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narrow prison. (parts one and two)


There is only one day left, always starting over:
It is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk.

---J.P. Sartre

[part one]

So I went on
The mountain awhile; grew
       Swarthy and rough-hewn-
       -In the woodland
       Loam’s shade misting wetly
At the top. And,---
To think frankly about
My sadness: well-
-I’d thought thru it all
       Before: that’s what I
Said to myself: I
Laid it down in stone,
Then, lay it
Now: whether
I was dwelling
Or dealing---living for
Quietus, writing for beauty, living,
       In and out
       Of time---is irrelevant,
       However . . . either
Way some shift now
Buckles me down
       To pen this thing
Straight; once,
       Too,
      Buckled. Buckled, thundering,,,
Like a glacier
In heat. Hoods on the stoop. Wait,
Wtf . . . ? Where is it
All and what’s left? Well, first off, this
Is still plaguing
       Me: yes, this,---some kinda strange
Thought’s the feeling
       There: yes:
In this cave-brain:
       Of my ghostlier self: cave-brained,
Castle-headed sets, sexless: staunch-rough:
Insane, indifferent: intrepid, like diamonds-
-In a mouthful, burning w/ neutral:
       This furious, friggin
       Idea, unnamable, as wind;
This deconstructionist
Annoyance. This idea
Of an ultimate,
Fuckinnnnnnnnn
Nonsense: lying somewheres at
The core of a mind
Layered enuff w/
       Subtlety: indeed,
       And to the point
Of a madness: when
Subtle things go
Hidden: at
The core of effry dang mind’s-
          -Subtlety, lieth
       Visages: vampirism,
In extremis: spooky-
-Faces: like ghosts,
Waltzing up
The hill,
Kickin dirt, vague-
-Ruin, debris: so I found, the use of a core,
       A core-particular, was
       As sourceless
       As the-
-Source of all wind: no core, no
          Source---no
       Me or
Other: you know the jive so why
Say on, huh?: sadness: uhhhhhhh
       Wait a minnit: back
       To-
-Principles: principles of the justice of
Things,
Unwavering,
Around me: and which in being
The stuff of my WORLD are
Thru some hellish-
          -Capability made
       The very
       Stuff of-
-This unbearable saying, saying the more
Of otherness and the husk
Of windy meanings’ collection
In a source, as whitest
Black might-
-With whiter whiteness’ believing:
       Paul Celan’s almond’s in his king-
-Of writhing bones and all of it’s construed, but
       The darkling---yes---that that
That furious witch-!@#$---
Of a subtlety-particular---a core
Nonsense---is the one that reigns: waste the
Gold; anoint in droplet-sources senseless
Reaching---find
The specialness of going on or off. Faces:
Sickness: visages, erupting
Like ruins kicked away: now, back to mentioning,
Like a boomerang: WOLRD,
Shitty WORLD:
Somewhat-
-Frightening: ahh: uhh: uhm:
Yes: that will do the trick
Yes: and leaves,
The justice behind ‘em: blink
At that: justice,
Judgment, different: how
To justify judgment: no-
-No: ain’t justifiable,
Really: look at it, purely:
What’s it-
-Capable of: what’s what
Capable
Of: hmm: shitty, shitty: shitty
Fuckin WORLD, absurd,
Yes: yeah: and
The loaded friggin
          Gun: so
I went on the mountain
Awhile: had fits: how easily-
-I could fit the void to suit my
       Tailored perceptions, woven
       Like bundles for years,,,
       Running out in days: unfortunate,
!@#$: . . . life’s all dolled up-
-In friggin straps, extra things, ghostly
Globs; extra fragments. And when:
       When what: when
       Will I divide
       Myself back
Together: back into
Some kinda heavenly
Completion, summed
Up: well, nope, can’t happen: it’s all
Fragile w/ garbage’s flawed-
-Fasteners-on,
Hangers-on,
Clogging, yes, w/ bees’ produced
Pollen that that that green,
Florid space I know
I can be: yes: and
          Sculptured
       Out subtle visages’
       Judgment,
Hidden yet vast once
Made, again: again: made-
       -W/ mud and of
       Muddy
          Thought-pilgrims: yeah:
       Take-
-This sounding of the
Sensate and
Brutalize it w/ a language-
-Too broad, naked, vulgar
       As junk:
          Extra-orbitals: plague: thems plague
For the sake of seen junk’s-
-Sudden hiding:
Is this hit or
Miss: what’s
Missing grows, yes, w/-
-The hum of the drumming,
Growing fuckin-
       -Silence: in the green
Space: so I sat in
       My truth, a priori, a
       Bit, and was-
-Not idle: in this
Heaven: soulless tho
I was: and the pilgrims, depleted as
Lifeblood, mine: once a mine-
-Of damnably awesome,
Blossoming asphodels, now-
-By bees deprived: you’ll see,
You’ll see: about-
-The bees: WILLIAMS,
Where are ye at:
Chillin w/ all thems from BLAST:
Rabbi Ben Ezra or-
-The Tsetse: WYNDHAM: and all
Thems patrons: damn: LEWIS,
Choose blindness,
You: with vision, after
All, comes bias,
Judgment, what-
-Not: what a paradise: to be free
Of analysis, caught up instead
       W/ the gestures of infinity
       And, all-glorious, the pain
       Of crushed particulars,
Like leaves of evil-
-Grass: like jazzed-up rhythms bidden by
GOD to not grasp but be
Grasped: to not live for afterlife but
       Live after life forever: and all this, all of
          Sourceless, listening life’s midwives’ tumid
Expression: but-
-Scarily, w/o an opposite
Side: . . . I’m the midwife, spawned
From some kinda opposite-
-Side, now absent: like ASHBERY,,,
       Leaving all
       Out: nature, he’s the-
-Idea-man: putting what’s too
Real in the head of some kinda
       Mud-pilgrim: or, the porous
Poet-quester-
-W/ a bad complexion: and, still, all
I might think of, despite,
       Are ideals: of nothing out
Of something: sadness: no no no:
Of the beauty of that which I cannot
Possess and which lifts
Me up: of good
Times: of how nice a day it is, blue
Sky, neatly wending clouds
       Throughout:
       Despite, yes, a chill-
-Of the wintriest bronze:
Bronze leaves, crushed out of cruising
Wind, directionless and so then perfect w/o
Knowing: and,
My leaves: grasping that they cannot
Grasp; rather, they-
-Wait for rhythms to chokechain
       The !@#$ out of of
       Of realized grownness. The leaves,
I’m talking about leaves: and cells:
Cells, into bones,---
They develop, flourish,---
Fall. Yes, w/ a clatter, to the end of the ground like
       Some wack idea, a priori---that
       Is, after
The fact, the fact, the fact of all damnable
Life: and weird sensing: what’s the sense: hm:
Thought-pilgrims: HOMER,
Blind as a bat! There can be
One sordello; it’s mine,
Tho,---
That’s the thing of blindness’ evil found
In incomprehensible, shapen-
-Leaves, falling like lives after SUMMER,
Before SPRING’s fit. Depression: no-
-No: no rou cou,
I
Guess:

. . . . . .. . .. . . . . . ... . .. . . . . .. ..


I guess I’d like-
-That, that
Is,
Blindness: but, not-
-If my mind has to stop:
CONRAD: he chose
Summin’ o’ that: AIKEN chose
The ache of being w/o
A fatherland: place-names,
Remembrances litter the pages
Of USHANT’s whirlwind: he-
-Chose infinity’s
          Disorganization, yes, once
Leveled by the-
-Mind: out of flux, once
Grasped; organization,
If left, he
Understood, to hover, won’t
Be fathomed,
No,
But sensed and w/ ecstasy
          Understood. Somewhat: as
       A fine
       Source, summoned out-
       -The fluids
       Of the mind’s rednesses
And fabulous
Purples,
          Circulating like a
          Breath released in-
-Its place: a breath, one only,
       For the sake of
Disorder’s failing: a quick shock-
       -Of the charge/catalyst, like
Some lightbulb gone out in a pop,
Fizzle: leaves, yes,
Leaves and breathing cells: and all of
It more
Freeing-
-Than finding, grasping,
Thinking the invisible out
Of ecstasy and,
Sensible, disorder: more
       Of an order
Than expression’s limiting
Sameness of leaves alive in angled,
Pointed sentiments after the fact-particular,
The core source’s dumbass nucleus: and,
       Chained (!@#$) like a choking, to
       Example: the infinite, the wild:
       YES: yes, example
Upon example: eventually,
To capitulate and fade
Out of blank
Mindfulness, only to---surprise!---reappear
       W/ an unspoken
          Resentment this time on the part
Of expression’s-
-Abstract taking and putting of things
Together, in a---disorder---of colors’
Exampled primness:
But, no shapes but
In the shapes of processing-
-Gone thru a mind’s
Purples, reds,---
Yellows, pinks,---ahh,,,
Why try: why: usurper:
Futile bum, kickin
Dust: what is
Left of sensibleness:
Questions,
Questions, absurdity’s an
Extreme, dammit, but what
Is on the other side: the other’s
A side only: no other: colors:
Residuals, blessings
Of fuckin freshness: the sculpture
Of myself, hurled
Beyond expression---thus,
Hope: I can’t seem to
Find a
Place for this
          Monstrosity: to
       Think about
Sadness,
Well and good:
To find justice in
The eyeless
Scrutiny-
-Of nature: and in the fair-floating hymnals,
Soundless also: oh my how
Entertaining to feed negations’
Stubbornness: Like a bundle
Of fire: absurd, nasty, that’s
What it’s like to be back
       In the caul: SOUL: it’s
       There: first off,
       Leaves: leaves,
       Grass: go find justice
If you must in
The scrupulous: judgments of scrupulous
Man’s nature, mirrored: yes: regarding
How man is-
-In what’s around him: that is, the stuff that is
       Natural: but this time no
       Loaded gun, none, nowheres,---
       Cuz no visage: to scare
       W/ spookiness in reds,
       Purples-
       -And stuffy stuff of sense, yes,
Collected: collected, as such: justice, sought,
After all, by me: . . . or,
Is it validation,
Rather: well, the core’s a bore---
Well, I guess all-
-That’s left to make me want blindness is,
       Leaf by leaf, a thought’s
       Struggle to strand thru,
Bundled, a sort-
       -Of grand disorder: wordy,
       Twisted,
Lithe-like, friggin
Spinal: bent dithyrambs, eked out on
Peculiar horns,
Dammit: wordy, colorless:
Hrm: colorless: the idea
Of colorlessness: and-
-Ideas,
Thoughts, in general,
Bright with shadowed nuance blurring
Across this my nice,
Little landscape, aching,
Full: fallen,
Now irrelevant
As chikkinshit meanings, there:
       There in all of a
       Frankness harping healing
Strings: harping,
Yes,
For the source: shooing
Off, though, as I speak; once,
       That, is, had, spoken. Ah!
       Timelessness! Fugue:
       Harmony: death:
Either way I am tasked
To be what I
Already
Am: and-
-Answering,
         The leaves’ dusty,
Muffled effort goes off into the bask
Of some kinda
Firmament: ah,
       Well: goodnight,
Night: you are done, once
The moon’s moodiness and fixed
Aura goes
Too: !@#$, yo: rage: things go raging
       Off into day’s burgeoning and
       Still I think,
       It ain’t
There: the source, bone-dry: artless,
The eddy’s damnable core
Particular or
Object-obvious ain’t
There: but the object-obvious already always
Was, is,
And so then, yes,
Eureka,
Needs no color: anymores, at-
-Least: yet, is
Shaped in
Softening light played finally
Out of the set setting, blessed
W/ order’s greyness: kept
Safely nonsensical,
Elliptical: and, floating,
Hovering, dashes once
The day drowns it, the
Object
Obvious: the core-sourcelessness,
       Yes, seen w/ a
       Clarity too much the stuff of a
       Force answering
To mischance’s
Chances: yes:
To struggle once-
-Again
Out of, questionable,
The buzz of yellow-blackened
Leaves’ blind judgment: justified,
Of course, b/c w/o-
-Bias: eyeless and and
And serene, yes, and cherished:
       If even black and white: shades
       Or shades’
Absence: time or time’s
Absence: be sincere,
DAN: yeah: word: the amount
Of tears I’ve shed, after
The fact: afterlife, or knot: it’s all
          Cherished,
       In a bundle of bony fire:
Somewheres, where the mind’s blank w/
Answering clatter,
Buzz: crest the brunt
Of the milky matter thru a needle’s eye: wtfffffffff:
Go moonward, on, yes, and sup: sup on
The milk of time, I mean; of
The moon and all
Damned beauties blackened with examples-
-Of dim, prim analysis. Yeesh. Whitens
The knuckles, this
Does: sup like
Tits on-
-The matter/agent of nature’s balled-up
Racket: of silence’s damned song: be
Whole again beyond confusion
Or else address the
          Expression and therefore
       Rewrite thoughts’
History of set-settings
And object-obviouses, housed in nonsensical-
-Subtlety: harp on on
On the damnable string and call
Yourself changed,
But changed
Like as foliage; that is,
Going back to the buzz
Of bronze is-
-Necessarily cyclical. And wild w/ application:
Carousing, like leaves leaving trees:
       Nature’s xpression’s a pod
       Of fire’s smoke reacting to
Stance, so that it’s always
In my eyes: reactions, mine,
Or rather
An open commerce,
W/ winter, that is; dried, almost-
-To disintegrating. Come out on top
Of the hill, you; once,
That is,
I get there
From the bottom. Up sensible meanings
Gradient to the
Point
Of scary aporia:
The lightest phrase is
Dark
W/ the clatter of
The bones of
Time:

. . . . . .. . .. . . . . . ... . .. . . . . .. ..


And all heroic subtlety,
Revealed: so I went on the
Mountain awhile to think-
-About
Prfection: found
Nothing: grandly absolute
W/ whiteness’ black peace: YES:
      Ah, so: so the ghosts
       Lamely respond:
They say yes, and
Dash open the blue
Vase: grail,---
Colorless: with
      Blue
Corporeal: and-
-Dashed in feeling it,
Yes, feeling reality;
Rather than leaving it unbroken and sterile,---
        The vase, that is.
A thing needing to break for the sake
Of stasis’ destruction: hidden subtlety: as like
Something in the after-fact
Of logic, holed-up,
          Discontented, beautifully sojourn: it is filled
W/ the WORLD’s weeping: the grail is: fuckin,
You know, like fluid: the !@#$
Running throughout-
-Your bloody
Cranium: needles, needless, eyelessly
Prone to answer too early,
Easily: ah, GOD, wish-
-I was blind
To AIKEN’s nightmare of elements
And infinites: !@#$ you:
Who: well,
I am done being cute I am done-
-Caring: about where it all
Was, once: in such
A way, I neglect the dust-kickin ghosts:
I neglect to place
       Myself where I am now, whether
       Variable or fixed, like-
-Some shitty moonward aura: shitty,
Shitty moon: !@#$ you, you-
-Strange brain’s babbling: cranial
Fluid in an outburst: I feel
Cursed: these
Words cut deep: too deep;
I start at the hill, as
Always. Jacob’s ladder. Medicine wheel. Well,
       Nature babbles on more than I,
       About cores’ oddity, yes:
And the---lifeblood, mine---also.
Mmmhmm: cursed like some white kinda
          Blackbird: !@#$ you,
       SARTRE:


. . . . . .. . .. . . . . . ... . .. . . . . .. ..


No,
The trend ain’t set,
Yet; is but
       A dream of seeing
       The other side’s
Sexiness-
       -Beyond sleep’s barriers. Abstract:
Luminous: vague w/ wanting . . . washing
      Over all: o’er all: o’er
The very messy, crisp collection
Of breezy babbling’s leaves-
-Found, yes, in moving aways: leave, you:
So, I went on the mountain awhile: so,
I went on the
Mountain awhile: felt, slowly:
The crisp
Wintriness of air
And dry leaves above
Wet ones not yet
Exposed to yellow time’s dawning,
       Taking the set,,,
       The trend of leaves
Blown, truly---frank---w/
Words: weltering ‘em into
Shapes that tell of the brunt of it all,
       Floating,---
       Hovering: in some setting’s
Poor reverb and, huge, pretty
Harmony’s distant
       Fugue: distant: all-
-This absurd stringing does is thorough
The shape: thorough, in shady blacks
And whites: the shape
Of nature’s built
          Prospects: the eyeless,
       Illogical muse’s eye,---
       Moreover I will or the muse will show
       All goldeny parts-
-Of it: of course: yes, yah,
The junk, nakedly seen, clean,
Set goldenly in trends, sets, source-valuables,
As if it all-
-Fed wrongly into the want of cresting:
Christ, life’s
Wild: ideas:
       The utter brunt of the damnable
       Things: treasure ‘em,
       You,
       Before leaving:
       I am,
If you haven’t noticed, talking
          About---and,
       Strange, funnily---the source, yes;
       The frightening,
Colorless-
-Shape of a muse,
Somewheres. Queasy,
       Easy in flowing on up to justice’s
       Fluid blindness: smears,
          Splotches: and
       The wish for
WYNDHAM’s choice to have life,
W/o appearance, judgment;
That is, the smears of seeming saying on-
-To make the brunt of this this
This absurdist collection hover like a thrown thing.
          Fragment-extras: orbitals:
       Begging to get a role for the babble
       To murder in
          Expressing: life’s
Absurd, really: so,
Then, my description
Should follow suit: mess, trashy garbage, waste and,
Beastly, beauty’s wrought
Length, nicely: colors, again,
Colorful set-speech, and-
-Well, bothersome,
The colorless’ buzzing: at the rim-
           -And indeed,
      Beautiful as all hovering:
Floating!: yeesh!!!!!!!!!: just-
-Fuggin, friggin, !@#$ map
The struggle in a nightmare’s-
-Terms: Some
Crummy embolism or clot of pollen destroyed
       By the president
       Of bees: breaking the-
-Source w/ oddity, framed
In dreams’ blind timelessness
Of wrought thought: from
Dry bone, now,---now
Dry: this
Is what happened on top
Of
The
Hill:
[part two]

I saw no judgments, however carefully
       I looked: for that damnable uselessness:
       I found myself out there: was directed by
       The speed of the wind: like a compass with
Out needles: it directed me forth from feelings
       On into the life of thought: life before
       Thoughts about life: and life yes yes
       Yes yelling in drops from that there
Microcosm of a hemlock branch: the branch as
       I recall was forlorn and drooping with
       Precipitation’s heft, turning my whole
       Shambles of a site into a muddy wallow
Fit for the marshes’ pride: so I went out on
       Top of a hill four days and four nights:
       And lived it, made it mine: but it’s not
       Mine, wasn’t: cannot claim ownership, will
Not claim the place: can claim no place: so, I
       Saw yellow time at first barely through
       The bloodlines: of the hemlock branches:
       Something is happening: branches like
Many angled wires: I saw yellow time lift more
       Into sight and cross a semicircle in the
       Blue yonder back downwards to sprawl the
       Restive night with blackness: finally: no
Use denying it now, blackness, hell, nightmares:
       The motif’s these: and again, with two
       Feet of vision, only, in front of me, I
       Gathered, could not gather more than that:
More from darkness: well, that; regarding other
       Senses, like sound---perhaps---a figure’s
       Grunt like a threat of animal id to blast
       All well and good things into one greeny
Space of peace beyond dumb sense and dumb sensing.
       For so long, traced by others: upon velum,
       Or wild indian leaf: ah, well: fanatics
       Have their dreams, after all: so I went
On the mountain awhile to find justice in the
       Leaves and the woad and wrought bundles
       From raw poplar hanging in sheaves on a
       Branch like a sure gift from the creator,
And appearing as stockstill there, on the trail---
       No no---off to the side of the trail,
       Abrupt and striking to the eye, amongst
       The miles around of loamy woodlands, grey.
Nearly garbage: looking over this, I feel over
       With it already: this is not ready: some
       Thing is happening: make it, damn it:
       Anyways: garbage, yeah, the anonymity
Of waste: memories hanging like hoods on the
       Stoop: all of that which built me, though
       They be things not necessarily to love:
       Perhaps, even, things to hate: each past
Error out of the bounty seems of a garbage:
       What sense I make out of sense is for me
       Alone. How the words might influence others’
       Senses, as they read, is more for whatever
Other to use to purge themselves of, determined,
       Detachments, or irreconcilables; ultimately,
       Is less rightly for me to suffer through.
       Give, take: either polarities’ll end up
Fucked: such things as what reality consumes,
       Regurgitates back up from languishing, for
       Folks---things, perceived awhile in a mess,
       Eddying like a sickness, to the brunt-point
Of all readers’ senses’ confusion, indeed---but,
       Confusion, somewhat spawned from their
       Own difficulty in facing certain faces, yeah,
       Visages, of truth---a horde of the damned---
Things, seen intermittently through the eyes of the
       Damned, eyes of that given reader’s baffling
       Other, in them---there---in them, yes, who,
       Observing, too, with awe---the core---and knowing
That reality as as much a vacuum---damned to the void,
       Like as all folks’ others . . . erhm . . . well such
       Things they are sensed apart---at first---and so
       Then, feed the impatience of all seeming difficulty
Thereof, because, not at times---but in most cases---this,
       This unholy, dehumanizing accepting of folks
       Of themselves in things messily damnable lends
       To the idea that whatever senses of a given reader
Rely a little on a skepticism of their as-it-is reality---
       And their state of emotions, in that reality,
       There---which in turn would mean to folks at
       Large that, really, the core/source of any haunting
Individual’s true self, as-it-is, must needs be seen---
       Subjective---and so then becomes lain in a just as
       Uncertain, loaded judgment, gunning for whatever
       Theoretical manifestation of said other---ironically,
Probably less tangible and less to blame, than the vessel:
       Or source-individual: this’s a problem: sets all thems
       Regurgitated pieces received apart, permanently---
       Though they be from them, are seen as though not---
Apart, divorced from the seeming-true minds of all thems,
       Thems suffering folks---who, just to clarify, are
       Specially alienated apart by such eerie hesitance as
       Comes from impatience, as this: on par, yes, with
Witnessing another in the mirror---a face---that, though
       Not belonging to whoever poor witness, the fool---
       White with tons of ghostliness, a sudden---nonetheless,
       Is perceived---that there ghost gaping judgments back---
With as equal familiarity; scary, that. And the other, there:
       But: things, which, by all folks---huddled in their own
       Situations and particulars and ruts across the planet---
       Together---are sensed difficultly---what about thems?
In being apart such things are sensed but not seen. And,
       Ah, such is the flesh of the matter, that they who see
       Beyond what there is to touch, see it, as said, apart,
       Apart, though what it is they perceive is only their
Own selves’ detachments; conflicts, in turn, only there
       Because sensed. I know of myself, at least, that I am
       A labyrinth---filled with doors to be cleansed--- and,
       Yet, choose only to eat my own damned reflection;
And like thems with much sadness I lament this twice-blessed
       Condition. But: all thems answering humors---pieces
       Of the form we all feel in vague thought, or mirage---
       Somewheres---dancing round reality’s odd bonfire,
And, yes, clicking exactly in tempo to all the dumb others’
       Collective rhythm---expressed all weird in the one,
       Fought-to-repress question lack the final cure for
       Reality’s nausea: sadness: and yet, relieves nauseas of
A differenter subtlety: of tragic, tragically-damned aliveness:
       You all: through the other in me I place the blame
       On you all: suffer, chaos-!@#$, to the point of clattering,
       As bones, yes: the bones of laughing trees’ fire: wind,
Like zithers and tambourines, through, yes, themselves,
       The very, very unfocused, dry direction of a particular
       Branch: leaves of some kinda degrading music for the
       Vacuum in you and I to so then resist, being afraid
Of accepting that crucial resemblance, between your other
       And the other in those leaves, dying leaves, and the
       Bones of waste and dust as fearfully empty. Leave that
       There blackness, whiteness of sense without a scapegoat;
Judge it not in your own mind although you might in others.
       That is, or judge without a truth of a set-suffering,
       Redeemed by motion’s music---and, musical, dancing
       Shades in winds responding, with enlightenment. Well:
To put it simply in a strapped WORLD of mortal grey---no
       End is up---redemption doesn’t come, mustn’t, so that
       Nausea might always take enlightenment to task, via
       Multiplying the vessels so receiving whatever humors
One might speak of. Maybe, none of them, none of the humors,
       The attitudes, colors and shards of shade are for the
       Reader to---sigh---needfully feel reality for. What
       Ends up happening’s the other is redeemed by a sensing,
Which, in turn, goes unrecognized by a given reader’s plain
       Brain-self, which in turn commences to respond to, ad
       Infinitum, their other’s light-final, seen to spoiling once
       The blunt impact of a point-blank sense that now can’t
Be linked in a loop to the very vessel propitiating it is lost;
       Rather, the sense goes beyond confusion and thus
       A given reader’s true self’s coming figment up the hill
       Gives up, opts out of suffering more and just for the
Sake of wheedling a response out of all the examples, yes,
       Regurgitatings of life. Scraping up thems dirty !@#$
       Fragments of grey into a neat and, wended to a half-
       mending, flickering truth’s flickering honesty: am I
Honest with myself; really, that is what I wonder. Well,
       The other hates the languishing, much as I; the reader
       Senses this but cannot change it; so, then, cannot
       Change itself. Inhabiting, as well, that vessel---damned
Carnivore. Criminal of nausea, wasted for nothing. So that,
       The sickness of reality remains as but a visage. A loaded
       Gun judging folks’ vague source, humanly impossible
       For us, thems to see unless the damned ascetic, PASCAL,
Utters it us, yes, them: for the sake of a break: as to the
       Condition of this nausea of noble garbage---in an out
       Pour---baffling, in a threat---or threatening, in how baffling
       The fragments go straight to the sordello-image---
Vase of a blue, blue reality’s suffered muteness---given me,
       Yes, to speak to death and so then, in my sense of sense,
       Find myself assumed, halfway, ruined by too-vigorous
       Complexes---centered, of course, in a skeptical judgment
Of this very babbling: these funny codes, for to unlock the
       Bastard within: set-symbols---organic, internal---or outsider
       Visages suffered by me to blindness---mine. Well, I’m a
       Reaper rightly apart, finding deaths for the eyeless other,
Reader or no, me or other, to battle---via confusion and confusion’s
       Suffering, suffering’s confusion---well I do say---here’s an
       Idea: a kinda seen aliveness might on the other hand rid
       Folks of their brain-self’s inaccurate humors, sensings
Of damnable scrutiny, and for the saints to tsk: you will
       See, about the saints: solipsism, tragic, drunk with quaking:
       Feeling the truth of scrutiny---yes---my rotten-rooted
       Logic of collections, any, is too painful for me to leave
The cave for, go up redundant hills for: I’ll leave it to others
       To feel this odd baggage, mine, for me, so that in
       Themselves they might isolate their own dang times
       Of isolation, apartness: pretty selfless/selfish: ah, ugh:
Quit yer scrutinizing, DAN: and, all this placeless, terribly,
       Yet felt in you, reader---judge or other---for my
       Blindness-wishing to justify: cuz it’s there, that core,
       Core sourcelessness---it’s there, from whence the
Shaking atom’s temper split open myself: with the grace of
       These sensitive, fragile buzzings: even though I am no
       King for CELAN nor a president for silly STEVENS:
       Anyways: my words for so long traveled both artfully twain,
And, at precious times of timeless pondering, yes, a queasy
       Muse’s patchwork working, kinda---garsh---wove---
       Nested naturally---nice mumbles of tinking
       Music, blithe and bundled: well, no, no, more,
Uhm, more as like a thing within the rigor of
       Some odd vine or double-helix: strong as the dickens
       Or the devil: anyways: I wrought from raw poplar
       What respect I could and into burning stuff
Sculpted it with gloves to stop the pain of
       The friction against the bare skin of my grasping
       Hands, wheeling the damp bark woven, strand
       By strand, together to come dry through the
Brute shaping of the stuff into burnables and
       Heated---after the fire’s built---to char: crucial,
       Yes: will start the next fire, most likely:
       Striking and drilling, what have you: the
Fire: yes yes yes: what starts it’s the same
       As what it is once started: and after starting, is
       As important, indeed: I think---but am
       Not sure---but am pretty damned sure, it’s
Cuz the substances are selfsame, quotha:
       Brush and sticks scattered and idle as things
       Removed from purpose once without man to
       Make a fire and a warmth from them these
Twiggy, soulful things: so I went on the
       Mountain awhile and gathered mud from uprooted
       Trees and made a pile of sticks and put
       Large rocks around. The rocks were covered
At the sides by the dirt for the base of
       The firemound. I made a plateau for the sticks to
       Catch in blazes and patted mud up against
       The sides to rise them up, with the flat
Of my palm. After that I set up tent but
       Mind was buzzing out the soporific from shady
       Sources’ whispers, wailing: after thought
       Ruined the kicker of the dust with a dumb,
Chafing anticipation: and sadly, all thems running
       Conduits dry out and brain loses collection’s
       Connections, vast and varied---as that late
       Espoused saint---and---now, so barely seen,
That nonsense seems the clearer, if only
       Because it is of the moment; is of moments’
       Collected runs up the hill to the verdant
       Greens of a colorless, though lighted space:
What’s happening: mind was buzzing, with
       Saints: filled with bitter litter: garbage: yes,
       A pageant of dross: of all unloved things,
       Yes, awash and plentily in hordes: usurper: oh
Ye futile, beautiful things: oh ye things, ye
       Grey !@#$ things: now, all that’s left is
       Significance: now, all this bullshit, it’s
       Pure bullshit, at least it is pure: the
Often watch of big, old diurnals made my
       Day, there, on the mountain, quite literally,
       White or dark: I mean, light or black: wait:
       What: !@#$: a WORLD of !@#$: the second
Day it rained and I found sleet gathered
       At the dip of the tarp which I had attached to
       One flimsy branch of something like poplar
       Or oak still young and green with nourishing:
But the branches were weak: broke two of
       Them: the windy blusters broke the damn things:
       Well, life’s absurd, and so is the other,
       And so am I, and that’s that: no, no: well,
Life’s absurdly unfinished, forever grasping
       Burnables or shaping shades: the only way to go is
       Back moonward through time’s liquid aura:
       Rewind to the spot at the bottom, when it’s
Just me and the big rock of myself to push:
       I look at the rock: the other sides of the tarp held
       With sticks stuck hard in dirt: one large
       Stick and one small stick held the tarp over
Tent with power cord: all of it together like
       A figure or shadow held akimbo by a large, fallen
       Pine: and so the shadow falls to brightness;
       Perhaps, finds the source of all wind. And,
The source goes off into the night, and the
       Night forever remaineth my ezra; that is, as a
       Stubbled-rough father of a dumbly and for
       So long muted, modern grief. Sadness: what
Is happening: I went on the mountain awhile:
       Yeah, so what: and the grief, absurd and other
       As bundles of fire to dry the core’s sopping
       Up of all grand, milky matters: grief for
What is there and from the darkest knowledge
       Of dim self not ever exited, no, nor come from
       Some pale source within: the shadow falls
       And the kernel of the matter lieth willingly
With what thou tend to lovest: absurdity,---
       No, no: absurdity’s death: death, yelling for mine
       Own judgment, rapt for the tone of my words’
       Worsening and leveling out of flux or the
Disorder of notions AIKEN made me blind with:
       I wail like a child: into the last of crummy night:
       With that, the last of a source: for now: the
       Source of justice leaves: leaves: needles:
Needless bundles of stuff swelling the house
       With a set-plenty: I’m settling down . . . that is
       What is happening. Taking time to sense a
       Minute or two with diamondy metaphors, weird
With absent fire’s answering judgment evoked
       In each, every flicker, pop: judgment, go ahead
       And yell, you !@#$ child: just leaf, leave,
       Before embarking towards the moonward other,
Dying slowly on the painted firmament: as if
       To further the sky with sound, rapturous sound: as
       If with sound inching finally from the brain
       Cave: and the other, he’s drunk, the fool:
Drunk with silence: with a slow, excruciating
       Airlessness from lungs asleep: he’s drunk with glee,
       Light as !@#$ helium: yes, yeah, uhm, !@#$:
       Look!, the shadow crawls o’er disturbances
And others whilst the self chafes a throat for
       All people all the time: and, for all time, expendable
       As years on a WORLD of inches unnoticed: and,
       Most of all, indifference, yes, grand beyond
Compliment: the shadow rises, the shadow falls:
       And what thou tend to is what thou lovest, needest:
       No no: not the bundles, fires, or the nonsense
       Raging each minute, in each minute, somewheres
In each minute: once the fire, struck or drilled,
       Though: now despite that passion’s uttering length
       Goes on, this dialogue with fire’s clicking
       Mouth---to give example of all of nature’s
Purples, pinks---must end as night will end:
       It leaves me tending nothing but a life of judgments,
       A priori, justified not, ever: no loaded gun,
       No visage looking, anymores; or at least for
That time on the mountain, that I spent on the mountain.
       My time to push things up a hill: things,
       Things that say more with saying, less with not:
       And most of all, uhm, wombed well and good from
Sexless, tended nothing. And the rest is dross


Mar/17/2012, 7:13 pm Link to this post Send Email to satanicdoctor   Send PM to satanicdoctor Blog
 
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Re: narrow prison. (parts one and two)


Hey, Doc! I have read part one of this poem. It is a major undertaking and so much is going on in it. I am hugely impressed so far with what you are doing.

I have to say I am most smitten with the most concrete sections where your language is so beautifully tethered to imagery, like this:

I went on the
Mountain awhile: felt, slowly:
     The crisp
     Wintriness of air
And dry leaves above
Wet ones not yet
exposed to yellow time's dawning,
     Taking a set,,,
     The trend of leaves
Blown, truly --- frank --- w/
words: weltering 'em into
Shapes that tell of the brunt of it all....

Last edited by vkp, Mar/19/2012, 12:01 am
Mar/18/2012, 11:56 pm Link to this post Send Email to vkp   Send PM to vkp Blog
 


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