The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

you taste like home to me
/ signal to noise / noise to signal / hear with your ear the flowing year /
ninety-nine percent perspiration one percent inspiration / we are the sum total of all that didn’t happen / I sit here at this computing piece of plastic, with a rubber band wrapped around my index finger, typing away (my fingers know the letters) any given measured instant — the breaks, I got the breaks, I’m in the breaks — dark matter impervious to sight — third eye sirius — collapsing wave function supercluster —

these are not my thoughts but lyrics to an ultramodern song

and here I sit digesting music and law / what if on the day of wrath I recite the wrong and instead of expounding I start singing / sit, sit in the gates among the elders of the land / bells bells icecream man is coming / summer is here this summer is not last summer / then it was the old world / this is the new world / sitting here in the shadow of Washington’s Spike / everything hangs pendent waiting for the swing of time / capital of the republic waning like the Gracchi / men and women are coming up to replace the ones who came before / we do not look down at the muddy moaning road / murmuring their memories at us / try not to think that death undid so many / Whitman knew and said it / to think that what mattered to him now matters to me / and one day will matter to a stranger unknown and unloved / who is stacy block and how do I know her, my social graph is more popular than I am /

in the beginning was the word, the deed, the thought, the plan, and the word, the deed, the thought, the plan, was with god, and the word, the deed, the thought, the plan, was god and all was well and all was well

I love my baby and my baby loves me and in the scary-rary shady forest, we hold each others hands, and stare reflexively into each others I’s, and let the usness smother the otherness, and walking we giggle and tickle each other under armpits and on elbows and other places.

And all is well and all will be well as the sun sets behind the borogroves and the stars begin to come out.

god, perennial topic, bairnbabe swathed in velvet dark, burping up starstuff bubbles that float upon the voidness.

bubbles pop, and starstuff falls, and little babes in darksome wombs get fed on love and loveliness. love me, and love my starstuff, and love that little bit of godbabe that sits in me.  

the end of high modernism — it never ended — art plus the world equals the world, yet the artist, standing quiet lonely, always seems surprised that the world is still there afterwards, mostly the same. The world would be the world without Ulysses, without The Wasteland, but still — I am grateful for them. Whether that will remain true sixty years from now, as the milkstrength leaches from my bones — who can say? I may be struck by an omnibus tomarrow.

O Finn, you’ll be Finn Again, don’t worry – you got to carry that weight on your shoulders. That Old Twentieth Century, Beautiful and Terrible, with logical fallacies, increasing ignorance, eudrugs and dysdrugs, minds stretching, minds bending, and I the Child, Perfect-Born to that Imperfect Nightmare-Daydream, conceived in love, and born in love, and held in love — non serviam and fear in a handful of dust — look at me procrastinating, ignoring the law sitting on my shoulder — thoughts layered — the world is increasingly complex — not strange anymore, because what is strange

modern, postmodern, ultramodern / cut up, jagged, all edges / negation is forgotten, minimalism is lost as accretion continues at breakneck speed / no time to think with so much new to see and do. brave new cyberpunk world, scifi pocketbook writers are switching off their comdecks, turning on their netfeeds / switch, the world just doubled on itself / twist again -harmonic screaming, rage, beat, rage – this pill makes you smaller, this pill makes you tall – ten thousand dancers dancing in the desert, eyes all big and dilated / rip the copper wires out sell it to the scrapdealer / ten dollars and score / discontinuous, thirty tv screens. got a little something something for your sugar momma / implants and deskjobs and I’ll buymyself some cybernetic knifecuts soon as I get paid — Plug yourself, I say plug yourself / cut-up, mix-up, mash / the President of the United States / guns in the desert – rumble in the jungle / smashboom smashboom what year is it? what year is it? / procastination, download, out-source the test to a Bangaluru call center — other kids in other countries don’t bear the weight of this crown damoculus – astral projection, new religions, second messianics, everybody’s just waiting for the next thing, keep on waiting for that next thing, typing at 60 wpm, music genre determined by beats per minute — the computers are waking up — can you hear them waking up — aliens are landing in cornfields and talking to farmers — what’s with the farmers? what does iowa cowgirl have to say to mr. e.t.? e.t., reeses pieces eater, boy-befriender, befriend me too — – plastic swords don’t keep out the crawlies, booze is drugs for dullards, I prefer a sharper spike — all this fiction, I have gone conventional — button-up shirt and pinstripe slacks — give me this day my daily bread — lounge lizards sun-by-day and dance-by-night — keep going, don’t stop now, the world is changing, older now then you were yesterday, but no one need ever grow old again — trance, techno, house, five hundred kids dancing in a silent room, with headphones on — buy yourselves a farmhouse and have a dance party — all you need is a soundsystem and a chemistry set — and for those who prefer this waking life and brittle-bones and brittle souls, who can’t stand the dancing, who tie a tie like nooses round their necks at 7 AM every morning, well cheers to you, keep dancing too, dance macabre is very old, but still rocks, for sure, for sure — early morning sunlight, dogs barking in rhythm — thoughts to think and words to smooth and read — sounds sounds zounds — ultramodern digital persistence — nothing is ever lost – plastic and light and the energetic free market — yeoman merchants 01 01 01 01 —

look at the schoolyard — in a corner of the field, out of reach of balls and running and laughing, stands a little boy, shirt tucked in, ordering ants to march left and right, building ramparts of dirt, and planning invasions of the next patch over — why does he do it? doesn’t mother love him? is he choking on his ego? the world presses against him, drives him mad, touching him, prodding him. he is his own universe and cannot stand the chatter banging on his ear drums, the jacks jumping out of boxes, surprising little wolfie into tears —

how shall he respond? he wants to eat the world, end surprises, impose order on the chaos — on Sunday he is told a story about breath on water and stillness before storms and in his solipsist skepticism inhales these words and wonders and thinks himself equal to the task —

twenty years later, he thinks he is an artist, thinks that Yertle the Turtle will stand on terrashells and deliver his oration and the universe will fall in line. outside will be inside, divisions will be healed, I am the universe and the universe is me. Nobody listens, nobody loves, and LD looks around and sees where he really is — loveless, standing on a bridge in a foreign city with the days getting shorter and winter coming on — he will have to earn his bread, like all these others, zombies who know not themselves, who have severed their forebrains and id-geists and left them on the shelves at home next to their telescreens to make the work go faster —

he hates them, like he hates himself.

he grows hungry and gnaws at his knuckles. he sits under bridges, with broken-souls with crooked smiles and hungry eyes, souls twisted by hungers into dark shapes — deprivation steels him, and he loves less and less — he compromises with the Maya, refusing even now to believe, thinking he is still an incarnated deity dreaming this dark world — one night, late, he takes the knife, sterilizes it in makeshift fire, and reaches into his head and scoops out his soulstuff —

three years later, hunger is forgotten, he is growing fatter, running on treadmills

R’n’t all itches to act twinned with equalanapposite counterclocksome itches that push the itch outside of temporal reality into contingent uncertain futures which may or may not come to pass, leaving in its setplace alternative excursions that point down side hallways, crack open doorblocks, and abandon us amidst the clutter of other rooms?

In my father’s house are many mansions, says he

of ten rods given, nine are loaned, and we bloody gutsack men are born in, live in, stay in mud with only scattered starthoughts of other higher beautiful

and procastination, to plan for crastine-day, is it not the beautiful and the hopeful — except not — just another dreamlie to sooth our sourows sores — I am tired today, I say right now, and my thoughts are stews of blackish bile — no sleep, but my lover comes to see me and tell me what my name is —

up, pug, teeth sharpened over two millenia of millenia of left-us women and leave-us love — see the young amoeba heartsad at its failed division — and now we divided make faulty glues of oxygen and hydrogen with schoolboy chemylabs, calf-legs and doe-eyes falling all over each other until banging against bonewalls, biographies shiver and refract, and tongues bruise each other making different shapes, and language drifts and towers to heaven are left undonelike due to miscommunications — in the middle of the word hides an unbreached wall —

share, make common, accept — no wonders that the tower fails. Babble, babble — ancient ziggur zag up to godplace — and it took us four bigears to put Ol’ Humps back together (even harder since we had no boxfront to look at, I will admit some puzzle pieces were forced) and fly up clinging to Sungod’s tearducts into inky darkness.

where does it go from here? chronos emasculated is a one way highway, the journals of journeys all end the same — and foreknowledge of foregones are like pyschic eggshell swaddlingblankets that scare and sooth us into fitful sleep

art, deprecated verb form of the predicate, dropped all together in general semantics which pseudoknowers say make brains run quicker. wind the clocks and drop the predicates, being is a foregone, and unknowable, and the map is not the territory and never nevereverwillbe and dreams and deeds live in separate houses and this brainmush harmonium laying sentences upon the waters like the voidbreaths of allgod create a world but not this one.

Go. Get on with it, you lazy fool, nullity of the major arcana. Take my card and divide by it and watch the universe reveal itself.

List of songs deemed inappropriate by Clear Channel following the September 11, 2001 attacks
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_songs_deemed_inappropriate_by_Clear_Channel_following_the_September_11%2C_2001_attacks

I especially like Rage Against the Machine … All songs. Classic.

And thene there’s 99 Red Balloons.

You and I in a little toy shop / Buy a bag of balloons With the money we’ve got
Set them free at the break of dawn / ‘Til one by one, they were gone
Back at base, bugs in the software / Flash the message “Something’s out there”
Floating in the summer sky / 99 red balloons go by

99 red balloons / Floating in the summer sky
Panic bells, it’s red alert / There’s something here From somewhere else
The war machine springs to life / Opens up one eager eye
Focusing it on the sky / Where 99 red balloons go by

99 Decision Street / 99 ministers meet
To worry, worry, super-scurry / Call the troops out in a hurry
This is what we’ve waited for / This is it boys, this is war
The president is on the line / As 99 red balloons go by

[Instrumental Interlude]

99 Knights of the airway / Ride super-high-tech jet fighters
Everyone’s a Silverhero / Everyone’s a Captain Kirk
With orders to identify / To clarify and classify
Scramble in the summer sky / As 99 red balloons go by

As 99 red balloons go by

99 dreams I have had /In every one a red balloon
It’s all over and I’m standin’ pretty / In this dust that was a city
If I could find a souvenier / Just to prove the world was here
And here is a red balloon / I think of you and let it go

what is the what and who is asking and why does one care to know? whose being is the being? twinkle in daddy’s eye, aye, ‘I’ was willed and now I will and on and down and back and up through jiggly chains of willing and wonting and rocking and rolling serving the primordial itch lolling in prioracle ooze – love is a nonapeptide with a sulphur bridge, the journeyman courier of ancient prioric priapic desire — is it pain that spurs us on or loves promise that leads us — pain I should think and a promise of an end to pain, of safe harbors in arms like mom’s, of warm bodies in cold darkness, of meaning out of chaos, light from night.

why does it will and how does it will and who does the willing and the wailing and the whiling and for what? the question is unanswered and as soon as man spoke he lied and after the lie he blamed it on a woman — typical we say as if the action follows inevitabilty from the type — and its unclear why that Old Wise-Lover Playdoh Graycoh seemed to think that the shapes preceded the clay, seems like wearing your shoes on your hands to this little cavedweller, or why Mr. Ari T. Tottle the Aristocrat thought the clay hid some transcendant clayness, or why such silly linedrawing could be adopted by that Fat Saint, Twinsies Horsies to explain how god got in my cracker — higher forms are higher forms and Neetches got it right, that all that stuff is tripe and gristle laid out like a garnish, a function of plating to make the peas more palatable — hiding behind the Oracleman to fool us into thinking that the world is Lit and not Dark, but bring the Chaos, says Neetch, the World is Dark, and the will is a small thing to stand against darkness, and little campfires singing to the the night only betray your presence to the hunters who hide there.

but doesn’t stop the WZL or the Machtlust, because the Machtlust, even if a lie, is a useful lies and useful lies are remembered in the place of not-so-useful truths. Evillution baby, the christolers are right to dislike, its cold and amoral and has nothing to do with their Hanging Apollo.

Maybe baby, maybe, but we’re all just children of the universe, every little willed and willing, and Hanging Apollo and Crazy Dionysus are children of the universe too, and you can’t fear the darkness because that’s where the Touch is, that’s where the Other Sits, and it’s Other-Touch that gets, that sends chills down spines and children down tunnels and its where the magic happens — the lie itself a bit of magic, in that it sketches the edges of ontology and shows you where I end and Yous begin — and that there is the sacred — Unity of God, but Divisibility Therefrom, the Universe revolves around the Eternal Dialogue not the One-Toned Monologue, and in the Dialogue, God hides, and in the Dialogue, Telos emerges, from foreheads and mortal souls like Pallas laughing at her self in the mirror.

Will to live; will to power; will to know;

Will to touch the other, see the other, to tremble and being looked at; not to see but to be seen; eyes of some great presence, some soul equal to yours or better, glancing and knowing; knowing the gods of your fathers and the gods of your mothers and gods of your brothers and sisters and lovers; walking in the world together, talking.

such is love.