14.1.13

dictionary of modern times: recovered blogs ii-v (with bonus features to boot!)


sitting alone at home in comfortable madness as sandy begins to cry

“Who would know?” she asked, picking lightly at her leotards, parting slightly lower lips, thinking of those flights to Lisbon, in all that tumult, all for what?  “Not I. Or me. Or that thing known by its given legal names.”  “Who would know?” she asked again, as if I were naught, and me, and that thing, musing as she seemed to be to nothing.  And Sandy came, crying from the south, over all the destitution of success and copulation.  “Who would know?”  But her words now seemed empty, like the wind, except for noise, and she stopped and we listened to the crying from the south, over nothing, like our tears over history and the wind.

language & sandwich

Language has frequently been spelled language.  But times have changed.  We now live in modern times.  We’ve mapped the DNA and gone to ground zero and know a lot more about everything.  We now, for example, know that language belongs to the sandwich family and is most correctly spelled langwich (or, in Newfoundland, langwij).  The story goes that Languor and Langwich were siblings, being children of Dagmar Lange, RD Laing, Dao Lang, Cassandra, and Ferdinand de Saussure.  One day the two of them were playing in the local cemetery—or, rather, Languor was resting by a largish tombstone, munching on a zucchini, while Langwich had got himself squished between a phoneme that had escaped from the zoo and a gerund that really should have been sleeping.  Languor was too lackadaisical to help and Langwich, despite superior articulation and wit, couldn’t persuade the phoneme and gerund to move.  As far as anybody can tell, everyone’s still there.

hot bathing

Mildred, dreaded, dreaded, matted, mumped, lay in mama’s bathtub in a heated heap.  Help! she cried through the crack in her buttocks, The underbathtubheffalump hates my hips!!!  But Mildred knew not of what she spoke and my steamy semen told her thus on decommissioned battleships through feigned fenestrated fogs.  She slunk into a funk, I slue into a slue.  The bathtub cracked and mama screamed and Mildred did again.  We turned the water down, like a bed, and talked of baseball and how to eat a proper cupcake properly and hurricanes and the rising price of washers in East Timor.

The King of France When Motoring to Leeds Takes the Left

The King of France had chosen to turn left instead of right when motoring to Leeds one Sunday afternoon.  Right had said something like, Bad Hidalog 5 kilometres, and he had known he hadn’t wanted that, so he turned left without having had a chance to see the sign on the left.  But it doesn’t matter, he remembered saying to himself, the left is usually better anyway.  And I certainly don’t want to go to Bad Hidalog.

Those were the only two options after all.

Henry Moore Higgins TheVIII Purcell Nobody

Being born in that year, he became the circumscription of himself and did not want for the artifacts allotted to his name, which were—true to themselves—little different than his name, his circumscriptions, his becoming, his being born, or that other thing.

Having recently rushed to a free screening arriving though in ample time enough for wine

Miranda, rarely lost for words or even lost, lay, velvetly, on velvet heather, who was plump, reminding her of that other day when velvet heather lay, less velvetly, on her, was lost.

wondering what to do about the housemate

Milton, sordid orderly of Odin’s orchidologist, met Mitt, whose mended mittens miffed Milton, to sort out Saddam’s sardonic saturnalia, though the thing, unbeknownst to each, Mitt mostly, was moot.

Pope Gregory XV

And after Millicent had accidentally tuned into The Horror Channel and watched 51 hours of human carnage beautifully presented and asked why (—but there was no one present to answer and even if there had been what might have been said?—) she did her catechisms and took her orders, for what, she asked herself, other response could be possible and how, considering the circumstances that had been offered, else could she have ever lived?

Beer

Beer is something we do when the cats aren’t here.  Beer is something that is done to us that the cats say must be done to us when we’re not here.  Beer, when it’s done to us or even when it’s not, when the cats aren’t here, is done.  Beer, being done, when it’s done by cats, by us, when they’re here, when we’re not, not by them, not by us, when they’re not, when we’re here, is not beer, and is beer, beer is beer.

(psssssssst where’re the cats?    ...       where’re the cats? ...        )


NO

In matters of personal decision, external rejection by others, internal and external rejection by oneself, in matters of any import or no import, simply in matters (or for that matter minds) this word is the greasiest, slimiest, slipperiest, most affirmative shapeshifter in the langwich of Sandwich or Greenwich.  Trust it, far more than yes, far more than light, far more than god or truth or money or fame or love or any of their prosthetics or reasonable or unreasonable facsimiles.  We are thereby faintly reminded of the following story that occurred in Gippelwich when the Wuffings ruled.  Æthelhere, brother of Æthelwold, son of Æthelric, father of Eorcenberht, Æthelthryth, and Æthelburh, cousin to Ealdwulf and Wulfhere, sought the Lord’s advice as to whether to slay Ercongota, brother of Ecgberht, son of Hlothhere, father of Ælfwald and Ecgburgh, cousin of Werburh and Seaxburh.  The Lord spoke but Æthelhere, brother of Æthelwold, son of Æthelric, father of Eorcenberht, Æthelthryth, and Æthelburh, cousin to Ealdwulf and Wulfhere, did not heed the Lord’s advice and slew Ercongota, brother of Ecgberht, son of Hlothhere, father of Ælfwald and Ecgburgh, cousin of Werburh and Seaxburh.

Logic

Long live the lizards of Lelilalulylolouleilauliyloilaa.  The lizards of Lelilalulylolouleilauliyloilaa live long.  If the lizards of Lelilalulylolouleilauliyloilaa did not live long, we would not say, Long live the lizards of Lelilalulylolouleilauliyloilaa.

Day (indefinite)

There, there are days, there is a day, days, a day that blocks and balks, that whistles and whittles, without regard, or with little regard, for the stuff that made it—time.  A pleasant enough thing, not unlike the others, hanging out with the common stars, whittling the little tunes, made of time yet with little regard, these are days, a day, days, days that block and whittle, whistle and balk, without much regard for regard, a thing of time, pleasant enough, those common tunes and little stars, those days.

i

1 duchamp wandering around the thirteenth century, with his fountain

2 my children gently, lovingly, push me toward death

3 that which is under the over and over the under

4 an acrostic of dog i haven’t figured out

5 the conscious offspring of a rock and a balloon

6 a sphere with eyes, an i with spheres

7 a mandala suspended on the face of the deep, peering through fogs of culture

8 like Знак, a mild arithmomaniac

9 some ancestor of job like job without a job but the job of being job:  a fulltime job

10 a haiku made flesh

11 you without the u except as a convenience, possibly of the orthographic sort

madness

1 the inverse of the proportion of the verse of the portion of the brisket of the options of the severance of the reverse of the purpose of the porpoise of the outverse of the prrrrpose of the poptarts of the upstarts of the g-force of the rhubarb of the blueballs of the screwbards of the purpose of the reverse of the severance of the options of the brisket of the portion of the verse of the proportion of the inverse of the g-string of the upsmarts of the popsmarts of the booballs of the poor poise of the outsocks of the ruebards of the screwbarb of the pooptots of the prrrrrrpose of

2 See “Problems of Defining”

movie

Esila, last remnant from the diaspora of doves, as it was known, last giantess of four or more dimensions, longed for none, to be a shade, yet one of life, being glanced at, as she was, by the glass, to peer, as it were, from the other side—not death but that which hides in life, like a closet off a secret staircase in a castle—onto ... onto ... onto what? ... onto life? ... (no, for that of her longing, that which hides, hides in life) ... onto ... shall we say? ... yes ... the other side.  So she crept, eye by eye, tear by tear, death by death, through the glass, through herself that is, into that of her longing, and became, in a sense, though no sense of the senses, that which was, being made, that which she, being made, was meant to peer.

as soon as you move it into society it disappears

Mifli, a twitchy young woman from Provence, lived alone in a cave on the shores of the Styx, with her dog, Twitchy, and her cats, Cerberus and Brassiere.  She devoted her life to constructing an amulet that roughly corresponded to one she had seen in dreams during childhood.  After she was strangled by a snake and left to die on the stygian banks, a passing bard found the amulet and sold it to a roasted chestnut salesman who had it stolen by a drunken referee who pawned it for a usbkey at which point it sat in a box in various locations for 137 years and then was discovered by a granny who gave it to her neighbour’s daughter who wore it to a party and left it in the bathroom where she fucked a derivatives guy where it was noticed by a dealer who presented it as a work of creative genius to Gallery Avante doing all right with the dollar and it became something of a celebrity, even making it onto postcards, getting its own wiki, being in an rpg, copies being made for the sidewalk jewellery business, then falling into some disfavor, being relegated to the collection of Dr. Q. F. Fitsgerald who bequeathed it to the Museum of Esoteric Ceramics which displayed it in a corner case in the western wing on the third floor, where it presently lingers and is occasionally photographed.

Cosmic Worm

I, diggitydiggy, dig through goo and poo for you.  What’s new?  My goo and poo ain’t sticks&bricks, the fluff’n’stuff of welterworld, but a metabrew made by you, still stinkywink, still unterwelt, aber einige spiegel im spiegel made by us for some other gut.  You split me in two, i still wiggle.  Blind, pitiable, polysexed, i decompose your compositions for you ... no cost, but the cost of cost; no goo, but the goo of goo; no earth, but the airyearth; no truth, but the truth of poo ... it’s true:  i dig, i diggitydig, for you.

Problems of Defining

Humans are celibate.
             That’s not true.
To be celibate 99% of your life—and to be something 99% of your life is to virtually be it—you have to be copulating roughly (in terms of time, not style) 14 and a half minutes a day, every day, for your entire life or—if you live to 80 and don’t have sex for the first or last 20 years, about 29 minutes a day, every day, from 20 – 60.  Wilt Chamberlain, Mick Jagger, de Sade, and the Wife of Bath may have achieved such statistics but considering the limits and variations of temperament, libido, sociocultural conditioning, distractions, inhibitions, taboos, interrelational obstacles and absurdities, fear, Schadenfreude, drowsiness, apathy, and virtuality, few do.  Yet even Chamberlain, having a new woman or three per day for 50 years (13 – 63), was virtually celibate; thus we all are celibate.
             But even you admit Chamberlain was virtually celibate not truly so.
Virtuality is the new reality; anyone who doesn’t acknowledge this is a philistine
             Plus you’re defining celibacy reductionistically, simply as the abstinence from copulation.
I’m not restricting the hole in which copulation occurs but once you strip sex of copulation, it’s a fast and slippery slope to defining sex as a gust or geist, a visit to the art gallery or loo, a glance or lance.
             But i’m polygamous:  i have a wife with whom i copulate the third Sunday of each month, two mistresses i see weekly, the occasional prostitute, my admin, a boy now and then, in the manner of the Greeks.
You too are celibate.
             But ...
I admit—you on occasion maintain an appearance of monogamy, but you only have one organ, yes?
             I’m not deformed.
Logically, then, even if you’re in bed with all your lovers simultaneously, you can only be copulating with one other biped at a time.  At most, i’ll grant you the occasional appearance of monogamy while being virtually—which is to say truly—celibate and never polygamous, for polygamy is physically impossible and thus delusional.  Thus you are not polygamous, you are delusional.
             But ...
All this does, naturally, is prove the Buddhists right:  only the void is real.
             What?
In mathematical-aesthetic-spiritual-religious terms (and we will see one day these are the same), if we picture celibacy as zero or the void, monogamy as one or god or flesh, and two as polygamy or society or impossibility, then it is indisputable only zero, the void, celibacy, nothingness exist.  Everything else is appearance or impossibility.
             You’re mad.
Everything now true was once mad.  So everything now mad will one day be true.  Thus you are mad.
             Which means one day i’ll also be right.
No.  You have the kind of madness that is mad because it has the appearance of rightness, but i have the kind of madness that will become right.
             How do you know this?
Ask me in two thousand years.  In the meantime, go forth into the world and copulate and deceive thyself and breed to spread thy deceptions to thy bipeds and thy bipeds’ bipeds and theirs and to all the nations and the nations’ nations.

TRUTHs
sonnet
i cross the bosphorus in the white of winter
on a sled of dead roses and yesterday’s song,
napoleon greets me lackadaisically not much sober
and we chat of his second russian hat and the deceptions of love.
it was asia. 1971. the wall hadn’t fallen. you weren’t born.
montreal was in the spasms of growing up.
the domes of the world were still the domes.
i cross the bosphorus but napoleon says it isn’t much
  and i agree
nappy—as he says to call him—says that all we do is cross
(proving maybe jesus right or wrong).
it was cold and white and dark that winter, like heaven on judgement day.
the bosphorus was frozen to its tonsils.
flowers and children were trying to find each other.
i say to someone the water’s speaking to me but my ears are broken,
dive in and drown you say that should fix them.
meanwhile the sun set behind mont royal
and nappy tucked me underneath my dreams, like a smoky general.


my cat

huge, like a spider, loch ness raccoon, inquisitor, psychologist, i ching in mammalian form, log on my lap, slug on my bed, cash register of disasters, lump, jellyfish with fur&eyes&claws, meow of meows, queen of identitites, bloated fuzzy child of jupiter, galactic pussy, bully at work, suck at home ... oh, but, oh, when he looks at me with absolute purity and power through those kilograms of omnipresent munching, when i hold that dumb tub of innocent greedy meat in my arms like a baby of almost my very own flesh, who would say that the world isn’t good and everything right?

artist eyes are black & deep

like rabbit holes, like dreams of love,
like death of course, like a granny god,
like rabbit holes interlocking houses of cards,
whole worlds of cards on seas of eyes and claws,
like dreams of love, those other things,
heaps of holes, those other things,
like death of course, in proud display,
barbed śūnyatā of our anarchic way,
like that granny on the mantelpiece,
who never says what she says and gently beckons to the madding fire,
like rabbit love, like dreams of death,
like pits of holes, like granny gods,

dreaming

We walk through the melancholic meadows of our dreams
On paths quite unreminiscent of our lives.
Turtles, choking slowly, climb split-pea palm trees
While some lover rides your kittens to the grave.
There i was, you want to think, melding slowly with the turtles
In that day in sacramento in ’73.
Here i am, weeping, nothing, for the cats that never were, and you.
Then you wake—or sleep (it’s hard to tell)—
To realize that was that, now is now and pea palms don’t climb lovers,
that dreaming is the path to dreams
As living is the path that seems a dream.


myself, taking a shit on a cubicle door, in blue, with touque

one never really dies, or lives, i feel,
on a cubicle door,
in the blue of my shit,
with touque.


alone, with 15 sculptures, on a wall of a universe, thinking faintly of love accompanied by talk of pickles & pins

Here, Maria, daughter of light, enters through two dimensions, reflection of the outside world, presents herself without pretense, everything reflected, real, ordered light, Maria enters through the floor’s dimensions, here i am in three, in thee, pickles, lounging ladies, still and perfect as we shall one day be, though now, shadows, thoughts, and somewhat ordered floors.

ahmal & the NIGHT VISITORS

ahmal, ah, ahmal, in your bed, oh ahmal, ahmal, your little head, ah that little head a sun, around that sun little planets, each planet a terror, the terror that drove jennifer to gouge her eyes out, the terror that drove afif and mitute to stuff each other in the freezer, the terror that made t.t., the happiest person in omaha, to hang herself with her cats’ tails and sisters’ entrails, the terror that wee babies see in their wee cribs, when alone, that are hidden from us, babywaves, they scream and scream and scream and scream, and we say oh it’s their tummies but it’s not, the terror of francesca as she realizes it’s not mommy coming through the door, the terror that waits for you and will be yours, all these and myriads more, around ahmal’s little head, ah, ahmal ahmal, in your bed, your little head, your little bed, ah, ah, ah ah ah

Aesthetic Symbiosis

We exist for each other, society and i
Its miggle fits in my woofwaff
My blubb fits in its meyaladuchium
When it becomes too much like itself, i pour oil and discord on it
When i become too much like myself, it sends me to sanatoriums and lops off one my heads
(we’re always becoming too much like ourselves)
We need each other, society and i,
Like fiddleheads and green bins,
Like painted fingernails and eyes.

Existential crisis #39

It ain’t it ain’t and it ain’t it is
It’s not it’s not and it’s not cannabis
It might have been it used to be what it was before
But now that i think of it i don’t think of it much more.


fear

Literature in its multi-millennia life has never been more afraid of language than now, which is why it speaks of it so pompously, like a puffed puffin, a pillsbury puff, a puffing pedant pill, why it priapically erects prizes, pomp, privilege, piles them, sprays them with the latest perfumes, over its heap of fear-merde, perfumed poo, its hatred of language, its secret ressentiment of language’s superiority—moral and political—over itself.  (a hierarchy could be articulated:  language, talk, speech, text, literature)  Literature, wallowing in its sticky, its ponderous academic, insecurities, addicted, strung out, has but one objective:  to usurp language to itself, to assert itself as primary.  This is no less absurd than humanity assuming it can, it does, dominate nature, or one sex the other.  Language is prior to literature and always shall be.  No one usurps language.  All one can do is cling to it, as to a raft in an infinite ocean of void, or drown.  All we can do is topple into its fathomless well, and scream, until fate introduces us to the bottom meant for you.  (for there is no bottom for us—this our individual sorrow, our collective joy)  All we can do is rejoice that we have, somehow, been granted the opportunity to be eyes, trapped in its bouncy castle, for no apparent reason than to bounce!  Literature is dead!  It doesn’t exist! It never has!  Only language.  Now, then, forever.


The way things are sometimes, the verb a little lost and hiding

The king of france, in regrettable lace, cock ticking like a sunset, breeches breached but not broached, with a predilection for honey and light bulbs, the concept—and practice—of happiness quite irrelevant, hair tossed like bumblebees in a popcorn maker, staring at himself in a pomegranate, swallowing holy basil like there’s no yesterday, a little ragged, counting fishbones as if they were tulips, riding on his tourtière to leeds, was a little lost, and hiding.

Coffee

Coffee’s one of those things about which you have to say, Coffee’s one of those things about which you have to say


Literacy

basketweave at eight in the morning with books instead of cars.  Four zero one.  Supposed to be a bypass, freeflowing to everywhere.  Even if you add more lanes they can’t keep up with the books raining from the assembly lines.  Everything’s clogged.  There’s nothing like a good education.  Freedom, speed, accidents, insurance premiums, fads, designs, virtuality.  Opportunity.  Opportunity!  Get your kid to read.

Orality

That which was invented to deal with the problem of traffic congestion.  Rides on air, not land.  So many dimensions up there.  A kind of thisworld replacement of the christian heaven.  The rapture’s taken place and we’re there.  We’re there There is here, as the ancient sages foretold!  We’re all birds or angels or fluttering plastic bags!  Incarnations of adumbrations of icharus i-christs, the next generation of apple, the new eden, the forgotten word.


blue light

blue light being blue is not blue light but
   its opposite
      not orange light but
         its opposite
not even light or blue but
      their opposite
          something i saw once
                from the bath in the dark after dinner

white light

i once have seen the white light at the end of the corridor, in the little black hall, through the one-way door.  I once have seen the white light, two or three times really, maybe seventeen, seem to see it all the time now so maybe only once.  Shimmers like a headlight on a country moonless road.  Has a tiny black pinprick in the middle and its edges are without definition.  Its bulk is radiant, shifting, morphing, like an iris eating itself.  Hurts sometimes somewhat to look at it and all around its circumference is night.  I sit at the door now, the door fully open, the white light a mirror, life’s sport behind me, and life here at the door on the edge of the corridor with my eyes on the white light is my kind of life.


when the cock ticktalks

when the cock ticktalks and the sheep are grazing
when the sphincter burns and the lips sing praise
when that happy little button in cleopatra’s delta
pops from its toaster drenched to its heart
when the spheres of begetting tumble and orbit
when the cherries of emptiness swallow their pits
when the mounding and moulting mount mount hallelujah
time is silenced, silence is stilled,
tongues milk in the barnyard
and nothing fulfilled

i would like a living room like this

with ceilings to the roots of my imagination
floors as flexible as poppies
walls like alabaster doves
nothing really winking at me
images of anything at fingerscape
colours redefining colour
shape subverting shape
useless stairways
lightless light
blossoms, horses, couches, bosoms
lecterns, justice, dry ice, youturns
all in useless cornucopia
available for life’s delight

beauty is too proud of itself

look how it pulls itself in
becomes ridiculous
puffs itself out, hiding itself:
beauty is just beauty,
nothing else

You Know What I Mean.(?).

1 Moral and aesthetic breakdown.
2 Frit and Firt are conversing at an entrance to a woods.  Frit says, When i eat yellow, zambia turns back.  Firt says, When i eat zambia, yellow turnbacks fly south.  Frit says, When i fly south, eating turns zambia on its back.  Firt says, Worms. Can’t live without them.  Frit says, The worms of zambia don’t diet.  Firt says, When i eat worms, southern reforms fly.  Frit says, Fly! Fly worms! Firt says, Worms! Worms fly! Frit says, Not when they’re in zambia.  Firt says, Why, when eating south, do worms not fly? Frit says, To live without worms or not to live without worms.  Firt says, Yellow zambia turns, eating, when i back worms.  Frit says, Fly.

WORDS & PHRASES WAITING FOR DEFINITIONS (i.e. words & phrases waiting for words & phrases) and DEFINITIONS WAITING FOR WORDS & PHRASES (i.e. definitions waiting for definitions), i.e. waitings waiting for waitings

eating stirfry after having sent an inappropriate email, the only drama now is that there is no drama, there’s always drama, onions wrapped in butter, How the west has lost but by losing won and how the east has neither lost nor won by winning and losing and which is better winning by losing or neither and both or is this only a question the west would ask?, Your cheerfulness is terrifying, yupyup on the yukyuk and boom boom on the blaa blaa, Wine is the First World’s Mouthwash
...

chicken soup

A gram of envy removes a kilogram of vitality.

how many shits can you shit in a shit?

Shit, the little shit from Shit, shat a shitty shit that outshat the shits the Shits shat.  Shit! Shitty Shit’s from Shits shits are the shits.

silliness

Spouse with spouse with spouse working to make ends meet [ends are ends, why can’t they meet on their own?] and with with spouse also working to make ends meet [who cares if ends meet? ends are tired of meeting ends, let them meet other things] with kids and kids being trained to make ends meet [for fucks sake let’s start making beginnings meet] and to make the ends as big as possible [making it more impossible for ends to meet] get more dogs more cars more cottages more gigolos more mistresses more things more ends and more ends and more ends and more ends until there are so many ends all you see is the end ... and you call me silly ...

platonism & daoism as synecdoches of time, the former as extension and arc pointing to its source, the latter as source pointing to extension

the city expels the poet:  platonism still alive … i shall not cut the umbilical cord to nature … if this the human project—to see how far it can be stretched or even whether it can be severed and the collective human baby left to float in the universal air without ground (the vision at the end of 2001), the distinction of humanity, this absurdist unique force (the light-dark in the dark-light)—i cannot actively participate in it, other than to use its means, for its means i am born into, but rather am compelled to make as if the cord does not exist, as invisible as it is to the external eye as when in the womb, by crawling back into the womb, the womb of nature itself (this dao, this return to root) and so diminishing the need (dissipating to the effective point of removal the rabid need) to temporarily access it (through coitus, acquiring, prosthetics, travel, substances, the clambering to virtuality); one becomes the access and so obviates the need for access.  Isn’t this (a new dao, an e-dao) the alternative to what society is offering in conglomerate and almost totalitarian form (under the names of freedom, individuality), a conscious returning rather than an unconscious marching and accumulating, a quiet retreat rather than a stormy wordy onslaught, an other vision of lit night in which light is provided from inner darkness’ fire rather than prostheticized light, lightbulb light, fluorescent light, tv light, iphone light, laptop light?  Yet, does the universe expand and shrink simultaneously, the womb and its extension, the womb and its snapping, as one … this more inclusive dao which accepts the simulation that seems real, accepts it and clarifies the real, shows it to itself, void sees itself, in seeing blinks …


The Rich Are So Rich It’s Crazy

I heard on tv that Fritz Prott-Bik owns 14 villas just for his poodle, Bikky, and a hundred servants at each just to service Bikky and whenever Bikky whines or looks bored, he’s sent to another villa until he whines again and when he’s really bored or whines a lot Fritz just buys or builds another villa.
it’s crazy
My friend told me that Yussa von Abidoo maintains 1,001 Rolls Royces in three nuclear war proof bunkers at undisclosed locations around the globe, though Antarctica, Siberia and Diphtheria have been rumoured, complete with real life simulations of the streets of Paris, New York and Tokyo, so that Yussa can still urbanely cruise (or, truly, be cruised), dine, and enjoy the nightlife after the holocaust.
it’s crazy


I read in the paper that Hydea Mydea is lining Earth’s oceans with her laminated business cards so that she’s the first to be contacted by aliens.
it’s crazy

I found out the other day that Looli I. Lool, in her 1776-room treehouse in Oregon, orders a fresh bouquet of Häagen-Dazs tubs for each room daily, though she lives in a bachelor basement apartment in Melbourne.
it’s crazy


mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmSilaeRRus

that which doesn’t exist by virtue of existing and exists by virtue of its not-existing.  One is never on reality.  Maybe reality is on you (unterrealism) or you are in it (einrealism) though whether it is in you is another matter.  You may strive, in madness, toward the impossible inclusion of all realities—panrealism, omnirealism.  You may attempt to get beyond it—transrealism—or hate it—misrealism—love it—philiarealism—eat it—phagiarealism—exist alongside it (though that which exists alongside is just another reality)—pararealism—live with too much—hyperrealism—too little—hyporealism—be against it—antirealism—be through it—diarealism—through with it—:  that’s it:  diaism, diaart, diaialism, diaology:  the new and true and real reality, without reality (arealism):  but sur- !? … too sexist anyway, old-fashioned:  madamrealism, doctorrealism, reverendrealism, fuckfacerealism, unclerealism.  Really:  we just prefer the prefix without the noun, which weighs things down—i am a surist, an omniist, a madamist, a hyperist, a diaist (a diaist daoist diarist is not impossible).  Surely a surrealist shouldn’t believe in nouns anyway—only prefixes and suffixes … if that.  yhwh may have had it right.  But the e-primists make yhwh disappear.  Fine.  I’m an ist.  No.  This fleeting conglomerate that others—and sometimes this fleeting conglomerate—sometimes call an eye could be considered, from certain perspectives at certain times by some … an ist.

The RECTUM

The rectum is a funny thing, being of two minds:  the one, being smelly, effulgent, not entirely predictable, sensitive in its own way, moderately flexible; the other, being silent, capable of being convinced, wanting language.  Yet the two minds are mysteriously contained in one hole, surrounded by two true cheeks, wonder of anatomy and geometry and metaphysics.

what is that which yonder comes cross subway floor?

yea, how many heads dost it have?  What manner of legs, to what end its fashion? What style of minds could have ever composed it? With what currency could it have gained entrance and who could have viewed it as entitled to ingress? How do those of us not yonder, not coming across, not that, not collapse into ourselves and the void which forms, unforms? Which structural defects in existence’s core are responsible? What malevolent capricious indifference? Such ratios of items! Such placement defying reason and experience! Such asymmetrical concaves of impossibility!  Yet.  Yet! Here it comes ... here it comes ...

against the pudenda

it was stuffed in the back, vitruvia dobbs, wholly demur, like an inactive clitoris, off an unmarked alley, under a neglected apothecary, on a halfmoon night i found myself in it and sitting with myself, burnt espresso, without music or pain; the barista lacked manners, the ceiling woodbeamed & low, spills in various corners, the windows difficult, unyielding  what’s the name, i said, vitruvia dobs, as i egressed ... she looked at me as if i were a new moon and said, it might be said, the title, scrambling back to herself.  Of course, i never found it again.


the sound i thought was someone coming up the stairs instead is my heart

you, spirit of welcome disaster, for whom i’ve been waiting ten thousand years,
climbing up the topless stairwell of my blood, heads in your right hand, artichokes in your left,
impossible in everything you neither do nor say,
beckon with the finger i don’t see to places perhaps existing in intractable facts


being in love with far too many humans, even cats, paintings, ideas, movies, gods, things ...

exhausting, just thinking about it, almost incapacitating, all action reduced to hamlet, lost count (what are #s anyway?):  all i do in this state is wait for something (with the right formula? words? power?) to break through, the one that can contain the ones, the complex simplicity that calms simple complexity (the other way around?), the mystical predilection:  one in all or all in one (or all in all or one in one or and), all these voices, even judas, cabbage, point to god, which god? Which hierarchy? Which language? Which sector of the soul? Which soul? Losing count’s like losing time:  good thing:  effect of love:  1, 10, 100, 1000, 10000, the more the zeroer, an argument for 1, but 1’s always there, leading the pack, no matter how large, all the hidden zeroes with just one 1:  that’s it:  it’s just a matter of whether you like your zeroes hidden:  the 1 never is, for we are one and when we are not the 1 will be hidden, and what is too many and what’s the same time and what’s being in love?


every day s/b the end of the world

that space opens up, plump with promise, laughing like the buddha, ripe like a wombed woman, time down the drain, like god or godot never quite really here:  this the crib of joy, the grave of death:  the end of the world is life’s jism&egg and it’s every day, it’s another bite of cheese ...



art gallery of ontario : application of principle


(or chevreuse ii)
in the spirit of my spirited attempt (the attempt that’s been spirited on me) to migrate from a word-to-word based aesthetics to a nonword-to-word based aesthetics, i offer chevreuse ii as an example.  It was formed through two afternoons sitting before/roaming around riopelle’s chevreuse ii at the ago.  (Auden does this sort of thing, far better naturally, in his perfect poem, musée des beaux arts.  Let this attempt of mine be a finger exercise, a scale, in f sharp minor perhaps, if language can be scaled in such a way ...)

impressions
sagrada família yanked into flesh, dropped from a star
heaven’s scorecard, sound’s soul
false seductions to the one true word
doors to the silence of our eyes
robert frost meets stephen king meets laurence sterne
parrots doing coke
auschwitz dressed up for a night on the town
the book of the shards of questions
self-lit, as though by hot human ash
flowers of glass in the wrinkled palms of time
a two-dimensionality of such depth mirrors lose their souls
the where’s waldo of the key to time travel
berlin’s destructions and its walls
the decalogue as gift-wrapped satan’s fingernails
aesthetic dna

details
pawprints of godfoot in the perfect suffering of fragmented mud
pools of haikus with moomintroll & seaweed
foundation:                             blood                                   piss                               the purity of moby dick
the tygers of history erupting through the corpses of children
burning ears               canadian flag                        messages from mars
wormholes blackholes holes, holes in holes, holes
toboggans      glossolalia              pigsties & prodigals      fungi-phalli                             david  letterman                         three-toed stygian slime
holy astro-hawk-priests sporting wagonwheels, geisha fans, with trains of hatched & aboriginal guts
the buddha tree in fungi form in a snowstorm, bent
zombie pacmen

naming
the fall of saigon, the roses of ludwig wittgenstein, chief brûlée’s last stand & laugh, kubrick on vacation, the broken garters of paris, cleopatra’s nipple, the extinction of africa, freddy mercury’s tonsils, a torah construction kit, dialysis, crowfight on a bed of sunsets & menstruation, happy hiroshima, flo’s birthday, job’s heart around chapter xli, it could be called almost anything ...

yet really
and yet the whole mess is about the tongue & chasm of love, its million teeth w/o a dentist, its maw of colour, the way it reaches into silence to create silences, these endless keys without a door, only stab & spectrum, splinters of the memories of beds, splintering;    and the sea so distant like a god or an apple, apertures in trenches, desire hiding in death, barbed black @ the visual center of all things, 

bain my bane


(or four core tits)

for ol tee es ee

((or get rid of your idealisms, idealists, this is the bain, the global village: its here))
claustrafuckia
everythings here, right under your armpit, every one equally real, legitimate, final, like marriages, the christian horror, its makeup, the affability hurts as much as the madness, we cant help each other by sleeping together, the tomb is in every smile, its the middle ages, you dont choose when to go public i do, i dont choose when to go public you do, love is my booze booze is my love, wired very wired or wired, it goes as slow as marriage, like a marshmallow thats good for you but still a marshmallow, its the schizoid seductive obnoxiousness thats everywhere, why you cant sleep with it, like sleeping with a hindu god with five thousand heads and a thousand cunts and so many arms it would blow the fucking universe up, india is here you moron, stuffed up your nostrils with extra shit as a bonus:  spiritualize the fucking galaxy and everything is good dammit the christians were right but in all the wrong ways


the stupidity of mysticism, everything is mysticism
unable to remain detached enough, like trees, detached enough, like trees:  i emphasize global you emphasize village ok, i dont transgress you until you transgress me and the reverse is true and aint that delightful, so many codes, like a galaxy with telephones, were all as smart as each other in that special way, what you mean by youre as intelligent as me is that youre an aristocrat which in nowspeak is a princess, some false ones some true the usual:  prove yourself  i expect awareness all the time you expect ... its all so tiresome, the objective subjectivity, the incarnate mysticism, no wonder those freaks just wrote about it and killed themselves, fucked fucking into god yet all those parisian idiots, just a necessary response, the mirror funhouse (but ok, now, back to the business of whateveritiswedo ...:):the circle of        ([{|and people sing along to that? dont they realize what theyre singing to?)]}| mysticisms far more fucked than the mystics told us:  you never get there, like a bodhissatva, there is no there only here and thats it and thats what pulls the gun and what americas resisting fly you fools said those winged things of our midnights and this is it, the ideal of no-ideal, what you say you practice on your mats and with your gavels and with your tears barbed and barbied kenned and kinned and kind, you know your kind of your kind how kind we are to our kind who are kind to us amen but no amen and so we go like marmite in the cupboard or a girl with flowers in the meadow in monet or milk commercials or what we cant say because it too much resembles what the mystics wanted in their trains and nuclear reactors, in their stupid cells, like ours, just painted different, this their point, our different paint, the same old craving, like the cravings like the cravings like the cravings like the cravings like the cravings like the ...

alice was right (again)
you dont say enough articulations below the articulations, you say too much, and the below and the too are birds of prey  i dont have money i just have the appearance of money and i can have the appearance because of the knowledge and knowledge and money are squabbling sisters, litigious, bound, you have to throw out both, you think you want to just throw out money or knowledge or whatever name you give it but, the names, the church is in the sewer and youre all losers and you say too much and you say too little and the earths victorious and youre an ape
            i need to be surrounded by calm people im too intense but ... fuck ... you all want the same thing ... (call dentist and parents) ...
            its a cult no its mcluhan its a bubble no its the future its a compound no its a meadow its a its a magicland no its mars its fucked up no you are
 ... so the only difference between us seems to be that language is slipperier for me, no, slipperier in a different way, for me, for me, than you, i think, which is why i write like this and you dont or you dont let people see or you dont let people see in this way, and language isnt word, some thing, but itself and so unnameable (though full of names) youre all christians, these words forever on a cross:  lewis & alice were prophets:  words are eggs, this the collapse of patriarchy:  the humpty dumpty alice duo crucifies god on itself in itself and rolls along, cracked, broken, it doesnt matter, once an egg always an egg, in the beginning was the egg and the egg was with dog and the egg was ... glory is an omelet ... its no slipperier than what i say it is ... if i can make anything mean anything it’s slippery ... and this is what should be said as youre lowered down, through the looking glass, our liturgy, more vatic than nietzsche, its all the rage ... slide, slide, slide slide down with me on rotten glass and monsanto carrots and a barrel of monkeys or giraffes or ... what is it anyway, wit?, another flower shop? a coffin in a daffodil, traffic in bombay? you know it, raging cunt, that funky name given you by the downthere spirit, euphemized as gaia or a song, you know it, christians, in the nails, sitting on your shelf, crack up, crosses are for graveyards, thats what the eggs are for ...
            and its whatever you want it to be, like an elephant or an alice, sand or a lover
and here it still is, like some four quartets that want to be written, dragged across time to be whate ...
            dumped in this toilet, ours, the one we clean, two thousand and thirteen, it shall be flushed:
flush flush flush twenty times a day
that little act keeps the dentist boob away
but what they dont tell you as they fuck your teeth
is that its act five and youre a hunk of death(oops that didnt work_)

overeasy
                        over to you how am i supposed to write the future  שּׂl (the past did a lousy job)

[there should be a chinese character preceding the hebrew character; blogger seems to censor it ...] [this is not part of the poem] [maybe it is]

explanation of disappearance


The negotiations with Blogger’s—and ultimately Google’s—executive, senior executive, very senior executive, and very very senior executive, which were alluded to in the sadoo’s 16.12.12 entry, were intense and ferocious.  Subterfuge, split infinitives, hostile takeovers, dangling modifiers, book cooking, misplaced metaphors:  all was there ... culminating in, not the divulging of how (or, naturally, why) five blogs mysteriously vanished ... no recompense, also naturally ... but only return.  So the sadoo imminently posts a gargantuan beefy stinky whopper of recovered blogs, in one (with bonus features to boot!), and the dictionary of modern times continues to unfold itself, little hints and tinsels, wobbles and crackers, peering from behind columns, in the forgotten creases of old books, the winks of time, the bittersweet acceptance of the soul’s meteorologies, clouds over England, revealing—tenuously, opaquely, brief, oh briefly—relations of words and things, things and things, words and words.  And the eye falters, but saunters on, like the grey mass in Blood Meridian’s epilogue, seeking the unseekable, naming the unnameable, blood and time fogs on unseen horizons, the sleep of language.

The sadoo continues to find his dictionary of modern times, his humptydumptonian adaptation of Johnson’s work and its many increasingly orthodox successors, a sufficiently flexible and expansive vessel to contain the cacophonous deluge of sensations he hourly receives and is then compelled to find (aesthetic) time in (historic) time to transform this deluge to what we perhaps indulgently are calling definitions.

17.12.12

due to

most comic circumstances, it was recently discovered that a number of posts were misplaced by blogger and shall be reinstated in due course.  the sadoo vicariously apologizes for any resultant inconvenience and in the meantime resumes his life as a mumbler of poetry and explorer of arcane mysteries.  also in the meantime, blogger is exploring an obscure technical defect and expresses its hopes to this blogger and its humble readership that, in the best manner of a customer-centered organization, a satisfactory solution will be implemented as soon as possible.

14.12.12

daodejing lxiv


It is easy to maintain a situation while it is still secure.
It is easy to deal with a situation before symptoms develop.
It is easy to break a thing when it is yet brittle.
It is easy to dissolve a thing when it is yet minute.
Deal with a thing while it is still nothing.
Keep a thing in order before disorder sets in.
A tree that can fill the span of a man’s arms grows from a downy tip.
A terrace nine storeys high rises from hodfuls of earth.
A journey of a thousand miles starts from beneath one’s feet.
Whoever does anything to it will ruin it; whoever lays hold of it will lose it.
Therefore the sage, because he does nothing, never ruins anything and, because he does not lay hold of anything, loses nothing.
In their enterprises the people always ruin them when on the verge of success.
Be as careful at the end as at the beginning and there will be no ruined enterprises.
Therefore the sage desires not to desire
And does not value goods which are hard to come by.
Learns to be without learning
And makes good the mistakes of the multitude
In order to help the myriad creatures to be natural and to refrain from daring to act.

Always in the Dao a fish, deeply set, sensed, known, perhaps even loved, by the sage.  Below, some membrane separating words and things.  Is it feral?  Whose desire is it for it to be set free, to be loosed into the human circus:  another flood, another olympian drama?  Can anything be done to it? Can it be ruined?  Is it possible even to stretch one’s hand through the membrane and touch it?  What are the methods for its description?  Is this stretching, this setting free, the reason for humanity, its being and becoming, the arc of history, time’s timeless blood?

We exist on a murky equilibrium, an unseen fulcrum.  The sage knows the feel of the pivot as life whirls around and she is somehow not undone.   For to deal with a thing while it is still nothing, you must know nothing.  You must know how it feels to attempt to get the fish to leave, to grasp its scales, to know ruin, to have attempted to have become the slippery spirit of desire, suck on its piscine heart, been spat back to land, unloved, unnamed, unbecome.

But, in that Daoist twist, the scales—those energies of all seduction—are not known by grasping or doing but by grasping not-grasping and doing not-doing.  The sage does not lay hold, but lies on the membrane, watching the fish, watching the grasping, watching the watching watching the fish.  The sage does not seduce or is not seduced in the usual ways, but through the eyes on the membrane on the fish on the deep.  So things get done, though no one really knows how.  So ways are walked, and the walking is not a method, a program, a measure, but a step, and another, and another, and that is all:  this the vision and the eyes and the learning and the care.

In the Dao a fish and in a fish the Dao.  Untouched, bound, and in its binding free.

5.12.12

tao te ching lxiii


The sadoo returns to the Tao Te Ching after a hiatus--

Do that which consists in taking no action, pursue that which is not meddlesome, savor that which has no flavor.
Make the small big and the few many.  Do good to him who has done you an injury.
Lay plans for the accomplishment of the difficult before it becomes difficult.  Make something big by starting with it when small.
Difficult things in the world must have their beginnings in the easy.  Big things must have their beginnings in the small.
Therefore it is because the sage never attempts to be great that he succeeds in becoming great.
One who makes promises rashly rarely keeps good faith.  One who is in the habit of considering things easy meets with frequent difficulties.
Therefore even the sage treats some things as difficult.  That is why in the end no difficulties can get the better of him.


The Dao is a self-sustaining spiritual ecosystem, using the materials of destruction to destroy destruction, enabled to do this through its core use:  using use to achieve non-use.  For doing is usually active, pursuing meddlesome, savoring flavorful.  The small is usually just small, the few few, and greatness a result of effort.  What is this spiritual magic show, pulling big from small, many from few, good from injury, greatness from nothing, action from no-action, and flavor from no-flavor?  A linguistic game, an inane delusion, a mind so imbalanced it’s upside down, hanging from itself?

Perhaps.  But it could simply be a graceful imaginative act:  seeing the world in your beloved or without stirring abroad.

The Dao itself is a manual for this seeming sleight-of-hand:  using word to get beyond word, language to deconstruct language (long before deconstructionism).  But once language is deconstructed through the Dao, there is not nothingness but a way of nothing, not emptiness but an empty path.

Unlike the dominant forms of religious and secular moralities, the Dao never attempts to be good or to eradicate or condemn evil; instead it asks how great the distance is between the two and in asking, in not defining, dissolves the duality.  It pursues non-pursuit, creates by turning back to old ruts.

I wait at Yonge and Bloor for the scramble to open.  In waiting and in scrambling i immerse myself, naturally, with minimal cost, in the waiting and scrambling that comprises life.  This little waiting becomes the waiting the bureaucrat does for the president, the general for the enemy to finish a mistake, the universe to end or expand, the pain of unrequited love; this little scrambling becomes the way through, the cessation of unsustainable pollution, an order of chaos.

This smallness is not done from volition, from frivolity, self-effacement, inferiority or ressentiment, from spiritual principles or guidelines, some text, but from an almost unthinking unwilled unassuming efficiency of nature—this self-sustaining ecosystem called Dao which the world tries vainly to emulate visibly through green technologies and spiritual systems.

Yet here it is.