Tuesday, June 25, 2013



While the great blue agency whales sift us
like the metadata of krill through their baleen wiretaps,
and the rainbow in the iris of my eye is identified
like a fingerprint grown suspicious of its own reflection,
and it dawns on me there’s somebody else out there
that wants to know who I am as badly as I do,
I just want to disappear like an albino crow
in the snow for awhile, go mystically snowblind
in the blazing of a billion diamonds on a nightcreek
exploring its way through the woods like a tributary
of the Via Galactica, that milky road of ghosts.

The life of a fish is conditioned by the quality
of the water it swims in, same as any medium,
We’re either a loveletter to a stranger down river
or a message in a bottle pleading for rescue from ourselves
bobbing along the mindstream like the prophetic skull
of the image we used to entertain of a self.

By their fruits ye shall know them was always
good advice, but just as do unto others
as you would have them do unto you mutated
into do unto others before they do it unto you,
tonight, looking straight into the third eye
of a spy satellite that’s been following me
disguised as Spica flickering through the trees,
I say it out loud, without popping my ps,
if things don’t get worse, and they will, of course,
history is going to look back upon us and ask
who we were, and all we’re going to be able to answer
is a collection of laminated deathmasks in a wax museum
as we slowly forgot what our living faces
looked like to one another once. The silence.

The Wonder. The mystic shadows that we cast
like Venus on a moonless winter night,
the crowsfeet around our silver eyes like laughlines
cracking the mirror up like an ice storm
when we feel it’s all been one long, endless joke
at our own expense, and herein lies wisdom.

Neither nostalgic for an old-fashioned kind of ignorance,
nor enlightened by the eugenic photo-shops of the orthodox,
miasmic as I am, evanescently veiled by the solar flares
of my own unique insight into the feminine atmospheres
of whatever right-brained planets and moons
I happen to be orbiting at the time, imprecisely
focused as I am on my peripheral vision
of the mystic specifics of these retroactive flashbacks
of future memories without the precedent of a prophetic past,
I resist being fossilized prematurely in the Burgess Shales
in some Cambrian sea floor of a corporate data bank
as if I were being forensically interred for eternity
like Opabinia or Pikaia, or some remnant fingerprint
of a sacred syllable that once lived its life
like a prayer in progress albeit whispered under its breath
in the accent of a dead language, a hierogylphic
on the hard drives of whomever’s listening in.

Some people were born into the open enough
to express life. Covert others merely to overhear it
like shadows keeping an eye on the light that cast them down
they’ve dedicated their lies to spying on like spin-doctors
looking for the disease in the heart of the cure.

Ask any fanatic. Certainty is the mother of doubt.
The one returns to the many, and the absolutes
grow relative as paranoid second cousins.
There are ferocious, predatory octagonal buildings
that have developed new sensory receptacles
to archive the asylum of junkmail that constitutes
human consciousness like an ip address for a seance
into espionage in an era that doesn’t even trust the dead.

Or as the Zen master said, just look at the extreme chaos
of conditioned consciousness. The more
you listen in the louder we can hear the silence
of what it is you won’t come out and say
like an echo in the labyrinth of that seashell
you hold up to your ear like a hearing aid
trying to record everything the ocean says
like the sonic bells and whistles of nuclear whales
under the Arctic ice-caps thawing out
like a northwest passage through the cataracts
of a global warning not to wear rose-coloured contacts
when you’re pearl diving for new moons among the corals.

Best place to hide is out in the open. So, come on,
take a look. My life is an open book skimming
my thought waves like a kingfisher on a halcyon sea
of oceanic awareness after the Titanic went down.
You can board my brain like a shipwreck
at the bottom of the Burgess Shales. And you can tell
which way the wind is blowing by the lack of my sails.
Somewhere in this abyss of water you’re bound
to come across the eyes you want to look into
as if you were doing a spectroscopic analysis of my tears,
and it were compassion to wipe them away
like a swab of dna red shifting into the longer wavelengths
of extinctions to come that will make
the most infamous eclipse on the worst day
of the Middle ages pale like a new moon by comparison.

It only takes one mood ring of a chameleonic shapeshifter
to bring out the lion in a lizard, and fill the wax museum
with the Mayan ruins of itself. In the slightest of interactions
the compendious motion of an entire universe
past, present, and wondering what’s to come of it
as the stars get further apart like constellations
on a mythically inflated unbounded balloon of a universe.

Who’s going to be left to talk to like another neuron
along your axonic way, as you listen to what they have
to say about having covert access to everybody’s lies
when you’re virtually trapped in your own hydra-headed server
like the straitjacket of an expert who’s heard it all before
bottom-feeding like a microphone on the fossils
of who we were zodiacs ago when life went crazy
as a genius in an arms war of the senses and things
were revealed without confession or innocence
like Hox genes deciding where to place our eyes
on both sides of the great divide of our noses
wiring security cameras in the hairs of our nostrils
as the watchers watch to see who’s looking at them
instead of breaking genetically modified bread
with the hysterically distracted circus mob calling for the blood
of martyred lions burning in the manes of their own
solar coronas glowing brighter than the dark haloes
of the black holes in the conservation of data principle
the darker it gets like a blindfold in front of a firing squad
when the light turns around like a double agent on itself.


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