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

bonebrushing the edges of the res interna (upper transcend)

Month: June, 2008

The Unlikely Pugilist, Hep Portgoose | Parte Uno

I. H/P Goes Walking Down the Road

Do you see him, leaning on buildings, sneaking through alleys, walking slump-shouldered, eyes gray but fired, past the ten thousand sleepwalkers of the sidewalks, following their breadcrumbs to their cubicles and from their cubicles at regimented hours marked off by Pavlovian work-whistles that no longer blow but nevertheless continue to exert their strange tyranny on the vagaries on what was once a human existence, our hero/protagonist, let us name him, here, in this instance, Hep Portgoose, Hep does not hear the whistle blowing, he leans with his stomach, empty, catching the air like a caravel’s sail, pointing onward and upward across vast oceans of monkeyflesh.

He loves the monkeyflesh he does, even when he avoids the grosser specimens reaching out with sooty hands, crying-wailing for help, relief, love — loving the monkeys is the principle requirement of being a hero/protagonist, and Hep, after many long years of bouncing up and down Yggdrassil, has chosen love to be his torchlight.

Still, the things he’s seen — which pale in comparison to the whispered doings that he’s heard of — whole dark underbellies, full of crawling insects and morlocks, or hardened hearts in gray uniforms ripping babies from pianos and dashing their still soft skulls bloody-open against that same sidewalk he now walks — these stories he has heard, all true, he has taken into himself, like the Holy Redeemer of the Nazarenes takes up the Sins of Man, and cries out the bloody tears while he still hangs, pinned against the Hanging Tree — —- —-

He was not born in those days; rather he is a child to their history; nevertheless, he is as monkeyflesh as the rest of them, and having sat in mathematics courses when just a bairnbabe, has balanced the equations and seen that I equals I, the common identities absolute, the domain is the range, divide by zero, do not pass go.

When was he born and why and to who? None still living know the answers to these questions; Hep Portgoose long since being robbed of both hearth and memory by the inopportune falling of a bindleblow across the forebrain. He woke on the mat of a great boxing ring, stared at by hundreds, a man in a suit glaringly apparently angry, not knowing who he was, learning his name from the stitchings on his shorts.

Truth comes in blows, he thought. When Bodhidharma came from the West …

His eye swollen shut as he limped from the stage, his Manager, Bollo Grimacio, took him aside and began to berate him. Hep, not knowing what else to do, listened attentively.

“If you can’t punch, if you can’t hit,” says Old Bollo, “we’ll put you out to pasture, send you to stud or the glue factory. Put yourself back together again.”

Newly named Hep nodded, and looked up, into the bright lights of the arena, and the slobbering fat faces watching hungrily, their eyes on the sweat-stained floor, their fingers clutching at the thighs of their dates in lemur-fur dresses. He looked across to his opponent, three heads taller than himself, arms the size of oak trees, his pale face soaked in sweat, eyes unfocused. Hep heard the other one moaning softly.

“Go out there,” says Bollo. And Hep walks out, lights from cameras flashing, the other rising too, closing in, Hep moves to the left, the other follows, feints back, comes in, swings — silence for a second —- pain, terrible pain, and a load crash, and the floor is flying up at Hep to add some insult —- Hep is down, he stays down, blood drips from his lip, a tooth falls out of his mouth, his right is swelling shut but he looks down again at the stitching on his shorts, Hep Portgoose it says, Hep Portgoose.

Afterwards, Bollo walks up, looks at the broken sack of man, Hep is newly born maybe, but Bollo had known him for awhile, wasting years of investment, money, time.

“Sad man,” says Bollo, “what good are you now?”

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Mousetrap #11

Father Grim, Old MP, tells the story of the time, when as executioner of mus musi, he lost count of the iron-wire spring traps he had placed in strategic locations around the house. Someways like the Spartan Threehundredhead, perhaps, missing that goat trail —

several weeks or moonmonths later, Grim is moving the ceiling tiles and discovers the preterite zogreion. Peering closer, he just makes out the thinly etched dark outline of some small thing, caught, like the flashbang silhouettes on the crumbling walls of Hiroshima —

The Degenerative Process of Literary Endings

While we awaken into life in medias res, and are actually created by a nine-month journey in a dark and gentle womb ocean, contrariwise, the endings of our books and our movies, cognizant of what is coming, move at breakneck speed, one step in front of the large Indiana Jonesian boulder and progeny, et al., that are chasing right behind  —

While plot thickens. to be true to the spirit of endings, tales will switch back and forth, this way and that,  touching at decay, decadence, planning great and vain rear actions by our heroes, temporary retreats as still unknown enemies come ever closer — not just plot should reflect these last efforts — language, narrative,  and pace should likewise break down, leading us (the gentle reader, the silent watcher) to yearn and fear for endings, fallings, no easy revelations — circuitous — first giants, then heroes, then mere mortals, crushing under the weight of all that’s come before —

Dripping, slipping, down the birth canal, the head gets stuck, and Doctor pops me out and lames my hand —
beginnings and endings —— what child ever wanted the womb to end, to be yanked screaming into a cold word where sparrows must feed themselves?

Dwindling of Thought

Turning twenty six, half way to fifty, my strength leaves me, my heart fails me, everywhere and when I go, I see glassy eye people, their now-visible-to-my-mad-eyes genii digging graves and grinning. Their charges aren’t grinning, they’re frowning or crying, searching around, dreamwalking, dreaming of driving, searching for brakepads, an escape route, on the count of three, jump, tuck and roll, disappear into the hedgegrass along the railroad tracks;

Away we go into the brush, in an alternate worldline I am laying on a couch in Greensboro | there are other alternates | in this world I am in love | but my heart is heavy from work and not-so-early rising | trains and autotrains and at the end of the day I am tired but even then I refrain from sleeping —

walking around in lalaland, white ipod, give me your ipod or your life, says Horatio, says Mercutio, twirling, dancing, thought makes cowards of us all, true story, stinking rotting Philadelphia eating its own, break off into the ocean and drown I say, no dinner, no happiness, no nothing for me — Max, You Wild Thing, Dance Till the Cows Come Home — cliches are dead words, twice dead, even as we speak we suck the life from our words like vampires, always hearsay, all ways second-hand salvation army what is truth, asks Pilate, two plus two is sometimes five, says the Great Enemy Absolute Moral Relativist —– Love your neighbor’s wife, says Buck Muck Finnegan, take a mulligan Joyce, Lady Joyce, Lily, dancing, love your daughter, flauntleroy, wordgirds break down, the understructure is shaking, the white noise is rising, there are signals in the architecture, two shots, two guns, dead dead on a street in southwest Philly, who will sing for the Slain, who will sing for the Slayers —

Homer you blind bearded barbarian, sing to me of the Spear-Throwing Achaens, and of the long-suffering Penelope waiting still in Ithaca — Christ remains on the Cross, time is an illusion, oh but it is an illusion with teeth, no illusion, the absolute trueness, absolute reality, the lion in the room, dark, hot breath wet against your face —

Scream it, scream the fear, the fear is always with me, always with me, always with me

Swing Low

Great big airplane in the great big sky | higher than the highest high |
Come swing down and pick me up | up and out of this lonesome cup |

I drink my whiskey and I drink my wine | I drink my rotgut old moonshine |
I swears I seen it rise and shine | the great big airplane in the great big sky

Voice in the Street

Saw St. Francis today, painted on the wall of a beatup lonesome lost twin rowhouse — surrounded by endless shining brightest sunlight —

Civilization is the process of reducing the infinite to the finite.

And so we go again, always reducing, never seeing the whole picture, constrained by the parallaxical view, the limited perspective of only being able to see 2 twelve billionths of the whole damn thing, the great big mitdasein wherewithall socialgrouphug — and take bath of music, and cleanse your soul — clear your eyes, no mistake, and whatever you do, don’t run away from love, accept it, because we’re breaking down and breaking off as we speak, static gathering like free radicals in our bloodstream, but love, love is real and amazing and without explanation or cause or reason and real true love, that’s the infinite, that’s the whole thing, that’s irreducible, the whole picture, the panorama, four corners, Western skies, and word puzzles don’t tell it, and riddles won’t show it, and you can’t out-think, you just got to live it, accept it, surrender, mullah, mullah, omar, open yourself up to it, and doubt it, rock on through, but love comes first, loves comes first, love comes first, love comes first.  

Dramatis Personae

0. T.S., born backwards

1. Jesu Jackson, Hill-Sitter, still hanging

2. St. Euphony Eustacia, Princess Peepling of Earthbit-New

3. Lover Two, NaNa Na NaNaNa

4. Brother Wolfbear

5. Sister Moonlake

6. Skotos the Darkness

7. The Nornmaids of Necessity

8. Wayland Smith

9. Lady Jezz

10. Laughing Traveler

11. Graymane Wilkins

12. Clay Kent the Holy Jester 

13. The Hierophant

14. The Duke

15. The High Priestess

16. Walking Death

17. Pusher Jim

the kenning

Circumlocutions of thought / dodges to keep myself entertained / I write to delight my self /
transcend get beyond the self / but these are the eyes of the world / and other eyes will come after /
seeing the same things and different things / and I think they will love themselves like I love myself /

We dream of apocalypse, as the barbarians bang spears against the Bronze doors / see with sharper eyes / today what did I see / a vast expanse from a fourteenth floor / a book of laws to kill with / children with puppies / walking / picking cotton /

Got off work at 3 o’clock / night-classes/ half-heard eavesdropping / jumphopping / over the undertow / in through the outdoor / Child Rowland to the dark tower came / Tom O’Bedlam sings a song / Old Tom is cold is cold is cold /

The Kenning / Gunner’s Mount / Son of Loki / Californian Empire / ‘This is our time’ / Jimmy Carter George Bush John McCain Barack Obama / Wretching lurching into the the Underveld / woldwalkers / break wind against this beaten brow / the young man feeling cold whispers / ungodly heat / in two more days it will kill / spot the jew, my mother plays / good enough for government work / “the trick,” my father says, “is to get as most money for as little work as possible” / Berlin Alexanderplatz / my mother sees anti-semites everywhichwere / the meat turned foul / massive foreclosures /

I bear the scars of my slavery in my genepool / they bear the scars of their slavery in theirs / I am truly exceedingly clever, as I was bred for / the chosen whites, less clever, some, none so clever as me / darkness stress of undone labors, whispering maddening murmurs in the corners of my brain / I have no room / pent-up in a nutshell / white privilege / love of money / are you out of your fucking mind? / mostly really great / could have been shorter / just repeating my mother’s phone conversations now / Arthur Ashe Tennis Co. / Education Directors / wonderful feedback / boardmembers, boardsurfers / is this writing / secret eyes / taking notes with their eyes / his son raved about how wonderful it was / wonderful wonderful /

fucked up dinner, but we’ll still be fed / God Bless America and God Bless the Dead.