from Memoir of the Next Moment

…as the stars shudder with intermittence, the right tracks are covered by a wind of leaves. the routes back to the beginning are hidden by the genetic circumference of identical radii. the machinations of such stationary turbulence, vibrate. he shakes with surface tension. his presence is questionable, locked into the key of be. chained by his reaction to inactivity, he’s amazed. in this interim, on a crease, vaguely perched on a path that trickles down the folds of sleeping tissue, he is partially aware of the winding scribble that flickers and pulsates in an icicle of harmonics. the density is a shallow thickness that slugs his legs and belts out the musculature of the music and lyrics. he wants to dance but the thin lines crumble and make him look stupid.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again and I’ve said that one thousand times before,” he says again and again.

Just then, which is now, the sameness makes a different impression. this repetition of differences echoes his future remarks. arc angels gently brush the ice caps with their elliptical wings. tangents stick to the skin of the circumference along the sleep meridian. his eyes are heavy, stealing away in the iron darkness.

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HOMOSAPIEN SOLILOQUY

To be and to be and to still be…

I’m on the last stage of my performance life. It’s been a long, zigzagged career. Each stage has appeared (and there have been many) as a segment of an in depth scribble that had been painted with its own pre-existence – its imagery, scenery, supporting actors and dialogue were provided by time and location. I had to memorize the lines of this improvised, oxymoronic serious-play and before I knew it, I ended up as the main character. Before I knew anything I was already cast as a child, a teenager, a young adult, a middle-aged, make believe man-child and presently I’m starring in the age-old drama of loneliness, fear and nostalgia. (Hey, what’s my next line and more importantly, what’s my last line? And who’s that making such a racket off-stage?)

I used to perform quite often in front of small crowds of intimate, incomplete strangers and at the same time in front of large peripheral crowds of complete strangers who were cast as extras. These extras, of course, were each on their own stage starring in their own production of who they are. What gets me is how an infinity of productions are being performed simultaneously and yet the singular, serious play I am starring in, appears to be the only show in town. Observing their productions has been a most pleasant part of mine.

It must all be, being done with mirrors and dna.

Right now my character sits in Starbucks writing this. The set consists of a scribbling of walla walla, a big picture window-door looking out onto the street scene and the music of Blondie singing Heart of Glass –

“in between

What I find is pleasing and I’m feeling fine…

soon found out had a heart of glass…”

 My coffee is cold and almost done and I’m feeling the need for a change of scene, to go back to my private dressing room where my faithful, canine companion Kandinsky, unknowingly awaits my entrance while sleeping in his own performance (which, by the way, is magnificent). I will be taking my inner dialogue with me and listening to it on my way home.

In this production I’m feeling so much better about where I am when I’m writing about it than when I’m being in it….”

 

 

 

 

Zuihitsu

Zuihitsu

随筆

FOLLOW THE BRUSH

 

some infirmity of age

an absurd impression

slumped solemnly against

a nest of wrinkles

 

staring at the coffin

a choking sob created a kind of intimacy

because the ache shook hands

with the silvery black gashes in the road

 

it was a musical exhaustion

 

tugging on a trail of little drops

lounging against blocks of stones

a plateau of yellowish pebbles

clumps of imperceptible smoothness

 

he clenched a blade of vivid light

 

the red glow hovering in his fingers

big flies wedged between

a fat matron and his voice

the Babel echoing on the bare walls

 

without a hitch

the scaffold guillotined

a man’s imagination

the light turned green

beating out

of its natural groove

 

“it’s true I killed a man,” he said

“I wasn’t going to waste it on God”

 

these words shrugged

and a night of dreamless sleep

stared at his shoes

and with that crisp

whip crack sound

it shattered

the balance of the day

 

a polite excuse burning

in the flames of melted ice

unconscious fidelity

and the complexities of vice

 

like a peephole in a false nose

a downpour of decorations

shelter the pains of childbirth

 

aristocrats seek a rift

between sorcery and the barman’s art

 

jealousy precedes love

dwelling in a clumsy affectation

prolonged by a secret

 

some lie about

 

the simplicity

of noble sentiments

 

some superstition

rejuvenated by contact

 

a petrified silence

a tenuous link to family spirit

 

the inclusion of a third person

 

inclined to be fresh a vowel

 

without knowing

 

their thoughts

were identical

 

love can reconcile this

 

shadow of reproach

this slumbering emotion

 

amidst animated fingers

isolating the collapse of sentiment

laughter cuts a hole

in a thousand details

he might perhaps suffer

like a frenzied creature

talking to a statue

 

leaving the room backwards

as in those dreams

 

which end

 

in a fall

 

obscure kings spread their long undoing

in a city within other cities

 

sunlight lapping the rock’s sky

the black lake suspended from a cable

perched on the blades of windmills

 

the opaque dimensions leap

with ingenious pantomimes

and fall into a net

 

the Great Kahn might be reflected

in a zodiac of emblems

 

Polo explains to himself

that his past is a possible future

 

in the branches of a negative mirror

scraps of eyelids shine with dialogue

 

the hanging garden walks in a semi-circle

where the shadows of ropes

are filled with dead bones

 

they have no thickness

 

like a sheet of paper

a widespread hazy glow

swells with conjecture

and occasionally bubbles

with twisted spires

 

the quantity of things

blossoms

 

an outpouring of networks

 

the properties of windowless buildings

illusions contemplating infinity

and the firmament of hunchbacks

diluted in the vague spaces

that make a broad gesture

toward aggregation

the windows wrinkle

 

the double sheath

wrapped one within

the other

going deeper

into the mounting tendency

 

to be confined

 

there

on it

thus a poem

 

full

 

being

much question

 

but

 

but one

imagination

 

Monsieur neglect

 

I have

before

 

it is

security

Charley

 

fools in the grass

lying as if they will touch

the world’s edge

 

whistling curses

and polishing doorbells

 

trudging aimlessly

out of the ruck

 

a picture of perfect

delicate rhythms

 

this little round star

sends down a flat glare

and light chinks

backward with purple sap

 

flesh falls asleep

by the stiffened exterior

and as hours pass

the moon guffaws

 

delusion convulses

and the great silence

ends in a dance

 

this force makes a sleepy president

of the wrong color

 

stroking a mirror

with an elasticity of attention

 

sooner or later

the leaves scrape themselves

upon each season

and in the half dark

count the foolish wings

of perfect stillness

instead of yielding

to a butterfly

 

of logic

 

this character suffering from reckless duration

always requires the pretense of speculation

 

monsters of flesh maneuver expectation

and regulate the triviality inside us

 

nothing is more impossible

than consciousness in a strange head

 

stupidity and arithmetic extinguish the puppet

whose delirious personality has no opinions

 

life seems personal

and consists of being silly

with undeniable clarity

 

going from zero to zero

this pain is essential

and all that seems like suffering

is just the feeble laugh

of a circle closing

 

a teste realizes that dreams

are condemned by passion

and fundamental sufferings

diminish the calm possessor

of the moment before

 

then that new dance

the natural true death

will think that everything

is made by an angel

 

my solitude disheartens the bitter lips

swimming with sleep

 

the irritation gets muddled

but the impossible haphazardly

dreams of windswept mountains

 

every hour

a mixture of puppets, clowns,

expectation and truth

 

moments of intoxication

accelerate the senses

and astonish

the senselessness of a candle

 

the extreme audacity

yawns with ineffable happiness

persisting like a habit

 

the malaise implies

a deathlike whip

 

the sort of thing

that communicates a wet secret

a child’s despair

that breaks into tears

under the trees

 

an unintelligible world

an unexpected splinter of bone

a dream of total dissolution

an aftertaste of ashes

 

the death of a logical wind

 

your eyes swarm

with flowers breathing

 

your skin flickers like a magnet

and insinuates the muscular sea

 

we are tangled in our limbs

exhaling sleep

 

our hair is hinged across our gaze

with lips of wind

and the ovoid hub of the interior bone

 

our porcelain eyes begin again

to love

our opposite tempers

knowing the plush density of passion

 

under the lids

the palpable roundness

circling in your secret cylinder

 

two threads in the bursting void

secrete a liquid

mumbling

a stain of moonlight

 

coming toward you

 

always

 

little vagabonds animated

in the phosphorescent breasts

of the moon and the hill

 

unfortunate men

must not know love

or the inevitable dispersal

of inert things

 

a full sack

a box of molecules

and an eggshell of voodoo

 

a euphemistic allusion

to the birth of Dzadza

 

pretty globes swallowed like medicine

 

fibers of children thrashing

in the voice of the bells

crashing in the dust

of lousy luck

 

twilight bordered with melancholy

and tinged with trees

 

adulthood kept in an old cigar box

like bits of glass

hammered out by a clock

 

vertical knees stepping back

destined to cause suffering

and poetry free of language

 

theatrical theatre makes a scene

satisfying the robustness

of the remains of an alchemist

 

fish bones flapping their wings

in the sunlight

enobels everything

 

pointed elbows

curiously splashed with ink

and dressed with mirrors

and bunches of blue roses

on the verge of a violent death

 

a big club, a rock, a wallop

a cane, an umbrella, a butcher knife

 

stuck in an open mouth

 

on tiptoe

the crowd cried out

 

“who are you? who are you?”

 

a rusty choir*

followed by half a breath

 

a precise noise that knows darkness

 

ripped from chaos

the pianos squint in an oblique notion

 

a raucous alarm delegated

to a frozen block of arthritis

 

a blade of cold flames

surreptitiously caresses his beardless cheek

 

the small apparatus is without

a doubt a remembrance

 

of the margins

of an imaginary museum

 

a backward, awkward memoir

of an arrow juxtaposed

 

almost inverted

 

a magnificent rectangle

entering through the map

 

(diamonds of light

close the eyes

as he explores her skin)

 

a grid shrinking

the darkroom of memory

found in a toolbox

 

the ocular muscles light up

with the pain of a mute word

 

a map causing the remoteness

of becoming less and less perceptible

 

the construction of earthquakes

embroider a long vocalization

 

ra ri ra la la ta ri ta ri ra ri la

 

we retrieve these clamors

 

the sonorous body crushes words

to a crackling of dried ink

 

a crumpled paper

 

the echo of an instant

without light

 

riddled with a texture

 

of signs

 

the cats

when the wind blows hard

simply become proof

of what you are

 

light, warmth, moist cruising clouds

romantic expectation and delectable fuel

 

(irrelevant dreams)

 

in spite of withdrawing unwrapped landscapes

a city intersection whooshes upward

between the treetops and a post-Pythagorean zero

perhaps this explosion holds such satisfaction

that it left me vulnerable to death

 

reacting to insomnia’s sleep

like closing your heart to the reformation

which lay closed on your table

solitary abandon

is no smaller than the universe

 

dangling

 

in

 

midair

 

regret is no more difficult

than the frozen gestures of statues

 

a day without stars is a stone

the woman’s belly is a wild beast

 

the most beautiful shadows

are born from thorns

and caress the hair of poets

 

the valves that open

hear a useless secret

 

plunging into the appetite

of blind fish

 

birth and the salt of stupidity

can best be compared to silence

 

the degenerate fairy favors all fours

 

like those contortions that shut the doors

of vast black buildings

 

like the handcuffs of a smile

that hatch the eternity of wheels

 

like the little untranslatable flower

 

like the deceptive horizon

that arrives on stilts

 

leaving everything to perish

 

two monoliths swaying in my innards

move slowly down a staircase

 

a fantastic clock clings to the yellow thunder

while filthy birds wade through

the deep red blood of wounded animals

a jungle of armchairs swell with noises

an electric catastrophe seized by pirates

desires a long, wet, delicate kiss

and clings to the last step

slowly slipping to the bottom

in a single gulp

 

that was midnight

when the idea lay slumbering in the corner

like a train at high speed

and not far away

a woman rich in secrets

raised the vain hope

of a horizon of white stone

 

the word Aurora

lay in bushes of lightning

and whispered some mysterious adoration

thick with frenzied insects

and huge hooped barrels of animal movements

 

the bottomless precipice of air

swelled with dark arrows of direction

and at daybreak the reconstructed universe

blinked its worn out eyelids

exposing the battlefield

leaking with colors and metaphysical diagrams

 

the warm streets

beneath the dome of a vagina

rushed in through the fingers

and the word Aurora gradually became

the slanting edges of a pyramid

 

every night

the cage filled with birds

pelted the cheekbone of a sacred object

positive proof that invisible hands imagine

two unknowns wrapped in a garment

crunched beneath the sun

beneath the traveler in yellow boots

beneath the shadow of Aurora

vanishing into the mist of broken clouds

 

the yellow stars floated

in the soft pinkish tinge of blue straw

the nauseating instability of things seen

wandered the streets behind the window panes

of alcohol

 

the bestial laughter

closed the gates of fantasy

pulling out the dazzling death knock

in the palm of destiny

when the friable knuckle-bones of life

disguise the truth

the circle of our metaphysical destiny

will have been squared

 

the lesson of silence

its silent ravine

a cry of delirious purity

from a woman’s throat

 

or Aura

 

the flax of thought

a tiny black speck

like a spasm of a hiccup

 

horrora

 

a pyramid tinged with blood and flames

 

and on my chest

the last leaf to fall

 

obediently

the pipe delights

 

the tobacco going white

then flashing dull red

 

the pressure matches

the whirring machines

 

the oratory corner expects

the swinging bulbs of liquid soap

to spit against his cheek

 

upside down

falling through

thousands of feet of space

the stiffness leaps out of him

 

the slight shock that

secular things love

the strands of hair

comfortably sagging

across the treacherous

furry softness

of the boards

 

something leaps up inside him

as he watches the woman pouring out

 

an elaborately dressed pedestrian

 

a small dot

trying to remember

a different purpose

trying to remember

where the living corner slept

 

bedraggled

spread along each wall

overburdened with water

sharp as bullets

it accentuates the whiteness

of the red canoe

 

a neat closet of forgotten

waves and trembles

 

hysterically

the sticky cling

of his right shoulder

turns his head sharply

with a sleep walker’s rhythm

 

there is no laughing

 

only endurance

and the fur of hissing raindrops

 

it flames up

with black windows

innocently he breathes

the arguments against vivisection

the pad of white sheets

their ephemeral spark

rooted in a closet

with a mirror

 

nothing existed

but a bundle of spirit

rapping a few bones

his blue cheeks

and an intolerable

sense of loss

 

lost debris glimmers

 

between these walls

satisfaction runs from taps

bastard trees with crutches

think about tomorrow

their obedience is idleness

a red rag of dust

dragging the bottom

of living things

plunged into flowers of dignity

 

my body slowly oscillates

and begins to walk

 

the essential thing is contingency

 

to be there

 

a delusion being beyond colors

a movement accompanying circumstances

a great white worm

almost black

nameless, congealed

irreducible

 

it speaks of God

outliving itself

a memory of a noiseless body

of sharp, unintelligible murmurs

 

not knowing

the thought of an empty evening

my imagination

invents perfect friends

especially one blanket

and a reasonably good attic

 

I confuse familiarity

with the gap that disappears

 

I bear good manners

and find crumbs

small mouthfuls

riddled with open pores

 

too insignificant

I vanish in a voice

that has forgotten temptation

 

lost in a keyhole

the window tucked down

into my trousers

I can hear footsteps

in a raging headache

 

my wretched room

pounds in my wrists

 

enameled glass

decorates the index finger

and a few pages shiver

in my miserable cry

 

I put my hat on

my private life

and say goodbye

to my balance

 

the unexpected kick

of the threatening fatso

 

the trolley wires crepitating

against no particular opinion

 

the fakir on the edge of the bed

squeezing curves

with one cheek swollen

 

in close proximity

to the conjured up hubbub

of the disturbing feminine sweat

 

quarreling sparrows

fly off in a blue rectangle

their muscles arranged

in the abstract epitome

of a tranquil life

 

this monument

desolate remains of an exhibition

nostalgic and weary

hits the roof

above the knee

over the blowhole

and in the horse

that performs gestures of despair

 

the planes catch fire

and make an extensive

terrain of identifications

and with a lithe, loping step

the solitary man

removes the tablecloth

 

and finally shows his face

 

a vague breath of fresh movement

the summit of the invisible

uniting earth and heaven

 

obliquely resembling the bottom

 

the skylight managed to invent absurdities

climbing the zigzags of far reaching consequences

 

a singular wind between ideas

traveling to a particular language

of celestial mechanics

 

a first approximation surrounded

by a convinced majority

 

lines of curvature penetrate the shell

 

the privileged moment

surrounds

the island with audacity

 

the lung’s elasticity

absorbs

the excess symbiosis

 

the horizon gulps snow

that is riddled with water

and calmly awaits dispersion

 

exploration of intellectual flesh

falls from the system like baggage

 

and one thing after another

vacates the brilliant successes

 

the mountain mutters and chuckles

dripping with shade

and dangerous afflictions

 

“holding the terrain in place…”

…Before Thought

BEFORE THOUGHT

“That felicity, when reflected on it, has induced me sometimes to say, that were it offered to my choice, I should have no objection to a repetition of the same life from its beginning only asking the advantages authors have in a second edition to correct some faults of the first. So I might, besides correcting the faults, change some sinister accidents and events of it for others more favorable. But though this was denied, I should still accept the offer. Since such a repetition is not to be expected, the next thing most like living one’s life over again seems to be a recollection of that life, and to make that recollection as durable as possible by putting it down in writing,” said Ben Franklin.

 

yeah but…

 

I have nowhere left to go but to the next moment. This is where my future lies. It is buried in the prose and the cons of thought. It is of, by and for the moment that the thought takes place. It often veers off into amateurish prose and oblique poetry. It is a forest of co-incidents, each multiplying the borderline definition of rehearsed spontaneity.

Chaos with a boundary. A scribble of coherent ideas. The gurgling dishwasher chanting like a monk. A sudden intrusion of the angular inner circle. All things happening all at once!

 

sometime somewhere I said

                                                “circumstance has a mind of its own”

                                                                                                (I am now my own parrot)

I am now my own parrot

an echo of a green shadow

an echo of a shadow

 

“Oh, grassy glades! Oh, ever vernal endless landscapes in the soul; in ye, though long perched by the dead drought of the earthly life, — in ye, men may roll, like young horses in new morning clover; and for some few fleeting moments, feel the cool dew of the life immortal on them. Would to God these blessed calms would last. But the mingled, mingling threads of life are woven by warp and woof: calms crossed by storms, a storm for every calm. There is no steady unretracing progress in this life; we do not advance through fixed gradations, and at the last one pause: — through infancy’s unconscious spell, boyhood’s thoughtless faith, adolescence, doubt (the common doom), then skepticism, then disbelief, resting at last in manhood’s pondering repose of If. But, once gone through, we trace the round again: and are infants, boys, and men, and Ifs eternally. Where lies the final harbour, whence we unmoor no more? In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will never weary? Where is the foundling’s father hidden? Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them; the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it,” said Ishmael.

 

“Yeah, but…,”.

 

“The Way that can be experienced is not true; the world that can be constructed is not true. The Way manifests all that happens and may happen; the world represents all that exists and may exist. To experience without intention is to sense the world; to experience with intention is to anticipate the world. These two experiences are indistinguishable; their construction differs but their effect is the same. Beyond the gate of experience flows the Way, which is ever greater and more subtle than the world,” replied Lao Zi.

 

“Yeah, but…,”.

 

The germ of an idea, a viral thought, a disease of the mind, the body of language

eating its own words, suffering a feverish ill effect defined by bed written

poems of the survival of the unfit…small mediums that build themselves up

by the foretelling of misfortune.

 

Yeah but…”

THE SAME OLD STORY

 

Try oomph for a change.

 

In the meantime the average falls somewhere in the center of the middle. Poetry fondles the bewildered and befuddled remembrance. Perhaps because it hasn’t happened yet, the present dictates the sadness at being depressed. Unencumbered by loss, a prisoner of endings. From where I sit, I can’t stand it because privacy closes in on loneliness as it has all along.

 

Now where was I? Oh yeah, try oomph for a change – huff and puff and try oomph for a change and live a small life: (8:18:12)

 

no in betweens no extremes no perhaps no mishaps no denying no complying

no intentions no dissentions no understanding no demanding

no illusions no intrusions no decisions no collisions no perfection no rejection

no crying no lying no confusions no delusions no perceptions no deceptions

no saving no having no possessions no obsessions no excuses no misuses

no forward no backward no stillness no willingness no inclination no destination

no point no line no thing defined

no foreseeable past no thing that lasts

(9:12:14:17:12)

 

NO RHYME OR REASON

 

JUST ARRIVING IN TIME

THROUGH A CRACK IN THE UNI VERSE

AND OFF AND ON GOING ON AND ON

FROM THERE

05271947121510202012935

(I) AM

 

 

A hollow weaning off the solid mass destruction

CANCELLED

 

S AND Y

 

After the math, the difference between right and wrong is negative, too. Also, I’m positive that’s wrong: “It’s less than you think, more than you know and the same as it has been such as in “This has been has been so depressed though blessed. Opposing himself at every turn.”

The 5 agents knock on my invisible door

 

WATER          WOOD           FIRE              EARTH           METAL

 

KNOCK KNOCK

 

The deep green mountains are damaged by the diseased thorns

 

The red and black wind blossoms

 

Heaven and earth is secretly spreading stars into the pulverized darkness

 

The hazy sunset and wild beasts are stampeding into the sun’s illusions

 

Existence is a trembling maple leaf of golden dust

 

Lies about the spring startle the birds flying into street lights

 

The white and black jungle rivers flow through the heart of boundless time

 

said Du Fu, Li Bai, Duo Duo and Bai Dao

 

Life is off track railing at the groove that failed. Broken symmetry breaks in half mirroring its uniform differences. Here is where things begin and end. Life hangs

in the abeyance.

 

 

Life is

still life

moving

 

Destiny has reached its destination. A composite destined to be what it ends up being. To be or not to be questions the answer and begs to differ. Two opposites rush into each other’s arms and create a wind that carries debris and crumbling structures – a disheveled subtraction takes our breath away and reminds us that all is subject to removal. Don’t feel too confident, transitory permanence is the shadow of existence.