home. hmoe. H. Moe. Here. Moe. Home Moe. Who now is a home-moe once again? More of that ole thumping homey feeling. Groovy!
There is a music.
There is punctuation.
Periods tell you when the thought ends, but sometimes the thought just doesn't end in which case there is no punctuation to suggest continuity...
Maybe three periods negate or elaborate one period...
Hmmmmmmmm
I hereby announce my groovin slippin slide ride back to the world of proclamations. Herenow coming at a time of unprecedented disillusionment with words expressions, gestures towards words, towords and the greatest diss of all: discourse. Ironic - God's sense of humor. But on this I stand: imaginations, emancipation proclamations from the nightmares of history and his story - that is to say, My Story, of which the disillusion rises higher than the torpid fervor of a crowd, constructed and carried unblinkingly towards the inevitable evolution of society: greater concentration, working together in camps! Or Schools! Schools of thought = communes of concentration.
Oh Academia, to you I ode. You odious ontological bricklayer of logic. Sex and violence, your pinnacles and pinions. Hold me down, babylove, for in your growing groovy glow I observe the heart and mind melding in a melting mush. Ballin'!
But to get back to where the air holds my lungs upheld and exasperated I shall declare, on this New Year's Re-Solution, I shall salute the declarations of the Self, the serf, and the United Nations! The Universal Rights of Man and the Universal Obligations of Woman!
Hanging by the heated hooks of heart bubbling catch and catechism, I continue...Hope.
Enter 2009 we see on the horizon, smoke signals of an entrance into a dawning era of hope, the hollowest and hairiest hiccup of a hurting heart. Jingoist ejaculations from ejaculating jingoists.
"Hope is as hollow as fear
Why do I say hope is as hollow as fear?
Hope and fear are phantoms that arise from thinking of the self
When we cease to think of the self as Self
What do we have to fear?"
-Tao Te Ching (v. 13)
Onward gentle soldiers! Upward quiet captains! Feel the burning pop of shopguns firing off prematurely under the chocolate blood-dyed banner of Revolution! How can we revolve without an original Volution? Look how volatile. Oh dear, generals...oh no little sadists, why are you so sad? Do you not know that the sky is beautiful and the skyline is a byline by which we may contemplate endless nights of cocks and balls and alcohols? Did you not know that? Or is the pulsing pumping buzz of the Spidernet censoring your dreams?
A poem of the withering old year for the new year:
Charon is dead and Virgil was long since forgiven his mistaken birth
By God, and reclaimed by the sons of Paradise
-The oh so common fate of genius: inferno cast then paradise recalled
Pacifically.
Two shrouds, both alike in dignity,
under stolid mountain's watch, where we lay our scene,
You are with me tonight, in an electric jazz dynamo of
drunken cocks and washed-off cotton mills.
I sing to you tonight, Allen and Walter, broken, howling
Bards of a new idea with inadequately old clamations,
The crazy cracy of the Prozac demos.
(somewhere tonight Henry Miller is still stokin it and strokin it!)
"I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign democracy,
By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counter-
part of on the same terms."
Because whoever degrades another degrades me, I yawp barbarously upon the cloven rock of streaming rivulets of conscience, the carrying crying rising tide of torturous tattoos burning blood like colors through the skein, constant reminders that we, the gardeners of our own cultivations, our own civilizations, our own congregations, are certainly collecting our own watches. The tocking crowds of congratulations and smoking gums of currency, centripitally held together by the Supreme Watchman: the pros and cons of our science as sciouch.
Out of the tiny ashes we build greats huts for hearts and ask that great nomad the wind how to hold down a house and hshe laughs and winds off through the valleys and other imaginary utopias. Utropia, Wespokia, Threevokia ... and the terrible chimes that toll the dooming task of reconstructing our own wilting minds and manners: coffee dregs.
Regarding those horrible hateful Arabs who only want our death - touching the rough red spots on your sweating palms, I stroke you ever so gently. I kiss your mangled beard and wipe the stick from under your skull cap, so close to a yamucha. The salt from your tears q'an stiffen to pillars to break lots, or they can water the earth and grow us ever stronger, ever lovelier, even lovinglier, and always tint-tonguinglier. To your broken hearts I whisper, sex and violence, and as we drift deeper from earth, from life, into the cold quiet of hateful Space, a cracking laugh errupts and we dive, divinely, into that moist and nourishing vagina to conceive a new world order.
I dream of you tonight, Nik, and Zorba and the rest. The boatmen and probono taxicap tippers. The drivers and sky-diviners, all those cats and kitties who carry the weight of 10,000 nightmares on their collective shoulder, and elbow their way to the sacrificial pit: the bulls of the market and the economy inflating with cold echoes of egos and the ravenous lovers leaving bleeding teethmarks across the corpus of thier poetesses, their Dedali, great artificers, playing dress-up with raggedy Dalis and a recontemplation, reconception of that which is real and that which shall always remain the Big Sur of the Real.
As the stock markets crash, we the living rise. As our stockings come unstuffed and our turkeys turn to tofu, we glower upwards, dropping our drooping expressions, glowing like Ginsberg's dynamo across an electric night of Coltrane after the saxaphone had nothing more to say and he took giant steps towards the stars which were no longer ideal but constructs: the reflected haze of headlights and nightlights, the body electric and Whitman's last stand. Poetry of the spine. Brainstems sprouting brainfruit and all the jellyjoshed galoshes that tromp us, the children of History, telling our own stories, our own fictions and fabrications, across the fabric of fields of grass.
I reach down, in a singing moment, whisping the body electric and America the obscene who could never hear her Homer, and pluck a still-warm finger from the soil, a single, loving, leaf of grass:
"Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy"
Happy New Year, New World!
America, you are dead to me
The melting pot has boiled over and the
Jetsam slides through pools of blood across the
Continents burning.
Oh, red and phantom night, I lick your wounds!
If you want to be reborn,
Let yourself die.
-Tao 22
No comments:
Post a Comment