Monday, October 30, 2017

THE GO OF EVE

THE GO OF EVE

The sloshing part of the rain whacks the house.
Gospel of Eve sloshing through the rain
of words in the virgin forest of the house.

The untouched is irregular, and irregularity signals 
consciousness. Virgins are weird, and in her forest
patterns arise to her desires. This is the text

that sloshes (“into the body of time”). And makes men
of me. A big man and a little man on a hill.
Hear the tantric thunder. The thought in her, in me,

called the lover, the other me she keeps called gnosis 
immense child that strives amid her childhood
her virgin wisdom rides in writing rain.


Friday, October 27, 2017

THE STONE IN THE DOORWAY

THE STONE IN THE DOORWAY

I.

The reflections of the candles on the ball are Ursa Minor, nearly.
Gimmel.

Hiccup.
The camel that travels the orphic egg,
its head
thrust into the light

forms from the reflection.

When I look at the ball

my eye gets cloudy.

The light at twice remove
rolls in luminous bands
across the Selenite

which I wouldn’t see
If this really were my body
as I moved along with it, bending myself

to the caprices of my hand
on the ball’s curve.

My own hand! There must always be an other.

While I become mineral
turn my belly
into its slow
kind of oven.

The moon and the north star
through the late October 
knotted clouds, I remember we saw

the grass crunching underfoot,
as Dante knew, the dead take you with them. 


II.

orb’s got a wobble
rabbi says is the ecliptic
little better, little worse again

a real mountain is another kind of street
where you can drive straight into the clouds

a flame that hurts terrible
until you hold the roses

cold in your hand.

Dreidel spun awake
from a dish of ash

sudden appearance
of things as they are

cliffs mid-air, waterfalls, the palace

of light coming through light.

Mind become the medium
by which to undeceive mind.

A redefinition of “tools”

teleology
is the empty point
fire exit
right through the image.


III.

Timber Rattler
vision of Er.

The egg shakes.

Just get this out now
so the mind deers
can come tripping through

the garden gates:
pearls on a rotten stick

hoodoo to keep away

but you can only really hope
to attract, 

plant for bees. Ladybugs.
Try not to touch the snake.

No snake.
I’m thinking about something else.

That slithering 
I try to avoid
and comes near anyway.

Don’t be fooled
by what I say
my trembling hands
my pale face-
I was interested in deer, 
in the mind’s park
but something else comes

exactly like
what I’m not thinking about.

The deer in the park
sidewinder through the snow
with their strange yellow eyes.
Trust the deer.


IV.

Curve of shadow velocity of ink
the square of the page captures.

I’m here to interrogate you
or at least that animal who lives on your sleeve

waiting for the black clouds to clear 
before the midnight sun,
to shatter in its mirror.

The rhyme’s cool wind you know
rushes into the valley

and through your mind, too.
Hieros gamos

fall asleep
and the hills sleep

new found king of the Tuatha Dé Danann,

chthonic ancestor,
king who eats his son.

Hinge. 
Jinn. 
Judge.
We’re only products of
how the letter swings
that separates the ground
from your name.


V.

You cannot triumph over your sister.

The letter that was there, weird
“skulls haunting my naïvety” –G.B.

concepts return to seed
the mysterious ground 
closed off by conspiracy 
as if language were only our own.

Gate of the letter. The hand
between Adam
and Earth

where Arthur is his Sister’s captive.


VI.

The tenuous thread
the fates hold
sidewinders through the mind.

The fates the three shadows
of divinity,

and ghosts pegged to numbers court them
morning noon and night

the ball is only the field seeded by stars
mind’s special gravity
seeded by stars

the deer seem to know are there.


VII.

The stone moves from the voices
that work at it from inside the cave.

A stone props open the door
that would shut if your eyes were closed
and lets all the others through
into the personal nighttime of language.

You can snatch a shadow up with your hand
and suddenly the stone moves toward you.


VIII.

Avid play of voices
light and the interior lights
called shadows out here.

IX.

The lower cinnabar field glimmers
(among the white of everything, its own red sun glimmers)

sight tightens the skin of things
from mind’s absolute porousness.
You are yourself my Id. 
My phone number.

Full moon irises from the lake
deliciously unconcerned

but remember there’s no difference
between this moon and the absolute wet.

X.

The named moon rises
and all the names are hers.

Mirrors in my goblin hands.
They call up my number
and I say what they tell me to.

Talking grease behind the scenes.

XI.

From the field of names
things arise. Each word
is the first, in hyle
pulse of living matter.

Lips vanish
the lip of the glass,
lip of creation,
in the kiss.

Don’t mind my
slobber in your ear.
Solomon
candle-tree

going for my walk
because all trees do
even the one we walk
inside of, believing
its secrets of ourselves.

The tree pretends
to be more than one.

Fake mistake. Speak. 


XII.

Thomas Edison was a Theosophist
and in his wisdom he sealed off
the stars from us,
a roundness to the shadows,

shadows like stones
in the forest of lights

Meliselda, the king’s daughter
coming out the water.

The light breaks as you push
your way through. Meliselda. Shekinah.
I sang in lusty Ladino.

Naked on the letters that blow towards her
through my heart. 


XIII

La Rose Croix
of Chinese tián    ç”°

field, 1.3 inches behind the navel.
The Lower Cinnabar Field of
Sâr Peledan’s decadent yoga
virginities received in jewels and incense
jewels and incense the opening of the flower
virginity in the play of things
the play of the gods upon the earth, Lila
I watch them change the stone but nothing moves,
no alteration, no imposition. They come by another way.


XIV.

Olive-light, combustion in the shared root,
obvious as gold, in sway to the bellymoon
words in the market under washed out blue tarps
like all we ever do just to keep away from the sun
love a kind of gold that loves shadows and dragons
but there is no difference. One day the Djinns
will untie Wagadu, that small stone that made me
think that I was in here. The stone 
that was made to seal the cave will go back to the fields
as a pillow, a place where lovers sit, a word come to 

your lips. Your lips. A word is a kind of kiss. To be a word.

Thursday, October 12, 2017

MONTGOMERY PLACE

MONTGOMERY PLACE

There’s an octagon on the ceiling.
Stronger than Neptune.

The four quadrants are pyramids
encircling the sun.

Mantra. Mind’s mind-making tools.
Guards at the Tree of Life.

I mean sun.

Slip of the pun back into itself.

At the corners of the earth four
identically tanned angels focus
at the center of the ground.

Slip of the ground

disrupt sight’s rays across empty mind.
Cosmic sin quotient my sin compassions
back through time we call doing good.

The tools pack themselves up
or break into smaller tools.

Smaller is eviler.

Encoded in hierarchy is ratio.
In ratio, recurrence.
In recurrence, interval.

Whose turn it is to speak.

We are legion.

That was Isaac Luria speaking.

Everyone gets their cameo.

The seeds of the stars practice their rituals–
intervals on the field.

Citadel of form, through which ghosts pass
seeking masks.

Immemorial real empty page.

Index to false body’s real.

White motor of the visible rose. Golob Jaman
warm under the hill. Synesthetic gterma. 
The builders’ smell-stone.

Revelers in the Time-stream
of the Tower, the life of the tower.

How to be table. How to be wood.

Voices that know the fate of the soul in the
octagon of the head.

Your mother’s secret family.

Konx om pax.

See how you’ve become me.

Applesauce on the bougainvillea. 
As seen from the True Cross.

The denomination of each.

Free god’s image in the funhouse.

Interminablemente me miro.

Say mu mu to start juicing your reflection.
If it keeps distracting anyway.
Another me come to live inside you
or is it you who said that to me.
Which direction are the nibbles facing
on Pilgrim’s Progress. I do well on quizzes,

rain-drenched through my Sarah.
Trouble is there’s no trouble–
unless you’re a dualist about the sniffles–
better to let emptiness valorize memory

even if the lake is guarded by a wash of flying bugs

in order to disrobe the self. Disresemble x.
In the Yak’s dream the zoo is something else.