Tuesday, March 29, 2016

The Black Spiral Dedux

Black Spiral Dedux Prelude

So Dutifully, I've catalogued
the chaos of deduction into
the margins
                         of a black spiral
So cantankerous a sore it has made me..

To write is not always right.
Nevermind nirvana;
 enlightenment is but another ceremony I've since passed
 and failed to retrieve its boon.

It goes boom! Like any other explosive substance.
Makes waste
like another composure.
..Calls attn. to the changing luminescence of lights..
..inspires might in the meek
when night folds over
falls under the eyes,
"I'm always tired.."
when nothing is always
even those fires that burn like
thumps in the chest.

But, i've digressed. A tendency that composes the lack spiral
to deduce its crux
does it move in or out
a black hole or explosive substance.

Ah, to dedux….
so dutifully…
This chaos came from the margins.
Just you wait and see..


O can't you sii, I can't conceive..
All that chlorophyll has cast a
Penumbra and it's encompassing me
in yellow impressionistic detail.

Blinded by it, (& this or afflicted by that)
                    crossbow my true-love's Sun with her own
        cursive    quotations:
my true love…               
                 she wrote for someone else
            & sent it spiraling through
                 the pages of my black-blank book.

The most exact revenge is misquotation;
   & this this
     is but a demonstration in selves-mutilation. 
A love letter to the myth of Katharsis
                           & memorie.
                                i too, your pupil's project---In
 that similar self-same exercise --  
 chase crosshairs
    in the night
                                            along some cynical battleground
                        where the chlorophyll drips like   
                 like… like a noisy, cyclic faucet       
                            funneling into a House of Id-olatry
                                mirrors named:    "mI half-flat tire-swing."             
rust-riddled with weather-worn incantations about how to say

"Childhood dies just like its toys:
stashed in opaque boxes or sold,
but either way, the answer is always
                                      "in storage somewhere."
With waddling callouses, our frets must feel out the talkings if Nature insists
on bending the branches so that leaves may eclipse the spotlight's beam from
revealing whichever road will unwind time.

How? Well….
"When you're a narcissist, every doorknob is a reflection,"
i too have
pleaded countlessly
through talkative door's
open keyholes;
           i too have        
pissed on the steps       
of astranger's place.       
            i too have                        
           "DAYLUST!                         Daedalus..
you've trapped the thesis
in a labyrinth of                     human sciences
& what matter is comes                         down to energy put in;-

Later, following stumbling footsteps
obsessed wit
my head screwed on back ways

It's energy will
….the fork -- NO!
..the absurd
                the absurd fork
                            cares not
                                        IT IS CONFUSED
& yet,
                "an anecdote:
                some people     look north
                other people        seen south
                but those who             look both ways
                           so often confuse
                             THIS & THAT;
                                    such as…
                a brain is not a factory, but it's like one
                a body is not extension, but it's iiii's
                BLAH-blah-BLAH-blah, BLa simile but a metaphor..
            &one's senses are not an assembly crew,
            but sometimes like one & mind's not a corporation.
            an i SHOULD ONLY EXPLOIT ITSELF. only then is it
                       if ideas must have true cause,
                                        what of uncertainties?                                surely truth, too,
                          is a skill
            or something…"

"What are you babbling about?"       I babble back at the absurd fork.
"Oh, well, do you swim?"
                "I dabble.."
                        "MY GOD MAN!  We're resigned
                            to perpetual dog-paddling
                            in a potentially pointless
                        LOOP around the WILL of some
                        HOOK-ed punctuation on HIGH!"
                                                 "Will you
                                                get to                                               the point?"
                                        "That's the point!"
                                   "can't you see?"
                                           "No, that's where we started."
 "..tell me to get to the point,"   the fork forks, foreshadowing its fatal flaw.

(Later, following an ordeal of wine)
"I don't think I could deal with perfection.
     What's there to do?"                           "True.  If heaven never changes
there's no wifi, right?"
With that,
the absurd fork
forms another utencil
in its own image &
finally ends it.

I was wrong not to see the ripples building. 
        They go
                            for eons!    ( like the chin-scratching                                     said of bodies
                                              following later
                    There is nothing important to relay--
we stare anyway.

Maybe that's that   
& this,
 but a routine
Being                  'Here,'
having weight.
Amor Fati, huh?
              The love of that
                       testicular conchairto
                                    deafening my potential
                                                           to play;
                                                              blinds mynds instances
                                                 @ its percepts.
"I'll find….. a flowchart in brail
              & blow your mind with it,"  my brain says provokingly.
                                                            the world is spinning
                                                          like ''always.''
                   I muster amongst my i's, &
the black spiral dance to deducible redux'i
my parading noggin into a place
 where constant motion make me.
Where Stasis only paralyzes….

"What are you babbling about?"
    my brain barks at me.            "Nothing one more time."
""Okay.  From the begInnIng!""

"Okay! O CAN'T YOU SEA...

An afterwords, words:
i will not stand i-dulling
as I dismember myself
I will not watch myself
stab myself with pens
in the dark districts
of the mynd

The overture rises.
A body appears.  It dives
deep into the black spiral.
Trumpets blare!
Echoes in every direction.

             Nearby people politely listen, anticipating an explanation.
The body dances. I watch
and wish I could join it.
Trumpets Boom!
Echoes in one Direction. 

Nearby, some people politely miss it. Others anticipate explanations.
The Overture rises.
A body collapses. It is joyous.
The Trumpets bellow!
There are no echoes.

Nearby, some folks don't acknowledge, they are not anticipating explanations.
The strings bend, the trumpets blow.  The bass. The cellos, they go.
There was no reason.
Only as empty as,
"Only as full as their hearts."
There are drums, spurs, shaking, wind-howls.

Nearby, I will to stand i-dulling
as other's eyes dismember my selves
I will not watch myself
stab my selves with pens        The single string of a violin carresses
in the dark districts                an angry air. It sustains measures,
of the mind.                      and falls at the composer's


Sitting at the clustered gates of the black spiral,
anxiety riddled and deducting
with a half-forgotten, broken definition. 
          Someone is watching, so
                    I compose a haiku:

"Keep it real, says an
Ogre sipping tea in all
of my deepest dreams.

They are still watching. 
My brain braids an order into the fabric of
my genetic structure. 
                    "Interaction at all cost!"

A hysterical sloth appears.
It considers its biology and becomes furious.
It's name is "Named,"
written backwards.        "D-E-M-A-N. Deman."
    It approaches, becomes
    a tired strand of DNA.
    We retire to the shade.

Later, I awake.  The sloth
is nowhere to be found. 
The ogre approaches,
offers me coffee.
            I say,
                    "Yes, thank you.  No tea, today?"
            He say,
                    "It's going to be a long day,"
            I say,
                    "Oh.  How so?"
            He say,
                    "I don't have any plans."
We laugh, caffeinated
then smoke cigarettes
suddenly at a cafe'.

            I say, "I wonder where the gate went.
                     I'd thought
                     I found the exit."
            He say,
                "Don't worry about it! You've got time."

1 comment:

  1. There are some minor format hiccups in this version. MY apologies. Maybe I'll fix it.