[{"content":{"text":"
Whenever I saw old lines of writing grow dim and their hidden content become the present day, then I understood. The future is creation's homeland, and from it blows the word-god's wind.
— Velimir Khlebnikov
<strong>J. V. DJUGASHVILI & PIERRE RESTANY
</strong>
<em>It is not a secret but one does not tell it.</em>
<em>— Gertrude Stein</em><br /><br />Pandemonium of flashing petals
The clatter the modems make
It propagates a narrowed silence
Shapeless — nothing was of miracles<br /><br />The artist had in my dream
Forgotten the region I devised
(Varied but in no way uneven)
Hit the rockface of solitude with the hammer of uncertainty
So that the trajectory we objected from
No longer corresponds with what is plainly in evidence<br /><br />Tho it is here that a paradoxical but very significant
Phenomenon becomes evident
Since the apparently insurmountable disagreement is
<em>Nothing more than apparent:
</em>
Exempt from contempt
Gods may do what cattle cannot
They disassemble themselves
Into the panicked mouths of the manic devout<br /><br />Finished growing thing
Bound up & dumped in the river or
Tossed to shoulder from motor vehicle to
Molder on mechanically stabilized earth
<em>Let it lie bruised for a monument
Dispense the authenticated fragments to the faithful</em><br /><br /> *<br /><br />Silence was knowing
Speech is now gnawing
Nervously on our children’s cadavers<br /><br />Pronouncing death
Sentences<br /><br />The flesh be bugged
A hitch in the arrangements
With teeth set on table’s edge
Give a good hard bang<br /><br />Muzzle bloodied
To the buzzing helicons’
Omertà & cratylism of
Fac-simmed procgen diamat<br /><br />Hopeless power epitomizes prophesizers
Visionary incompetents drowningly consulted
Give panegyrics of enamel animals
& laugh on the other sides of their faces<br /><br />Tell these oleaginous hall monitors of the possible
We’ve only got four IVs for eleven V. I. Lenins
But all we need
Is there in Dufy’s <em>Fairy of Electricity</em><br /><br /> *<br /><br />The hour of asseveration is arrived —
The perduration of perjury:
I tried sacrifice & then indulgence
But my name only moves a few pages back on the list
& weep every morning
When the orange standby of the appliances still burns
& trips the various censors<br /><br />They’ll shoot you dead in the street for no reason
Nor motive beforehand nor justification after the fact
Make yr will out mate
They know yr names & they know yr faces<br /><br />Go ahead of the majestic army
Of human thought & aspiration blazing
New & strange paths
A purely decorative camouflage
Masks the spiritual void
You can’t hide that boot print on yr brain<br /><br />The manifolds of yr many-pleated fear
Sound untold with banned & banded resound<br /><br />Adhesion
Unimpeachable
Which would you rather be
Inmate or idiot
Abattoir or organ grinder
I’ll pull the wool over yr eyes
If you blow smoke up my ass
Death can do no more than kill you &
Hey look there
There’s a bit of subculture under yr cuticles<br /><br /> *<br /><br />( FOR TEIGE, THE MAN HEART-ATTACKED BY THE SECRET POLICE )<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>NOTHING BUT NOTHINGNESS</strong><br /><br />What we touch the hems of
Infinitesimal subdivisions
The ghosts of departed quantities
Scaling down in intensive degree from
Entity to zero
With shadow the permanent rendezvous
Penumbra that defeats any claim to explicit contact<br /><br />It feels like a weight balanced on the forehead tipping
Misses you the common intimate Word<br /><br />The increased meaninglessness of a symbol
The expanding of a conceit<br /><br />Feel themselves drawn toward similar deserts
Repeat their perilous leaps into nothingness<br /><br />The increased glow of the embers only
A reflection of the wind from the bellows<br /><br />Lines that went elsewhere before they went here
A point here that points elsewhere<br /><br />Unto scissored deletions
Untoward the cutting-out<br /><br />Spilling glory of Blood’s an-
Aesthetic revelation<br /><br />Of some easily-seen god
Dies in the doorway &<br /><br />Attracts flies almost immediately
Content finds the Bible a waste<br /><br />At the heart of which the noisy engineer
Can be seen extending his hand to old T. S. Eliot<br /><br />Paper turned to vapor passes
Thru obstacles when the signal is off<br /><br />Five flies flew from the F-hole
Of a silent violin<br /><br />Sticks spinning on flat flagstones
Clocks without hand or number <br /><br />Tick-tocking in concert
Petrified as perfect mobile<br /><br />Motile sweeps
Of perfect smile<br /><br />Music of decided
Disunited time<br /><br />Proceeds by dilation
The needle pricked in the tyre
The plunger depressed<br /><br />Applause (mostly mechanical) & an
Other hand for
Hegel’s hands are numberless
Under standing hands that
Could not understand
Practicing the phrenology of spirit &
Firmly determined not to soil themselves
In contact with discouraging reality<br /><br />Super-vising our buttoning & unbuttoning
His big dumb cow-eye
God keep us from single vision & Von Neumann’s sleep<br /><br /><em>Pleasure is a late acquisition
Scarcely older than consciousness</em>
It could be done away with as a fluke<br /><br />Come the call for sensation’s cancellation:
Let all that is sweet be salted
And all that is salty be sugared<br /><br />Some small furred thing has crawled
Deep in the works & died
Now its stink is blowing back thru the passages<br /><br /><em>Vision is a fig leaf on the occult genitals of Death
</em>As if romanticism required monocles
The rattle seduces you & loosens in as it fades<br /><br />A grassy keep from which queens
Did scream pain in low list
In throes who throws whose throat<br /><br />Yr bug’s-consciousness streaming
The mere rumor of yr existence—
<em>In many people it is already an impertinence to say ‘I’
</em>
<em>Oblivion is the finest fervor
</em>Puts the errata in desiderata
A dial tone in the minds of men<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>BEING IN NOTHINGNESS
</strong>
There is a circle whether or no<br /><br />With a sneeze against it (peculiar heliotropism)
I’ve kept the sacred (without a sound —
The form of What was master here)
The Void — pale-blue sheets the thing we saw
After the metal walls<br /><br />A capillary tissue which extends
Which guarantees the constant exchange
That must occur between
Fucking & getting fucked
Metempsychics & physics
Sacred monstrance or
Sacrilegious monster
These formalist games to which thought is molded<br /><br />At what point is being irreconcilable
With what must continue to be?
These things
Have a disgusting propensity for becoming their opposites<br /><br /><em>“Being & not being are the same” & yet not quite
since the same is another that is like—
there needs two for a sameness as well as
an identity for a difference</em>
Subtle as it may be between a four of two & two,
A four of three & one
<em>Deception & truth go hand in hand not as opposites
in a system but at least as the thickness
made up of a recto & verso together</em><br /><br />The difference between actual &
Maximum-possible entropy
Which we perceive as order—
<em>The further it is stretched the more violent the eventual correction
</em>
We will be dragged back by a doctrine of signatures
<em>This world is no more that alien terror which was taught me
</em>The garden bore the fruit
The whole fruit & nothing but the fruit
Tonic gruel
Tectonic plates have shattered for less & the sun
snaps shut on such inanities<br /><br />On the windbitten inhospitable rock of consciousness
A lichen of conscience has taken hold<br /><br />A fellow, brief on yr tongue
Spits backward, parches the heart
Proof against the conviction of yr strength
The firmament of yr upset
In strains strewn the world over<br /><br />Thank you — sorry — please
Amen, ahem<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>THE MAGDEBURG HEMISPHERES OF ALIENATION
</strong>
If I stick all my friends with
Paper swords & it is just pretend
But I never see them again
Can I still count myself among the blameless?<br /><br />If by guile or enterprise
I endeavor to halve the truth
Prised apart to emancipate its stuttering motor
Like the sour blood sealed between blades of grass
Do I only appear master of what I am mediator?<br /><br />The glue is easier to unstick than it looks
(<em>Solve et coagula</em>)
Or just as
Picking real lackadaisies
From imaginary care
Keeps me supplied with
Work so good it’s almost worth sleeping for
Scratches the occidental itch without incident<br /><br />Can you read a closed book
With pages still uncut?
It can be done but it is difficult, very difficult
<em>So let us go on cultivating fields of error in our brains
</em>What would make an imposition on me is less than so much grass<br /><br />Now it is possible to learn the technique of love
By radio courses with no less results
I’ll never see the inside of another annus mirabilis
& turn a new leaf, an
Unbleached recto<br /><br />There’s something ain’t right with any of this
& I aim to find out what —
But I can forgive (myself) — after all
Some bugs have no wings yet they are perfectly moral
I choose my material & intellectual food
I do not feel my being-a-thing
I am a pretty, clean, mobile thing
I have not foregone love
I love my garbage disposal unit
Aren’t we all
Just carrying prairies?
Just handling corners?<br /><br />It’s you in the art, it does
Speak of yr double & he shall appear
Listing
But finally OK with Sara Bernhardt’s
Leg to lean on<br /><br />At end of day
The rag comes away
Bearing a greasepaint grimace
& a sinkhole opens under yr boss
But you lose yr car in the rain(Poems continued from a sequence in progress—see part one)
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