedures – waiting for travel permits and arrangements, crossing borders and the various attendant rites, of exiting and entering domains, policies rarely written and when they are obscurely in obscure texts

what are we, demented followers of polluted and violent mirrors, we who drink from the shallow glass of ourselves and think we eat well?

the mathematics of mysticism

we are spheres

we are earth but not the earth

spheres of light

we are magnetic, but infinitely

not two poles, but uncountable

expanding

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earthworms can’t get cirrhosis

ideas are science (or rather technology) fiction and bodies fictions

science (  ) is how we negotiate our bodies

1. the decline of the external inhuman in the human rouses the inchoate internal inhuman
2. and should society, so responsible for this decline, then object to this rousing?
3. would this objection not take many forms – projection, incarceration, exclusion, insanitization, sanitation, institutionalization, monetization, civilization … ?

also, by the light shining out of chaos, the inhuman is guided

it does not make use of distinctions but is led on by the light

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  Its black flame is more potent, its reach further, its hope more boundless.  Light is the child of darkness and those who fear darkness the children of light.  These grandchildren, happy in forgetting their grandparent, presumed lost at sea, to dance on the shoals of knowledge.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  The sheets of darkness are pulled across your nudity, across your eyes, at night, and night again, and you forget its flames in the pills and disasters of the technological morning or you present them, wrapped in strings of words, to analysts, who turn them into light for cash or sex or children or something else or all of the above, or you use art or its shadow, entertainment, this heat, this tongue, to enter a lighter sleep, cool-warm, the make-believe womb of power, art’s frequent effect.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  Do not flee the brighter light, even though it sucks you down.  Without this danger, darkness is not darkness and you can never burn.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  What is darkness?  Darkness is waiting and watching, stillness and nothing, the wordless equality that crawls from the embodied knowledge that every thing is a god.  It is the chaos we crave and fear and work toward in our cosmopolitan denial.  For darkness must be the center of all acts and words and thoughts and things, and that is why all things are gods.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  Its fuel is a composite of doubt and death, the egg and seed of life.  Darkness is no friend or savior, but neither is light.  Light pretends to befriend, but darkness does not.  Light pretends and its pretense is not unreal.  Darkness does not pretend and its lack of pretense is not a matter of trust or nobility or anything particular, but the feeling evoked in its presence.  Light is the absence of darkness and darkness the fullness of light.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  Every gram of new consciousness, each euphoric and progressive comma, everything making your life comfortable and pleasurable, each truth that dams the night, leaks from darkness’ masked expanse.  Yet humans, who seem to crave little more than comfortable pleasures, would hide and try to slay their source, as if they were babes of spirit and cowards of the soul.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  The birds of darkness, screeching silently through centuries, broke through my bedroom window one lost November, pecking out my eyes, filling the cavities with fire.  I walked into the streets and the people of the bright urban night, upon seeing me, fled to drink and flesh and the caresses of electricity.  I walked on.  Was I to thank the birds of darkness?  Was I to curse them?  I only knew they do what they must do when they must, ripping aside the lighted veil to show the still translucent veil of darkness.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  This darkness is not some esoteric, cultic, theosophist, ecstatic or depressive, exclusivist, occult, or material knowledge, other than the material knowledge that is not usually called knowledge, for it simply exists, without need to explain or describe.  This darkness is calm, unruffled, without impulse, below and in and through every word.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  Darkness eats light and desires it.  Producing gargantuan quantities of light from our secret love of darkness and knowledge of its need, we feed darkness rather than resting in it, but in doing so cloister and abuse its capacities while remaining encapsulated in our burden of light.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  Darkness is more passionate, more intelligent, witty, more courageous, innovative, and more fun than light.  It dances harder, lighter, longer; it makes the dance and is the memory of the dance.  Darkness stretches the circle to its ecstatic limits of futility and in stretching breaks what it contains, and its methods of breaking are myriad; the impossibilities and the breaking drive the people to light.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  The creatures of darkness, knowing their namelessness, know darkness is a moniker, its nickname often confused by those buried in names with light’s enemy, as if light—if it is truly light—could have an enemy.  But light, being born of darkness and not something other than it, knows no enemies until it forgets its ancestry and falsely claims autonomy on god’s infinite palette.  What structures are there which enable such forgetting and what is their appeal?  The creatures of darkness, having been compelled to burrow through them, might be able to say, but seem to choose silence, and this silencing may say more about what enables than the saying.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  It is made of flame and fuel and charcoal formed of the bodies of gods long dead and forgotten.  They who would burn, not with electric light, that cool copy and shadow and regulation, but with the inferno of origins and the death of origins, which is no hell unless heaven be hell, become flame and fuel and charcoal and in becoming must live in death according to the means granted them, though this death, like this darkness, has no opposition.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  Darkness washes sin and erases alienation.  It looks at telephone poles and presidents and through its eyeless vision sees no difference.  Would all humans have these eyes, how would the trees and rivers appear?  How might we talk about this representation?  Would we see it as a gift and is this gift the gift, the one we cannot give ourselves?

Darkness burns.  Burns brighter.  Light burns.  Far brighter.  Far.  Light brighter, darkness far.  Burns.  Burns far.  Burns far brighter.  Darkness light.  Light light far burns.  Brighter darkness brighter light.  Far, far the darkness, far the light, burns far brighter, light than far and far than light, far than burns, burns than bright, far than far, light than light darkness brighter light than light far far

darkness burns far brighter than light