How far down the Rabbit Hole will ye goYeah, and what language does god speak?

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NEWS FROM THE DOCKS

The Chair

I’m writing to you, who made the archaic wooden chair
look like a throne while you sat on it.

Amidst your absence, I choose to sit on the floor,
which is dusty as a dry Kansas day.

I am stoic as a statue of Buddha,
not wanting to bother the old wooden chair,

which has been silent now for months.
In this sunlit moment I think of you.

I can still picture you sitting there–
your forehead wrinkled like an un-ironed shirt,

the light splashed on your face,
like holy water from St. Joseph’s.

The chair, with rounded curves
like that of a full-figured woman,

seems as mellow as a monk in prayer.
The breeze blows from beyond the curtains,

as if your spirit has come back to rest.
Now a cloud passes overhead,

and I hush, waiting to hear what rests
so heavily on the chair’s lumbering mind.

Do not interrupt, even if the wind offers to carry
your raspy voice like a wispy cloud.”

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PRESSER VISION AREDS FORMULA BAUSCH AND LAUMB EVERYBODY IS A FOOL SOMETIMES NUTRITIONAL SUPPLEMENT WHY? POOR NUTRITION LIKENED JUNK FOOD CREATIVE CRAP ON A SHTICK HEAD HUNTING ATF ALL THE FOOLISH FREEBIES FLY BY NIGHTERS BED TIME NURSERY RHYMES GIVE IT THE GAS SLOW OVER TIME MOTHERS OF ALL KINDS SCARED LITTLE KIDS WHERE ARE THE LUDEY DUDES SLOWLY FADING OVER TIME SLIPPING AWAY ABOVE IT ALL IN GEL CAPS KNOW LESS HAWWAII FIVE OH WINDOW DRESSING FLOODING PROPS AND LEAKY VALVES STOPPED SHORT FOR A SHOT IN THE EYE NO TIME TO LOSE OKAY TAKE MYSELF OFF THINNERS NOT IMPORTANT RIGHT AWAY GP CONCERNED HE’S THE EXPERT A SPECIALIST SCREW UP BLOCKED TEARS BEHIND THE EYE WELL I’LL BE ITCHING TO BEG OFF ANOTHER TIME RESCHEDULE LETHAL SHENANIGANS THE GRIPPING PAIN LIKE A TIGHTENED FIST UNDERSTAND I SEE THE WRITING ON THE WALLI SEE THE WRITING ON THE WALL SLOW BUT SURE MATCHING TWITS FOE TWATS NONE OF THIS NONE OF THAT TRADING OFF WEINER SCNITZEL AND PEPPERMINT SCHAPPS A GOOD TIME CHARLIE THE TUNA NO LUCK THIS TIME BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME HEAR’S ONE FOR THE BOOKS SYBALLUS LISTEN UP IF MEMORY FADES OUT OF SIGHT OUT OF MIND MUSTANG SALLY ROUND ROSES WHAT PRETTY ROSES LIKE THORNY PRICKS ON THE ROSE BUSHES THEY’LL GROW IN TO STING RAYS OUT OF THE SEA LEAPING LOTUSES TO OF CAUSE BE A SLAVE TO HONOR LULU BLACK BOARD JUNKO SEE YOU IN THE SPRING MAYBE FILLED WITH PURE CLEAN CRYSTAL CLEAR WATER GIVE IT THE GAS ALRIGHT!? STEP ON IT WE’LL SEE TO THAT ALL ALL THE FACTS MAVOURNEEN I’M DEFINITELY STEAMED GREEN–Louise Giguere

“I myself shall continue living in my glass house where you can always see who comes to call, where everything hanging from the the ceiling and on the walls stays where it is as if by magic, where I sleep nights in a glass bed, under glass sheets, where who I am will sooner or later appear etched by a diamond.”
— Andre Breton

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What is the abyss? It is the Deep each one of us carries around inside. But how did this Deep get there? One possibility is out of the seemingly infinitely elastic crisis of therio-expulsion, our separating the animal out of our to-be human heads. I feel this “act” is tied into the origin of image-making.
Out of non-being, being.
Shadow matters.
Abyss as the unconscious, the primordial cornucopia, paradise and Pandora’s Box.

Reverdy

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They say an immersion in faucets can lead to cognition. An
immersion in breathing, however, is a larger fascination and will
lead one to ponder the border between the organic and inorganic,
chrome and rubber, skin and bone, life and death, and the illusion
of separation, because all things are patterns of energy. Here, for
instance, is a piece of air called a word, and here is an embassy in
pine for the ambassadors of fjords, and their cluster of beards. Their
beards keep them warm when they study the fjords. When they
glide through the fjords in their ships, studying the formations of
rock, the echoes of sounds, voices, the lapping of water, the cry of
birds, the whirl of atoms and molecules, which is a sound like mud,
when it is resting, and no one is walking in it.

John Olson

I used to be a plastic bottle

I used to be scads of masticated waste

I used to be epic spittle, aka septic piddle

I used to be a pleasant colleague

I used to be a radiant ingredient

I used to be a purple polyethylene pony

I used to be a phony upload project

I used to be a stony blue inhalant

I used to be a family-size turquoise bottle

I used to be a domesticated pink bubble

I used to be a pleasant red colleague

I used to be a beaming cobalt emollient

I used to be a convenient chartreuse antidepressant

 

JOHN YAUUUUUUU

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MPRESSIONS AFTER LOOKING AT VAN GOGH’S SUNFLOWERS

Angry beige cornea in dried sunflower

Ghost signature lost

pulse skeleton

Serrated jelly foliage I

am the fifteenth

nearing it’s bitter end

I am the dried leaf burst apart

In strands of foliage desperate

wind broken hair

A peering stitched black eyes in

the broken necked sunflower

Stitched acrylic cartoon bled summer

Snail broken wind grass joy,

disarrayed objects

Vase sink color butter

Palette melt, hot paint stroke

Orange follicles balding winds treat love

John Thomas Allen

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Weeee have a new and lovely member.  No, not that kind

 

Sandra Mendez Rosenbaum, musician

Sandra Mendez Rosenbaum, musician

He is a weave of silk? I think you mean Satan

Wax

ringing in the ears. another
anxious moment disperses itself

in waste like vulturous grains
of sand gone to a hidden register

reporting more hidden light unseen.
the boy’s fingertips become loose

watercolors awash with DNA coded
nightmares. he pulls his slumping

lunchbox from an oak desk without initials
thinking about a freckled face like

an old potato and small fists like
wooden bees. the brown leaves circling the

bus stop are bleached copper by the
sun itching his unlaced sneakers

like dry preying mantises. the
bus arrives grinding steamed metal

fear and porous faces grinning from
the engine’s dirty chrome. the door

closes and all laughter is their own
another opens with splintered fury

as a dated ornament falls to the ground
a woman looks from moist eyelashes

and sees the bus thinking she remembers
how easy it was to be young.

John Thomas Allen

th-6

THE SACRED MASSORA

to learn the splines of the massora
we must strike blows against the empire
with our sicknesses and lead plumbing
with our empty wages and cunning
with collapsed highrise sweatshops
with boys and girls and their multiplication by hair
by our heels and discarded wine bottles
filled with the gasoline of comets
by our beds and our forgetfullness
remembered with the accuracy of a stone
within the bondage of travellers
pullulating amnesia
within the embrace of chauffeurs
by the minutes of abandoned dogs
and constellations, and stellations
by the convex abandonment of prisoners
by the gloom of medicines
by the copays of insurrection
by the pricking of gravity
by the accumulation of dead souls in cisterns
by the foul water left behind by mining
by the enjambments of arrested hysterics
by the shouts of impossibility wearing sequins
by the tears of prone men and standing women
and by blows against some empire
struck by children’s new breathing
surrounded by the stares of new sphinxes
stuffed into new cerements
the brine of molten bones drunk down quickly
drunk down and blows to be struck
quickly, before the next episode of freedom airs
quickly, while anger still walks
quickly, while agony can still listen
and quickly, in the lifetime of these agonistes
men and women, both standing now
handling these shards of language

Lee Ballentine, 2013

th-5

PSALM OF THE SHADOW

1 When your sister went away she forget to take her shadow

2 It enters you by the pores of hands and feet

3 Its fine trace filters through your body/pooling in gaps outlining pressures

IV In your lungs it trickles like the shadow of water

V In your eyes it wavers like the shadow of fire

VI In your skin it flutters like the shadow of air

VII In your womb it settles like the shadow of earth

VIII For its map of blackened roads you are the only distance

Adam Francis Cornford

th-8

 

And in an urgent extra mode, I might add:

Laura Ingram Semilian, one of our members, will be shining like the sun on 2710 Broadway, 3rd Floor, New York, NY 10025 in Manhattan on May 27, at Seven O Clock.  http://tallerlatino.org/Events.php#Semilian

Aforesaid translator, author and now singer:

Laura Ingram Semilian, virtue o so

Laura Ingram Semilian, virtue o so

Lee Ballentine: Erotic Grammar

One of our best members and best poets, Lee Ballentine, gave a generous sampling of his processes and internal surrealist organ without body methods of writing a surrealist poem.

I’ve always wondered what went on in the head of others devoted to this somewhat arcane art, and what compulsion it was that drove them.  Turns out, reading this, that perhaps  we aren’t all as different as we like to think.

 

SOME DISCOVERIES

Some findings about my surrealism, based on fairly long self-observation hopefully not on self-absorption.

1. That there is a primordial meaning-making function active in us: a process of synthesis that arises soon after language itself. This kind of “meaning” arises because it has a survival value in the natural world. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.

2. That there is also a wage model of meaning in which we surrender our powers, like “meaning” as above (or other powers such as Eros) in exchange for a currency of structure. As when we are conditioned to accept meaning in exchange for safety or food or money. Welcome to the soup kitchen; before we serve today’s meal let’s all join hands and recite an ideological credo.

3. That surrealism is the organism’s antidote to meaning, evolved by the primordial creative to liberate itself from the tyranny of survival. The old name for surrealism is The Dream, and at its heart is the nightly reclaiming of freedom from causality, and from both kinds of “meaning” as above. Having sold our souls during the dangerous day in the natural world, or during the apparently safe day of the salaryman, we take them back under the sun at midnight.

4. That my method is to start writing without meaning, using the stimulus of The Found (or objective chance) and progress using both intuitive vision and automatism, and keep applying those functions until the poem is done. If that happens late in the process, as in the case of The Double, let’s say at mile marker 9, we end up with a poem which is mostly baked into a form of synthetic meaning and also of syncretic meaning. Much ambiguity has been processed out and managed but what remains is at the heart of the poem.

5. That this “what remains” must always be disruptive of the forces, internal and external, that make it possible to exploit us. If we read a poem and fail to “understand” it, we should hold fast to that which we do not understand, for it is that part which expresses the recovery of our freedom.

6. That if, on the other hand, I stop my meaning-making function early in the process (mile marker 3) I may end up with broken and erotic grammars, language experiment, even Dada.

7. That if, as in my poems written in the last year or two (many under the stimulus of this NSI) I get to about mile marker 6, I have a poem that feels, to me, very pure. It recovers freedom by allowing synthesis to progress under the control of visionary intuition. It tries to find the expression that excites the frisson, stopping before arriving at the self-satisfaction of metaphor.

The World's Tiniest Matches

The World’s Tiniest Matches (Photo credit: the opoponax)

“Illegal?” Like a deranged parrot!

Had the pleasure to speak with Adam Francis Cornford last night–hell of a guy, very polite, and a denizen of Golgonooza, to be sure.  He linked me to some of the most interesting thoughts I’ve yet seen on “Neo Surrealism”–each day I’m getting a wee bit closer to understanding exactly what that term means in the future of aesthetics and dialectic.

http://www.bigbridge.org/BB16/features/ns/nsintro.html

Excerpts: 

On the evidence seven or eight decades later, Breton’s faith was misplaced. First of all, the most important poets of the original group—Eluard, Péret, Desnos, and Breton himself—all had strongly individual styles. All were passionate about poetry and dedicated to its practice before the group formed. Their vocabularies were large, their mental libraries of previous poetry presumably extensive. Others from the group may have cast up their share of “emeralds and foaming algae,” but these seem to have accompanied mostly imitative dross—the equivalent, in Breton’s pelagic metaphor, of styrofoam or other manufactured flotsam.

The same has proven true until quite recently of subsequent poets and writers affiliated or identifying with Surrealism. There are recognized major figures such as Lamantia, Mansour, Carrington, Césaire, Valaoritis, and Cortez; some other poets of real significance (mostly from the first and second New York Schools) who are open in their debt to surrealism without such affiliation, like Frank O’Hara, John Ashbery, Barbara Guest, Ron Padgett, or the later Alice Notley; and a sprinkling of (mostly and undeservedly) lesser-known figures from my own generation, like Ivan Arguelles, John Yau, Will Alexander, Charles Borkhuis, Joseph Donahue, Andrew Joron, and Matt Hill (all represented here). This same 1970s generation produced a host of epigones who have since “moved with the times” either back toward comfy mainstream verse or into the more fashionable form of post-Language “innovative” writing, which for the most part is innovative in the same sense in which most “independent” films that reach the theaters are independent. Only in the last decade or so have remarkable younger poets emerged—several of them represented here—who identify themselves as aligned with surrealism and whose work owes little to the neo-Romantic/deep-image stylings of late ’60s-’70s vers surrealisant.

We can therefore reasonably conclude that not all “recording instruments” are equal. Perhaps a better analogy for the poet’s role in the creation of a text that opens to the marvelous is that of a musical instrument rather than a recording device: the linguistic skills and abilities of the poet, which in turn tap the vast associative networks within language, are “played” by the unconscious workings of the mind.

 

This is, indeed, a sobering reality every surrealist must face: not all recording instruments (“transcendental recorders,” as David Gascoyne put it) can play the notes equally.  “Poetry is made by all, not by one,” Lautreamont said in his Poesies (whether they were meant ironically or not isn’t really a question anymore.  They resound in the surrealist reader’s psyche like razor fanged cheerios in divinized brine.)  That may be the case, but despite all the surrealist magic and occultation and such in the world, some are graced with the carnival of midnight’s abandoned chamber music and some can only approach the carnival.  Image

       

This, then, for verbal poetry, is the “neo” in “neosurrealism”: the continual deployment, whether by invention or appropriation, of formal, lexical, syntactic, tropic or prosodic devices, in pursuit of the marvelous image or complex of images. Far from being exhausted, these poets insist, the marvelous image is renewal itself, the model of the power of the human brain whose potential synaptic connections literally outnumber the galaxies in the observable universe. Surrealism worthy of the name is always new.

Eighty-eight years after Surrealism manifested itself, then, the poles of the poetic experience remain the same:

Revelation—at its most humble, of unobserved or numbness-concealed aspects of the consensus reality; but also of hidden orders of causality or relation (“objective chance”), the inkling of connections between phenomena that normally escape the dominant perceptual grid; and of other, “imaginary” phenomena, including those of the mind. Poetic revelation gives access to other realities or parallel universes and to the richer cosmos (or, as Helène Cixous calls it, chaosmos) that includes them. This is poetry’s “moment of being.”

Transformation—at its most basic, of language, of moribund meaning into new congruence with experience; but also transformation of other systems of signification (graphic, architectural, kinetic, cinematic) by dismantling their old meanings and reconfiguring them within a field of desire; and, more than ever, transformation of an impoverished, brutalizing, stupefying, ecocidal, antipoetic and antirevelatory social order. This is poetry’s “moment of becoming.”

Becoming. “Reality is the apparent absence of contradiction. The marvelous is the eruption of contradiction within the real.” The real: the Merrill Lynch Bull. The marvelous: the dancer poised atop it, signaling a previously incredible revolt. It is time for the marvelous—sought, demanded, shared—to occupy and transform the real. Every true poem now is a moment, a molecule, of this occupation. Surrealism is what will be.

 
 
Along with Adam’s contribution, we see in this issue a wunderkind of surrealist celebration:  

Autonomous Prairies  (John Yau)

The value of a green pebble can quadruple because of the circumstances in which it was pried loose from its neighbors.

Isn’t this example beautiful?

You will not see another like it again in your lifetime.

Little room remains for further appreciation, whereas depreciations of every imaginable kind linger in the unfiltered air.

The sky collects the remains. Prune-colored products are sent inland for shoemaking. There are seldom any further opportunities. A framed painting of a slate-colored swamp hangs next to a yellowing calendar—on a wall of substitutions, pictures of wood on which to mount wooden shelves. Admittedly, some of us are possessed by an undeniable need to accumulate bric-a-brac. Chances for economic recovery are about to encounter a speed bump because of the unexpected introduction of new variables. Pink flamingoes and white egrets form a sea of vertical strokes nearly overcome by the ashen atmosphere. A cockroach has started running around in my doll’s bathroom. It is the size of a toy truck. Who locked the cage behind me? I did not ask for this to happen. Can we ever reach the intersection where choices about our destination are plainly labeled? Where does the hogwash go? The ostensible reason is a missing set of teeth, one of which is cracked. Glass baubles hang above the doors that open onto the ocean. It has started raining inside the last photograph to have been issued from these mechanical hands.

 
 
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Invocation to the Mad Queen

I would you were the hollow ship
fashioned to bear the cargo of my love
the unrelenting glove
hurled in defiance at our blackest world
or that great banner mad unfurled
the poet plants upon the hill of time
or else amphora for the gold of life
liquid and naked as a virgin wife.
Yourself the prize
I gird with Fire
The Great White Ruin
Of my Desire.
I burn to gold
fierce and unerring as a conquering sword
I burn to gold
fierce and undaunted as a lion lord
seeking your Bed
and leave to them the
burning of the dead. 

                Harry Crosby

My chat with Adam (and reading his interview, along with these other artists) has restored my faith, (oops, I mean my hope) in the future of Surrealism.  And as a token of tribute, here we have a poem which I now often think of when imaging the diaphanous crystal that has come to be called “Surreal” (naked of the ism): 

Simplicity

The fingers of snow

up on the small drum  

of space:

Parabolas of cloud

have a halo 

of crystal

above the snow covered mountain

A line and

a plane 

I want to look

only into the space that is simple

And at the same time complex

Jose Maria Hinojosa

Translated by Mark Statman

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The Forecast is Cold

Thinking about the state of Surrealism, the responses I’ve gotten from artists, generally just the beautiful bane of trying to get a movement going, a passage came to me from Michel Leiris’ “Broken Branches”.

“The phenomena of nature form a vast alphabet of symbols upon which we draw in forging a number of or expressions. Who hasn’t heard of “a bolt from the blue,” “a silver lining,” “a tempest in a teapot,” or “a rain of abuse”?

However worn most of these images are, one of them is still capable of moving us because is so brutally, implacably concise, one that is, in fact, bacle, (bungled), with the very haste that characterizes disasters–and this is the word debacle.
Used to describe the war of 1870 in the work by Zola that takes the word as its title and popularized especially to designate monetary collapses and financial crashes, this term is still very powerful today, all the more so since, given the current situation, it can appear to be prophetic.
    The fact is that life today is bound and frozen in the thick ice of industry that would like to turn us into cadavers. The rivers of rule human relations are motionless and dead, the cold is spreading, the air is solidifying, and just as during the winter of 1870-1871, which the most dreadful old people love to recall, the solidified Seine offered its back, its spine of hardened water, for the passage of trucks, cars, and people on foot, our rivers of sentiment are changing into arteries full of chilly, congealing blood, avenues for the suborn animalcules of a state of things in which nothing has any reason for existing except an economic one, wretched social relations as dirty as lice, more difficult to support with our vertebral columns than entire loads of market-gardening trucks or buses full to bursting with men whose faces and necessarily ignoble. prisoners of the cold, just as mummies are prisoners, of the stiffened bandages, in grimacing poses like shameful paralytics, we do not budge, we remain inert, we do not even feel that we are , so to speak, “pieces of wood” any longer, and yet we hope for nothing as much as a debacle….
If the river were to thaw, that would be the ned of the traffic that binds us up, this grotesque circulation of tiny calculations that bend us under the yoke and make us worse than domestic servants.”

Leiris wrote this in 1947 with a series of ex surrealists, ex patriates, and during his companionship with Georges Bataille. One can only wonder what he would have to say about our current socioeconomic conditions–the grotesque dominance of ExxonMobil, the inherent corruption of the Federal Reserve, the jingoistic fall from grace we experiences in 2001. What it even means, from a level of ordinary language, to be a “surrealist” in an atmosphere which not only rejects the ideals behind our anarchic Logos but doesn’t even notice it (or perhaps remembers a few days in college when he/she entertained it?)

Sometimes the masses who have been fortunate enough to come across the Surrealist plight use the term “miserabilism” to express any sort of melancholy or sadness.  Breton was undoubtedly right in terming a certain strain of thought “miserabilism”: (Von Hartmann, most definitely the absolutely repulsive “anti natalist” so called “movement” of the present day, which practically demands suicide as a pre requisite for compassion?), but the escalating violence in our world coupled with the increasing hyper capitalism is sometimes enough to make one wonder if people create what they admire—artists, the creative–simply as a kind of cock fight.  Watch the mellifluous feathered beings compete and tear one another apart, and go back to our Death Serum games.

In happier news, Adam Francis Cornford has decided to join our ranks, as well as Eligia Fuentes, a lovely girl from Chicago who knew Franklin Rosemont personally.  Adam will be providing us with an interview very soon.

Some of our dictations received.

THE MONGOOSE

I was reading a book on the origin of sleep today
when the ground before me opened up

and the giant head of a mongoose wearing a crown
came slowly up and looked at me and said

I want to drink a long drink of dead souls
squeeze them like lemons so their heavy eyelids

fly open like springs
and they give up their bird secrets

I want to drink down quickly
that black and sparkling freedom

I want the dead to rise, let me show you
their equilibrium is marvellous

branching out across the city
like a dead deer’s stinking antlers

here is this little ruined corpse of a girl
nightingales are all she has

someone has covered her face with a dirty shawl
I want to uncover it

I want to taste the sweet ashes of dead faces
in the water bubbling up out of the volcano

meanwhile, wicker chairs that walk on their legs
like homeschooled children . . .

I want to paint them over like I painted the sky over
like leather painted horsehair black

and I want you to walk on glass flagstones
over the volcano with me

over where people are living
and you can do some good works

you can wash the pus out of their money with sheet lightning
you can poison the tidal wave that is coming

so that it dies and never comes ashore in california
to wash away the nesting swans; I want their secrets too

I am the smiling stump of this world and its soft drawl
as it eats a wet cigarette butt

its thrill and its vanity
now elderly and convolved as perpetual bebop

I eat the displaced stones of the bankrupt egyptologists
and shit out window glass and wounded soldiers

and the pink eyes of the lady who knots her hair into a steeple
and wears a diadem of fruit knives

I undo the buttons of the waterfall
and let down the scorching heat of her birthmark

and break the news
of the reciprocating tombstones

along the offramp where they stand
watching software engineers go by with hypodermic eyes

and this beautiful waterfall
she ties pyrotechnics around her waist

her eyes are enormous and alive
her eyes must hatch in the seaweed of my beard

I am the cracking moan of poker chips in childbirth
I am the aristocratic chime that bends all the telescopes

that detectives keep trained
on the jurassic economy of justice

and I am the corpse of the old man who has been elected justice
some people believe me to be a composer of concerti

but I am the prescription for black wax
stopping up the nostrils of betrayal’s eucharist

I am made of the counterfeits of happiness
traded like fish in the dawn market of invisibility

I am the intoxicating exhaust of flying machines
that drone overhead pleasantly

then fall like blows on the backs of boys
who sell guitar strings to the homeless musicians

who come to burn trash at the dump for warmth
but stay for intoxication

and I am the rotating spindle at the center of the parking garage
alongside the night sky

that you hide under your tongue
in the emergency room at the oxycodone hospital

I am the neighbor’s christmas tree
burning unnoticed in the livingroom

while his dog’s coat smokes
and his wife takes off her vast firmament of stars

and sweats
and sings a waulking song

————

and there was a long pause
and I said . . .

O–no my friend
you are only the giant mongoose head

I saw today as the sun went down
the color of grass and television

and the rain started and stopped
and statues walked out of their concrete huts called mausoleums

and lit up their pipes
and opened for me the fiery door of saint vortex

————-

there was no reply
there never is a reply

Lee Ballentine

“Sleeping Forest”

Leaves breathe belly up
like the silence of a dream
Flamenco woodpecker castanets beat
a tinfoil shiver of beauty
in the silence in a dream
Like a heart the dream of silence is itself
cicadas high strung in mid riff
In the forgotten tree house
in a loving oak tomb
I just wrote down our initials
Yesterday and two decades ago
Quiet brushfire of the passing squirrels
Sleeping bags tired and wet
These capstones with men
of jumbo ivory sheaths
startled beneath

John Thomas Allen

[Here is Dickinson’s #1616 anagrammed line by line]

Who abdicated Ambush
And went the way of Dusk,
And now against his subtle Name
There stands an Asterisk
As confident of him as we —
Impregnable we are —
The whole of Immortality
Secreted in a Star

:

A samba doubted which
Why now’s a kneaded tuft

On a database’s tunneling whims
Harassed tenants strike

Facade fines with moon’s
Permeable wearing

Feather-homy twilit loom
Radiance retests

Christopher Phelps

TOWARDS A CYBER POETIC

(composed using phrases randomly found online)

AstroTurf Organ Plasm(a) Note

Autopilot Rust Conditioner

Asterisk Planet Rolling Hypnagogue

Asterisk Blink

Ophelia Burning in the Sign of Hourglass

Conspiracy grease in a Liver Spot Opal Frame Train

When Did This Bet Include A We?

3D Jingo

Iris Putty Rose Knob

Hermetic Opal

Oompa Loompa Jingoistic Pips Fallen

He would cut with that DreadFull Beard

sun stones are cool.

pupils puking liquid chrome tears, oval eye locks spinning jello

Rebel Spirit Champagne Planet Cork

Organ Escalator Cubes Spinning Asterisk Planet

The Opal Pip Hindu Dot in the Rolling FingerTips

Hermetic Hypnosis

Hermetic Sypnotic Thai Food Box Calligraphy Order Number

Glass beaded vegetables

Drink the Monitor Kool Aid Turkey Light

Moth White Rorschach (B)Light

New Product: VoidOMoth

The Snake Handler

The Velvet Records Spin in the Windstorm

The Weathervanes conduct Cloud Formations

The EVP vacuum

The Corals burn in the peeps of the Flute

Key of G

Key of E

The Hobos Live Near the Traintracks, Folks.

John Thomas Allen

Oh God I Am

“Theoretically, the union of opposites enters the Gates of all Dharma and I act as if everything is fine. To all appearances, I am, apparently competent on most levels. Meditating most often, that to enter those gates, to step over the threshold, the mind wants to release the perception that there is anything to step over, under, or into. I have been trying to mind my own business, where there is no business other than these appearances, these apparent perceptions. My face, these hands, this skin of mine, this being which breathes, in and out, in the ancient bark of that Chinese dog: Mu. Mu. Mu. It is to appear placid, maybe even dream-like, which I want not to appear as if by any effort. Effortless to be this face, these hands, these very bones. I breathe through, into a body I might never have, known. A freak accident let’s say. By my very nature I am this, this and this – and whatever else, say when you meet me that the peace you have always been seeking, is right here, right here and now –
So maybe, if there is something hidden, behind some mask of the rarest perception – when in breathing, one finds, well, nothing really, well, oh, say it’s an enormous room with a god-awful number of the most incredible stars. A rose amber mélange of a burst. It’s happened once or twice at least, in as much as nothingness, or is it emptiness, explodes with the slightest tremor of some über universal thrust. Is it? I mean is it that rare to envision such tremendum, bursts of a universal flow? Well carbon and hydrogen and such like and you know its been happening. I happened to be breathing when that inner-most universe trembled and I sighed I am god oh god I am -”

Frank Potvin

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“All true enthusiasts and mystics have without doubt been possessed of higher powers–strange mixtures and shapes have certainly resulted from this. The coarser and the more colorful the material, the more lacking in taste, education and direction the person was, the more eccentric was what he brought forth. It might well be wasted effort for the most part–to clean, refine, and clarify this grotesque (strange( mass)–at least the time has not yet come when such tasks can be performed with little effort. This remains to be achieved by future historians of magic. As very important documents of the gradual evolution of magic power they are worthy of powerful preservation and collection.
Magic is the art of using the world at senses at will. In the age of magic the body serves the soul, or the world of spirits. Madness–enthusiasm.”
Novalis, Philosophical Writings

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“On the Logos”

In the words of Saint John at the end of the Gospel according to the logos, ‘even the world itself is not great enough for the books that there would be’, if one were to try to explain rationally the origin, coming and dispersion of the Word, so that it is hardly to be hoped that one could say very much that is relevant in a mere aphorism on what is the true significance of the word logos.
When I was younger, I spent some time wondering whether i could formulate what I wanted amateurishly, to be called Logontology; but I soon realized i had neither the time, intellect or learning i would have needed to do the thing properly.
When I came to study Heidegger, I began to wonder whether or not the Fundamental ontology he has sought to find and lay foundations for might not really be just what I had dreamed of once. I’m still not quite sure about this philosopher; and no doubt he is no longer at all sure, either. But the great thing is that neither his nor my project is any longer absolutely necessary.
The Great I AM has already been found to be founded quite satisfactorily enough.

“The Sun At Midnight”, David Gascoyne

marzipan glass green onion eyes tearing……

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Let’s crash in the palace of porcelain perfection on a lighter mood.

Son of Man

The great dispersion:
all the leaves are gone.

Some of the birds don’t migrate,
even after the major flocks
of their own kind have left,
like the few buffleheads and goldeneyes
that I see bobbing in the Bay.
Why do they stay behind?
A chance to get away from
the bustle and grind
and take advantage
of the Mediterranean climate?

“The foxes have holes, and the
birds of the air have nests, but
the Son of man has nowhere
to lay his head.”

I think back to the time of the Ohlone
who gathered seasonally to create
the shell mound that can still be seen today
from the 580 freeway.

Like the birds they too “migrated”
although they also had fixed
and permanent residences as well.
The best of both worlds.

It seems as though in a way
we have tried to continue to follow,
however blindly, a similar pattern
that can be seen in the reoccurring
lines of traffic, honking like geese.

Motion as symbol,
the symbol of the human,
of the new human
reborn to eternity
from the mold of time,
from the caldron of infinity.

Can we become more like them?
Walk in another’s shoes.
Follow the old track.

Who was the Son of man?
A being from another time,
perhaps another universe,
who shows that some things
never change, but also that
without it we will surly fall.

Michael Brautigan