Wednesday, January 2, 2013



Supersymmetrical fluctuations in my God particle field
are oxymoronically balancing my asymmetrical
quantum mechanical relationship between matter
and antimatter into sacred syllables of sibilant sparticles
so I can go on living substantively losing my balance
by creatively annihilating myself against a background
of perfect harmony. Is it love? Is it poetry? Is it
the amorphous music of becoming someone mystically specific
with mass throwing its weight on the side of my humanity
by loading the dice with one eye more than the perfection
of my non-existence knows what to do with,
or is everybody playing the part of an extra in their own life?

Languid apples of knowledge dancing naked
to the wavelengths of snakes playing moonlight sonatas
on the plectra of their pentatonic scales as if my photons and photinos
were all blissed out by Liszt. It’s as hard listening to a painting
that doesn’t know how to sing, as it is to see
how an omniscient secret could hide from itself
until it wished to be known. But as every dragon intuits
it’s not an elixir if you’ve got a formula for it,
and when the universe wants to speak if it isn’t
talking to itself in its sleep, or trying to come up
with a poem or an equation to fit all occasions
like a unified field theory with a burning bush
for a voice box addressing an indentured prophet
in a desert gully, pleading his brother’s superior eloquence,
it’s mourning the ashes of books that were burnt at the stake
for interrupting the silence. It’s harder to break the rules
after you’re dead than it is to discipline your disobedience
to the greater challenges of rising from Pandora’s box
to the greater miscreance of not surrendering
your insights into life like real stars refusing
to give up shining for the sake of a false dawn
the roosters and the wildflowers aren’t paying any attention to.

The flower bows to the butterfly. The shadow
enshrines the sundial and the star reveres the eye
as a child of its own. Nothing could be clearer than that.
The opposite of mindlessness isn’t the death of intelligence.
And the complement to love has never been hate.
Hate wastes too much energy underwhelming
its own inspirations like a pornographer
with a home movie camera, starring himself.

A swerve of the God particle and love
one in seven times has no opposite to collide with
just to keep a preponderance of creativity in the world.
And the rest is just nemetic lust out for a good time.
Everytime you whine for a muse to help you celebrate
this little potsherd of eternity that keeps turning thumbs down
like an ostrakon at your exile, you shame the Big Bang
into believing that she wasn’t muse enough to keep you occupied
over the last 13.5 billion lightyears of your lifespan.
But I would tender, respectfully, of course, it’s not the world
but you that have lost your charisma. Your shabby sense of wonder
is wasted on a face like that, and your tongue talks
like an old shoe that’s never wandered very far from home.

Enlarge yourself like a plenipotentiary paradigm
your children will be able to look up to like a constellation
that refused to stay within bounds but coloured outside
its fifteen degrees of separation in a sexigesimal zodiac.
Reverse the spin on your mirrors once and awhile
and take a good look at yourself on the inside as if
you weren’t trying to build an empire founded upon
the quicksand of somebody’s else’s miracles. Who doesn’t
love dancing with the Persian silks of the aurora borealis
their flesh shapeshifting like lamias and snakes under their veils,
cyanotically blue moodrings turning the pallor of death
into the irises of a chameleon that’s learned how to paint
a supernaturally toned oil of whatever comes before it?

Do you see how enlightening it is to turn
the high-livers on the catwalks out in the street in homespun?
Get back to the the roots of things like the radical
you’ve always told yourself you were from the late sixties on?
If you’re not worthy of the madness, how can you reasonably
expect to live up to being sane? Nothing worse
than a careerist with the ambitions
of a prophetic skull in an asylum
trying to listen in on cosmic office gossip
like the afterbirth in the background hiss of the universe.

Come withering, come fire, come hungry flames of desire
that will apocalyptically transmogrify your limbs into a great forest
consumed by lightning into a flash of insight
that knows enough about annihilation not to light
a match in a black hole that’s teaching you how to see in the dark,
or, more recuperatively creative, resilvering,
as the progenitive dew of the moon was once reputed to do,
or moonlight on the Byzantine leaves of the metallic Russian olives,
parabolic mirrors with an aquiline view of the stars.

Get ready for this. It’s approaching as if it were already
behind you like the light you see from Al Tair tonight
is merely the shadow of what it’s becoming without you
knowing anything about it like a surprise birthday party
that doesn’t leave your tears singing in the rain among
the myth floods of Babylon crying out like uterine waters
breaking all around you for arks to lullaby your cradles
of civilization on a Turkish mountaintop that’s about
to put its forehead to the ground in an avalanche
of asteroids and shepherd moons surrendering
to their foundation stones like an unmastered ship
going down in its oceanic awareness of the Pleiades,
or a humbled man, who realizes belatedly,
at the drop of a heart, the mermaids were always
singing to him as if he could swim without taking lessons.




Set up for the night, the candle in its niche,
Jupiter a long way from the moon by now,
cat and goldfish fed, my mind never is
but my heart seems to be in the right place,
smokes, coffee, heat, a loaf of whole wheat bread,
not quite Omar Khayyam, a jug of wine, and Thou,
but the bough is on the fire and I’ve got the Pleiades
to make me feel like a sexy astronomer
if the life mask I’m wearing isn’t convincing enough.

The moon’s off aloofly waning below the horizon.
There’s a commotion of ghosts below my apartment window
and the furnace is cracking its knuckles as if
it were getting ready for a fight. And I want to write
from the least expected quarter when you least expect it
in a space where my heart isn’t just another synonym for solitude.

Explore my mind in its omniabsence by handing out
free telescopes to the fireflies and asking them if they can see
two stars over at eleven o clock from the dim one,
the same thing I’m looking at. I want to
investigate the morphology of knowledge forms
among the mad, wholly absorbed, nothing left out, by my work.
That’s what I call it for the want of a better word
but most of the time it’s a kind of dangerous fun
that keeps me warily engaged on full alert
listening to a voice singing in a lighthouse
on the coast of the moon that laughs
nervously like a lifeboat at the weather.

Or Shelley in the Gulf of Leghorn. If I didn’t say anything
how could the silence know how beautiful it is
to experience the world as an aimless, drifting intelligence
at ease with itself as it toys lightly with elegant distinctions
that burn like paper boats origamied out of Zen poems
that come and go as they please like the moon in the window?

True excellence doesn’t rule like an aristocracy.
There are too many wonders in the world to be distracted by.
And there’s an hour. It doesn’t come often. But it never
fails to return. One disquietingly beautiful daughter of time,
lying down in the cool summer grass looking up at the stars
as if her whole body were vivid with light
as she savoured the ages that went into every single flash
of the beauty of her brevity. Firefly eyes in a lightning storm.

You can lie down nameless with her like a secret syllable
and speak in a voice older than words about things
you both know there are no answers to, and why
the shared sadness grows more beautiful the less it clings
to the lucid delusions we precariously cherish the most.
You can rendezvous with her at zenith on the hyperbolic arc
of a burning bridge or a comet that’s only going to come once
and your detachment’s a deeper intimacy
than anything you’re ever going to experience
with anyone in life ever again however hard you try
to rinse the ashes of the falling stars out of your hair for good.

On a cold night like this, even an eclipse gets creative
and she’s the crow silhouetted by a moon blossom
rising in the west of a dead branch still lamenting
the loss of its songbird as she leans down
low on the green bough of the east and suggests
maybe it’s time to get over your grief by learning
to sing for yourself. It might feel like confusion at first.
But at heart it’s an infusion of growth and compassion.

All relationships with a muse are illicit. Like blue moons
it’s not good to conduct business under. So you don’t.
And mundanity’s at a premium only a mystic could ill-afford.
It’s like taking the future for a test-drive before
the vehicle’s on the market. And at daybreak,
whether you look upon it as an entrance or an exit,
by example, living it, it’s much like mentoring a star
that always woke up too late to greet its own light
how to say farewell in the dawn and really mean it.