12-24-2021, 11:33 AM
Artaud had a glacial madness.
My madness is volcanic,
roaring, hot and flowing.
I meet his screaming silence in the void
and transfigure into Nothing.
Enter Diogenes the Cynic.
In love, there is no time;
who cares who came first in history?
Me and the boys are on the road,
Lonely, lonelier and loneliest,
we transcend human reality
each in our own way.
Carrying their skulls in my Hoteisack,
I walk the wayfaring freeways
with Heart Dog Ananda on his
infinitely elastic leash.
With love, there is no time.
Tonight, we have reached the Cave,
a candle, ever lit, hangs from the ceiling,
there, as before, are the skeletons of Eve and her raven.
On the green thread, I climb, attached to
Emily's arrow, I filched from her centaur thighs,
and leap, like the Goat from the Channel,
till all that's left is the dark pit,
the only ever mentioned,
the Abyss of all striving.
One more Horned Beast, I won't mention, too beautiful for these lines.
Dark pit of endless somethings,
menagerie of colorful ideas, mean fits, infinite loneliness,
nasty jokes, memories of books and grandmas,
the autumn fair, the backrooms of trailers,
poetry and philosophy, the woman in 237,
exasperations of embarrassment,
every thought involved with love,
the mind as a thinking thing and things of thought,
the whole sigil of the body, the World on an
index card.
The funny sign pasted to the dry,
iridescent wall saying, Everything Must Go
On to the straightest hallway to ever slant down,
bodiless sights beyond infernal cold and mordorian heat where
several stanzas of this journey have gone, and all
must be slung away, before I enter (the sack,
the skulls, all my treasures. The dog long since
let loose from his leash. Definitely my name.
Even the Horned Angel herself.) into the Tunnel of Not Knowing.
I know Nothing All of the Sudden. Again.
Somehow, this time, it's different.
A clock without hands moving in slow motion,
a film and a dream and awake
and something not like anything
moving in place like in a boat and not.
The cave is real, and it's red. Red stone.
Or the fire's shadows are red, and brown, and dark,
and there is no fire.
Dee's Demon stands there, obvious
in depiction.
Like one of Kerbonzo Beenz's paintings.
My eyes are sandpaper open,
tears I can feel in my loins
oozing warmly and friendly as the stuff of life.
I see the Pyramids and the expected Night,
only I'm sitting in my backyard on a step,
pretending to be a buddha.
The sun is where it should be in the sky,
I know exactly where I'm at.
I say my Word, Madness disintegrates lovingly
and I'm there alone, but for the squirrels and birds and land and trees
and the things that I can't see, to Think:
Understanding is dark, wisdom is clear,
and they are one in
dark clarity.
And none of this has ever mattered.
And I continue down the road with my sack,
thinking the thoughts I usually think,
my senses more aware and pleasing.
Knowing several places I'd like to go,
and face one without choosing, a lantern in the Heart.
My madness is volcanic,
roaring, hot and flowing.
I meet his screaming silence in the void
and transfigure into Nothing.
Enter Diogenes the Cynic.
In love, there is no time;
who cares who came first in history?
Me and the boys are on the road,
Lonely, lonelier and loneliest,
we transcend human reality
each in our own way.
Carrying their skulls in my Hoteisack,
I walk the wayfaring freeways
with Heart Dog Ananda on his
infinitely elastic leash.
With love, there is no time.
Tonight, we have reached the Cave,
a candle, ever lit, hangs from the ceiling,
there, as before, are the skeletons of Eve and her raven.
On the green thread, I climb, attached to
Emily's arrow, I filched from her centaur thighs,
and leap, like the Goat from the Channel,
till all that's left is the dark pit,
the only ever mentioned,
the Abyss of all striving.
One more Horned Beast, I won't mention, too beautiful for these lines.
Dark pit of endless somethings,
menagerie of colorful ideas, mean fits, infinite loneliness,
nasty jokes, memories of books and grandmas,
the autumn fair, the backrooms of trailers,
poetry and philosophy, the woman in 237,
exasperations of embarrassment,
every thought involved with love,
the mind as a thinking thing and things of thought,
the whole sigil of the body, the World on an
index card.
The funny sign pasted to the dry,
iridescent wall saying, Everything Must Go
On to the straightest hallway to ever slant down,
bodiless sights beyond infernal cold and mordorian heat where
several stanzas of this journey have gone, and all
must be slung away, before I enter (the sack,
the skulls, all my treasures. The dog long since
let loose from his leash. Definitely my name.
Even the Horned Angel herself.) into the Tunnel of Not Knowing.
I know Nothing All of the Sudden. Again.
Somehow, this time, it's different.
A clock without hands moving in slow motion,
a film and a dream and awake
and something not like anything
moving in place like in a boat and not.
The cave is real, and it's red. Red stone.
Or the fire's shadows are red, and brown, and dark,
and there is no fire.
Dee's Demon stands there, obvious
in depiction.
Like one of Kerbonzo Beenz's paintings.
My eyes are sandpaper open,
tears I can feel in my loins
oozing warmly and friendly as the stuff of life.
I see the Pyramids and the expected Night,
only I'm sitting in my backyard on a step,
pretending to be a buddha.
The sun is where it should be in the sky,
I know exactly where I'm at.
I say my Word, Madness disintegrates lovingly
and I'm there alone, but for the squirrels and birds and land and trees
and the things that I can't see, to Think:
Understanding is dark, wisdom is clear,
and they are one in
dark clarity.
And none of this has ever mattered.
And I continue down the road with my sack,
thinking the thoughts I usually think,
my senses more aware and pleasing.
Knowing several places I'd like to go,
and face one without choosing, a lantern in the Heart.
