Autonomy, Heirogamy, Epistemy is a virtue

Observations on life #epocryphal

It
             begins                                                                                                                                     and
                                                                   ends
               with                                                                                       words

                                                                    flanked                                                    in              
                    









                                                                                                                            Silence.


File under: The future is so bright, I'm going polydactyl.

Kalkion

       

As Kalki kneeled at the candlelight waters 
The vapors of his nose in the cold air 
embroidered a moccasin 
who pronounced in a slit tongue haruspex: 
Mount the splintered sky
 the wind will smoke the champagne queens 
and downtown graffiti veils
retract anima buzzards 
who
                        accelerate on their asphalt dialectics
and run grinning
falling in parking garage towers
like loveless and silenced troubadours
wildflower burial grounds 
rotting the commercial temples 
drag goldblackness from the grey 
when the blackness grins a whole gold-flaked 
crystalline consciousness 
and speaks a sun-speckled twilight to the navel of Mother Time 
laying but rising
having made the journey and in her alder rose by stars 
and love petals rose again 
after  being draped in
Ain-Soph for coded aeons
and drew a question from within her apocrypha: 
Why all this lava? 
and who melted my alder into this thin long eternal dropping of cerecloth? That maquina changed
him: eyes like surgical knives machine gun retinas
(...her voice trails off on the word dissected...)

 
We switch pictures: 
Kalki reaches into the water 
and pulls out the book of ashes 
leaving the moccasin sparkling 
dancing and bathing
 with melted longing a devil's time.
He thumbs the codices and picks at random a page from the compendium:

Some bird of fire rises in the gem  of his mind
Speaking this seance: 


My life was a sparkle 
like lovers entwined 
ice and bark
roiling gods 

In the winter 
I would go shoulder to shoulder 
floating along with my Meschian 
Youth ran long like lovers entwined
Twinned by orobouric seas
Then the seasons cycled in their madness 
When summer came the next year it spared no one.  
First to go was the comfort of hibernation.  
We woke up to one tropical oppression after another 
Meschian pulled her hair out 
mad impenetrable 
smiling a blue lunacy in the storm's flotsam 
The wind's decans blared with melting voices 
  running alongside the tropical coughing waters
embroidering rosybrown bisque gods 
with python arms that whistled in the air 
as they cut through old peoples' marrow like dead trees
 A volt shaped harangue
Shanghaied a vision that ran backwards to Genesis: 
Mount with Sun this biting
bring on the rifling pilgrimage 
your wealth of keyless oppressions—
locked odious abysses with multifarious boughs 
spreading a shadow of the cosmic tree growing 
large as monolithic tunnels and hierophant statutes  
 Stilted laws and old science--
A stoked urban conundrum. 
Kalki shuddered through his eyes
reflecting the book's then falling gold-flake space. 
He laid the book down                                    consumed by the growing linear atrophy 
and escaped the growling cult of Time by sleeping 
The slow wash of a dream: 
the rectilinear city bloomed into a slumbering citadel
an impenetrable prism 
worlds growing thick like vines
veiled like brides
running on starlight generators
a place of rose daylight
and the vellum extending in space
pallid with  smiling bubblegumpink enerjinns 
 Moving on
Zooming down through a soft heartbeat eruptions to a pentacle dungeon.  
From within the panopticon the prisoner murmured: 
bring me the wine of daylight 
and my unfathomable children 
I bit the waters, tongue in cheek 
I bit the sky with my canines 
Why must I roil here 
lying as if eternal
dropping low watercolor kisses 
on to sleeping goddesses 
filled with a parched blackness 
entranced by the orobouric waters 
infinitely floating the cosmic stairways? 
I pinched myself to wake up
I saw my star-infused 
hemmed up love 
my flotsam bride 
smile again before the tailored dream
compressed into a prismatic nothingness

 
 Kaleidoscopic engines
Shift and turn with my wind
Look to 
An eye opening in its majesty 
turning to the mouth grinning 
white teeth like the stars 
It was all this picture: 
the bubblegumpink waters 
the blanched diamond days 
what I was and saw sparked more wind
and blue worlds came unearthed         
made a burial of death 
and fathered more daylight
that
smoked the maladroit architecture
My burial was my awakening 
The crystalbluff madonna's impenetrable gape 
hemmed the sackcloth garden 
reflecting psalm-twilight
in the mind's jewelry 
like Jetta before dawn 
awakening from the slumbering 
remembering Radha's departure
          to the heavens below

 
It felt like a journey
What to do with all my bravado? 
So many boughs to label on this tree called Anon 
Every day in the glass and healing diffractions of light                         Meschian feeds me  
shadows of history and graffitied statues
places with a soul                                   
the home stitched 
back into my center    and coagulations of thoughts                     pour out in slipstreams 
like blood transformed
sewing these pages together 

My book of ashes...you read it.

               

       It's a durance-solid gridlock I wish you'd wake up from

Episode 1: Visions of the Nameless Tranquil

January is the coolest month. You sit at a desk in your room, your eyes growing bleary and tired. All of a sudden, a wind from outside penetrates your room and a resonating hum fills the air with a mad crackling! An eidolon appears, fuming little puffs of purple and blue vapor, tickling itself, laughing and speaking in a BC quasi-biblical dialect. You rummage around your desk...you know it's  here somewhere...maybe under the miscellaneous phone chargers, lint roller, sharpie penz, opened packs of unused batteries (wait, didnt you use them...?),  signed documents that languish, nonetheless retained, and ah! there it is: your old Enochian magick square! You place the colorfully decorated square on the carpet in front of the old. smokey ghost and he looks at you with sweet, dead eyes-- burnt red ochre spheres--and a silverly wisp of resurrected water leaks from the corner of his woebegone right socket. He uses the baffling hermetic symbols of the magick square to tell you all about the afterlife. You weren't really interested, but you caught him saying something about all your old pets padding and frolicking around the festooning clouds of the royal parks. Jeepers! That's a nice thought: old Skippy hopping around willy-nilly, nibbling on all sorts of ve-ge-tables and some nice angel passes by and feeds him succotash every Friday morning on her way to kneel at Yahweh's feet. Oh, enough. Tell me something else, Meister Gheist. What? There's a whole slew of buried treasure with your decayed and harangued body? Why the shit did you not mention this before? 

You brave the cold: you strap your John Dee fan art, your Enochian Ouija board to top of your head and wrap yourself in thermal blankets. You look like a ghost and a mummy traversing the wicked cold expanse, aiming for a nearby graveyard. It's a Masonic cemetery: they  carve geometric sigils onto exquisitely built, phallic obelisks that penetrate the night sky's dark expanse. You trudge along, singing tunez about how unbelievably rich you are going to be by the time the Sun wakes from his eventide bed. Will o' the Wisp phantom fires wink off in the distance periphery of the cemetery but you get the feeling like you're being watched. Regardless, the ghost guides you to the spot where he was cruelly buried with an old Mason man. He was a prodigal man-servant and spent all his days faithfully attending to his master's every want, lavishing him with fine conversations and aligning his belt buckle with his fly and shirt buttons in a neat vertical line--an obelisk constellation that gave the old man a sense of pride about his purloined Egyptian heritage. There was an argument one day between servant and master about the domestication of royal cats and their subsequent proliferation; ohhhhhh, it was a heated debate that lasted well into the night, my friendz. Now some tell there was a scuffle and some say there was nothing heard but the soft needle shimmying through the air. It could have been a fight, it could have been asp poison, Cleopatra style, that purged his body of life, finally. And who the fuck knows? The Masons took the body away, prepared it with fragrant oils and sealed it in a tomb, here, right here, with this poor servant inside. It was a Pharaoh double-whammy. So you're scouting around this big, albite mausoleum, looking for an opening so you might courageously free the entrapped soul while simultaneously becoming filthy rich. You let your fingers walk around the surface and its little white stone juts decorating the tomb’s surface. There’s gotta be like a secret entrance or something, right? No luck down here. The ghost gives you a foothold with his silvery, celestial hands and boosts you onto the top of the tomb. You scour the surface from corner to corner, for an hour when you finally spot a hieroglyph etched  via intelligent design into the plagioclase feldspar. It’s a chemical equation. It’s written in skeletal branch lines depicting some organic reaction. You harken back to your undergraduate years delightfully spilling sulfuric acid in a lab while an African grad student with an indecipherable accent  actually manages to teach you the wonders of these colliding molecules. Ah, yes, so that’s what it means:

You write the answer in royal purple that shines in the moonlight atop the tomb. A hatch opens before you and you plummet post-haste into the sepulcher.  Right away you spy the solid gold casket of the dead Freemason, etched with jackal-headed Anubis leading a procession of the dead into the Great Beyond. And then, in the corner, in a tangled mess, you find the servant’s bones. He’s wailing outside now. It’s such a sad moment. You hug the bones to your chest and think of his love for cats. This goes on for 5 minutes at least. You wipe your sniffling nose with the back of your hand and proceed to investigate the rest of tomb by now encroaching daylight.  There’s a bunch of urns in a corner. You open one and find a bunch of jewelry. You cover yourself in necklaces and occult talismans. You fill your pockets with Arabic diamonds and a dizzying number of sapphires. Finally, you pull from an urn a bone handled pirate’s sword with the words “Walk the plank, wench, and then ride it” acid-etched into the blade. You cut the air once or twice to test its worth and then act like you’re dueling scally-wags and decapitating your arch nemesis, Captain Doh, amid the furious battery of ships’ cannons and men struggling on the High Seas. You are triumphant and raise the flag to honor the Dread Queen of the Sea…

Then you hear the Masons outside. They’ve figured out you’re in there! They had spies watching—mostly owls and translucent ghoulas they keep alive with Asmodeus-derived formulas and all sorts of quasi-biblical voodoo. You grab two urns and use them to climb out of the tomb. You jump while the Masons are detonating TNT at the entrance. The guy working the plunger spots you as you run toward the mountains. They’re hot on your trail but you think you’ve lost them up in the canopy of stone and snow. You walk forever. You finally see the ocean. You trade an Arabic diamond for an AquaSub—a one man submarine, baby! This pirate sword is running the show now. It’s possessed you. You submerge under the ocean and make your way out into the abysmal ocean’s depths. 

It’s been two weeks. Your pirate sword keeps you company, talking to you and regaling you with stories from its travels. You’ve decided to let it be your world tour guide. Oceanids bring you food and refreshments to keep you alive while the sword pilots you further into the dark, liquid expanse. One Oceanid, named Doris, wants you to marry her and take her with you. You loved her for a time…a few days, but she always got into fights with the pirate’s sword, Dewezel, as he likes to be called now. You asked Dewezel where you’re going to—the final destination. He replies “Why to Egypt, of course.” And then you smacked your head and fell asleep thinkin':

Skippy, my bunny, why did you
Poop so much as you ran around the house?
I still remember collecting it in my six year old hands;
Don't you know, Skippy? Don't you see?

I’m the baby Moses of the sea.

Transformation Redacted

To be continued...

Disjunctions Waiting to Happen

holoness	etimenced	ducens	surate	autons
tantiethle	sinfed	realuayard	digendmass	gerandial
horsific	obatkimosque	gunprosianies	hastly	rendlinger
ceillings	provers	cubstarthard	aboutch	mostayers
emilticidar	lutinny	juncelless	plicial	andemothent
crucher	leneaption	multic	eudigrinates	reinted
comparitically	doctore	ditadeous	proveratching	loused
adapot	surprificarmul	suckets	ficiters	janianimpulan
imated	quotprecting	gancenes	plearth	oversky
forturted despisms rearticarb galiatica afforb plation whenjourn enespans agerbeds inenjovisince osities whirds pectived flawaring disacrypting doubhothy lousentherst ancheer fraugestings untauterecties fahrousers concef imperidging baseamplan sertens creable brigner hievit pontacknoccuff therningly shincoiled festul costasured bingition buttler riought corors bestrophents rectorm creathrody superpses nationy bexprepulsings oblibergivies abeticebbs modate kidnesdavy scrity succorthe reavointuced milances	multurse	flases	longley	grunity colutemphly sually uncorrening kovales gelledge horianding stemenes phemat reaciously manize armens manallne salzely arcaning percason gonage batably arsear denalloutly funcheress intronvicien deiress summodic reclinced wallahei midistrudy nestigra regrets prehivel purprony fiship diling iscasible suzatiess lacedestity minonpoilively togrameds matives rictive confus berling inghtiate capass damnassory busionatorgas herealesson quagueserinses sutuittivene chinal japaler

A Collection of Disenfranchised Essays

There was enough time to compose a poem. I could have written about my barren lifetime, my Orgone days, my fleckless sunrises, my unknown carved stone mistress—her face a Pygmalion of frenetic tulpas—what has happened in the span of the lion and I's torrid walk among the desert? Or was it the water before that? I don't know when, but her face had faded: all I remember were hazy fashionings: an uptight architecture of bones scaffolding the face, chipped away emotions—the way she held together bits of spirituality to make an articulation, but it all didn't make a difference—it still failed, it didn't last longer than a carpenter's cry into the Mohammedan Sun. That is to say, the myth we had ritualized and methodized (Monday Tuesday Wednesday...) had come apart, fragmented into a sea of nonsensical, stationary components that floated apart in the bygone yesteryear of my loneliness. It's been like this before and it will be this way again—this circle I named with a hallucinated Anima fascination: I'll carry its stutter to my grave. I'll paint it on the marble corners that line the casket of my spirit. I'll make new stars. And then...and then...and then...This disjunctive synthesis completes a process of painting my ruddy and damned soul white again.

I brought the lens of my diamond eye to bear on the approaching viscera Pisces woman of faith. She floats on the water! But oh, she floats not close enough—the illusion was a marred with an abstract contusion that signaled a glitch somewhere in the periphery of that machinery I call my dreams. Eh. Close enough: the woman, she was blind. She said Hello in a confident echo, knowing I was there, sensing it against the relapse of inertia in the background desert.

Can you take me to the city of Water?

Yes.