our eyes past pride
or rearview mirrors
that keep us from seeing
but also from being seen
& now i'm talking to a girl
with a martyr's name
& her two faces
cost a pocket-full of stars
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Celebrity Skin
unfolded wings being
so rare in our sight
the way people stare
so willing to wear
such things
like transcendental canines and molars & confessions of the rising sun. dissonance in their hair. bent upon the body good.
unsocialized in deed and mind, a sensational device pocketing even the most slippery of eyes. where passion pokes. cry liners and discharge agitate even apes lie here.
so rare in our sight
the way people stare
so willing to wear
such things
like transcendental canines and molars & confessions of the rising sun. dissonance in their hair. bent upon the body good.
unsocialized in deed and mind, a sensational device pocketing even the most slippery of eyes. where passion pokes. cry liners and discharge agitate even apes lie here.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
beautiful liar
For Omar Kayyam & Lawrence Raab
in a noose of light. we are slung from the pitiless stars of night. and flee the turrets that dawn's left hand placed like traps. tempted like devils. to shine brightest in the sky.
an open door we enter. and ever falling through the bottomless pit. of our heart's desire. we have to stay because once departed we may return no more. neither solitude nor alchemy can satisfy the debt we owe this place. whose eyes are darkness. whose face looks like me.
no one dies as long as the center of all we can see dissolves into the shadows our head makes through the looking glass the moon in our eyes the one thing we leave out dominates the meaning through which the center expands into tricks of our eyes rising or going down falling into our face.
i do not know your time. but i am prone to thinking. it is mine.
in a noose of light. we are slung from the pitiless stars of night. and flee the turrets that dawn's left hand placed like traps. tempted like devils. to shine brightest in the sky.
an open door we enter. and ever falling through the bottomless pit. of our heart's desire. we have to stay because once departed we may return no more. neither solitude nor alchemy can satisfy the debt we owe this place. whose eyes are darkness. whose face looks like me.
no one dies as long as the center of all we can see dissolves into the shadows our head makes through the looking glass the moon in our eyes the one thing we leave out dominates the meaning through which the center expands into tricks of our eyes rising or going down falling into our face.
i do not know your time. but i am prone to thinking. it is mine.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
the prose of a waking dream
to/for Jacques Derrida
necessity is hardly perceptible. even at its inception it dissolves into everywhere. and returns to the source of its conception. and indicates its derivatives which are in turn derived from the super imposition of the source upon the echo. & what the echo reveals is the necessity of an origin and the desire to remain hidden from it.
the child is a runaway. seeking to design itself. an autonomous significance revealed by a signifier it itself assigns.
disguised to operate on the logic of deception. conceiving a reflection which redirects attention from its inception. what it produces it also erases. the act of production is itself an erasure. the erasure itself is also a disguise. which reveals what it erases.
not visceral but visual. the hierglyph encloses meaning whereas the memory is in a constant state of being remembered. in accord with information acquired, in acquisition, and yet to be acquired.
necessity is hardly perceptible. even at its inception it dissolves into everywhere. and returns to the source of its conception. and indicates its derivatives which are in turn derived from the super imposition of the source upon the echo. & what the echo reveals is the necessity of an origin and the desire to remain hidden from it.
the child is a runaway. seeking to design itself. an autonomous significance revealed by a signifier it itself assigns.
disguised to operate on the logic of deception. conceiving a reflection which redirects attention from its inception. what it produces it also erases. the act of production is itself an erasure. the erasure itself is also a disguise. which reveals what it erases.
not visceral but visual. the hierglyph encloses meaning whereas the memory is in a constant state of being remembered. in accord with information acquired, in acquisition, and yet to be acquired.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
the devouring flame II
my throat befriends the wind
and then releases it into the earth
where it is embraced by a seed
which grows and bears fruit
we are too close to see the pattern
retrojected deep into our memory
in an economy of the apple
the one forbidden thing we need
terrified by some sphinx we conjured
and a riddle too simple to be believed
haunted by the thirsty light
and the fetishes of heaven
are wrought of this inorganic eye
dim nebulae shining in a schizoid sky
glazed stars like eyes watching
monstrous planets generating dragons
with diamond eyes shining like fire
squandered in martial ash
& out of the flames we summon
continuous demons lying there
in that confusion
consuming all in sight and enduring the empathy
of a hand that blurs all bounderies.
and then releases it into the earth
where it is embraced by a seed
which grows and bears fruit
we are too close to see the pattern
retrojected deep into our memory
in an economy of the apple
the one forbidden thing we need
terrified by some sphinx we conjured
and a riddle too simple to be believed
haunted by the thirsty light
and the fetishes of heaven
are wrought of this inorganic eye
dim nebulae shining in a schizoid sky
glazed stars like eyes watching
monstrous planets generating dragons
with diamond eyes shining like fire
squandered in martial ash
& out of the flames we summon
continuous demons lying there
in that confusion
consuming all in sight and enduring the empathy
of a hand that blurs all bounderies.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Battle for Good
through a labyrinth of ancient loves. we see the sons to come. wasted. in the desert of our desolation. like bones. emptied of marrow. they are who we are who we want to be. the evening and a moon of gold that we can reach. eternity. cloudless and unchanging. an everlasting instrument of god's wrath. turning you into a whisper.
tying you into the fog. where shadows melt into your eyes. and your eyelashes bind themselves to the horizon. and the moon breaks through. there, we are (yet again) reborn. persons at the whim of puppets. mastered by the shadows that haunt them in their dreams.
tying you into the fog. where shadows melt into your eyes. and your eyelashes bind themselves to the horizon. and the moon breaks through. there, we are (yet again) reborn. persons at the whim of puppets. mastered by the shadows that haunt them in their dreams.
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Anethema of Death
we are always here. among the spectres of Gehenna. burning with desires. we acquire from the night. we would have danced ourselves to death (poor vision)- we wanted to be mundane. but empathy is better left unsaid. and sympathy is for the poor.
so relics of the pitiless are strewn about a tearing heart. so that they might steal the sweet light that turns it all to ice.
like an animal that has died or almost died or other names that are given it - in shapes of light they go away - disintegrated around the edges, broken down houses, abandoned warehouses and so many other things.
so many years brought them to this. so many corners they turned into a circle, returned here, to the very place they stand. resigned to a line.
this is the heart. a plaza full of flowers. overgrowing the bones of this poem and its smokey black lens. that we were caught inside a noose of light brought by a philosopher on his way out of a cave. and now we're caught.
like light in a prism. cut up and multiplied. advancing as one.
so relics of the pitiless are strewn about a tearing heart. so that they might steal the sweet light that turns it all to ice.
like an animal that has died or almost died or other names that are given it - in shapes of light they go away - disintegrated around the edges, broken down houses, abandoned warehouses and so many other things.
so many years brought them to this. so many corners they turned into a circle, returned here, to the very place they stand. resigned to a line.
this is the heart. a plaza full of flowers. overgrowing the bones of this poem and its smokey black lens. that we were caught inside a noose of light brought by a philosopher on his way out of a cave. and now we're caught.
like light in a prism. cut up and multiplied. advancing as one.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
“Pansomatic Thoth”
to-for Austin Osman Spare
man consumes himself like his creator
conflicted and divided against himself
at war with negated portion of his own soul
that he names Satan, the accuser
what use are hints and whispers?
they are the most sinister form of representation
in this ghastly struggle called existence
is there any truth in my existence
when my pleasures weary of me?
i would indulge until i consumed the whole world
and nothing would be left of me
there is only one sense: the sexual
and one desire: procreation
everything else is everlasting suicide
all is backward moving self-volition
walking toward oneself
man becomes what he relapses into
eternally split from his suffering other
man consumes himself like his creator
conflicted and divided against himself
at war with negated portion of his own soul
that he names Satan, the accuser
what use are hints and whispers?
they are the most sinister form of representation
in this ghastly struggle called existence
is there any truth in my existence
when my pleasures weary of me?
i would indulge until i consumed the whole world
and nothing would be left of me
there is only one sense: the sexual
and one desire: procreation
everything else is everlasting suicide
all is backward moving self-volition
walking toward oneself
man becomes what he relapses into
eternally split from his suffering other
Lord Vertigo the Cruel
“Lord Vertigo, the Cruel”
bent at the brink, at the epicenter
of a drunken epiphany – we drop
to our needs before the Lord of Light
and pray the darkness away.
we cast our sins upon the stars
the source of our diabolic power
collecting victories about our will.
tantalized by the lies we shape
out of fear.
we murder the magic of the Morning Star
juggling our thoughts at dawn
imprisoning things in vacant names
and troubled by a ripple
in that shallow water
that watches us in terror
like a tidal wave suspended
over all of Crete's liars
whose words are like
a memory of the moon
rewritten a thousand times
until the source is forgotten.
bent at the brink, at the epicenter
of a drunken epiphany – we drop
to our needs before the Lord of Light
and pray the darkness away.
we cast our sins upon the stars
the source of our diabolic power
collecting victories about our will.
tantalized by the lies we shape
out of fear.
we murder the magic of the Morning Star
juggling our thoughts at dawn
imprisoning things in vacant names
and troubled by a ripple
in that shallow water
that watches us in terror
like a tidal wave suspended
over all of Crete's liars
whose words are like
a memory of the moon
rewritten a thousand times
until the source is forgotten.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Swung
“Swung”
tick the man tocked
at his hands have been bound
at his face has turned pale
at him stare at the ground
at his eyes bulging outward
at his life laid to waste
at an inch from his hindsight
an admission of haste
“To the demons that claimed you,
I salute them, they made you
they molded you
mastered you
consumed you
and lived with you
dying for anything
anywhere, now
but been blown by the windstorm
of fear and doubt.
How long have you swung here choked, broken and vile?
what's left of you man, but your upside down smile?”
His frown became rounder
His eyes bulged at me
His mouth roared with laughter
His blood stained his teeth
His voice like a whisper of staticky rasp
arose from the scent of the death on his breath.
“You sick little bastard, do you think yourself wise?
You see with your mind though you look through your eyes.
It must comfort you greatly to point fingers at me, child
but yours is a fate far more painful than mine.
From your hopes will spring flowers to be stamped on by giants
Dropped like vomit for rain from an angry cloud 9.
tlkz 2001
tick the man tocked
at his hands have been bound
at his face has turned pale
at him stare at the ground
at his eyes bulging outward
at his life laid to waste
at an inch from his hindsight
an admission of haste
“To the demons that claimed you,
I salute them, they made you
they molded you
mastered you
consumed you
and lived with you
dying for anything
anywhere, now
but been blown by the windstorm
of fear and doubt.
How long have you swung here choked, broken and vile?
what's left of you man, but your upside down smile?”
His frown became rounder
His eyes bulged at me
His mouth roared with laughter
His blood stained his teeth
His voice like a whisper of staticky rasp
arose from the scent of the death on his breath.
“You sick little bastard, do you think yourself wise?
You see with your mind though you look through your eyes.
It must comfort you greatly to point fingers at me, child
but yours is a fate far more painful than mine.
From your hopes will spring flowers to be stamped on by giants
Dropped like vomit for rain from an angry cloud 9.
tlkz 2001
Friday, May 8, 2009
Pythagorean Science
“Pythagorean Silence”
-To/For Susan Howe
forgeries of nature. piles of words. seeking truth. into a stream of blood as ink and ink as silence.
pages of faces. step out of themselves. suddenly bereft of lips. & bearings trail off into the truth. cast off into crows. cataclysmic things of mother's nurture. the mirror that was. reflects the mirror to be. where thoughts are born and stars go dry of light & the gods fall from heaven. like pathetic rain that washed away the sins of mother nature. like logical operators dissecting only falsehoods. in search of the Pythagorean Silence. inscribed in blood on a mirror. echoing intentions. like a dark and secret book. written in fire on human skin.
how do we bare a grain of sand? in mutable time. like predictions from a re-echoed past. vain and wandering. remembered out of a dismembered history. adamant and made of mud.
time ends. midday tomorrow we step into the ethers of our grandfathers. waylaid memories. which abnegate the ratio of sense to our intentions. kindling our courage on the coldest evening of the year. it seemed that i was warm. warm like a puppet. supposedly warm. supposed to be. moving through a mystery that moves through me.
who holds these strings? (i think i know the answer). she was a prophetess of love and doom. who promised me that words were doors. opening inward & locking behind us. my generation waiting on the other side. inscribing their boundless geometry in a dysphasia of names. confined to a recollection tracing its history to a tomorrow that never came.
tlkz 2009
-To/For Susan Howe
forgeries of nature. piles of words. seeking truth. into a stream of blood as ink and ink as silence.
pages of faces. step out of themselves. suddenly bereft of lips. & bearings trail off into the truth. cast off into crows. cataclysmic things of mother's nurture. the mirror that was. reflects the mirror to be. where thoughts are born and stars go dry of light & the gods fall from heaven. like pathetic rain that washed away the sins of mother nature. like logical operators dissecting only falsehoods. in search of the Pythagorean Silence. inscribed in blood on a mirror. echoing intentions. like a dark and secret book. written in fire on human skin.
how do we bare a grain of sand? in mutable time. like predictions from a re-echoed past. vain and wandering. remembered out of a dismembered history. adamant and made of mud.
time ends. midday tomorrow we step into the ethers of our grandfathers. waylaid memories. which abnegate the ratio of sense to our intentions. kindling our courage on the coldest evening of the year. it seemed that i was warm. warm like a puppet. supposedly warm. supposed to be. moving through a mystery that moves through me.
who holds these strings? (i think i know the answer). she was a prophetess of love and doom. who promised me that words were doors. opening inward & locking behind us. my generation waiting on the other side. inscribing their boundless geometry in a dysphasia of names. confined to a recollection tracing its history to a tomorrow that never came.
tlkz 2009
“a defense against noise”
to-for the terrified ( this voodoo is really tight )
to and from
the wave motion, the heart beat, the grandfather clock, & grandpa in his rocking chair slowly slipping into sleep.
the hypnotist's pendulum & the machinations of the sine
breathe in
breath out
the bounding line: an analogy
the beginning of turbulence
from a sudden transition
the Gulf Steam too meanders
making loops of East & West
to and from
the wave motion, the heart beat, the grandfather clock, & grandpa in his rocking chair slowly slipping into sleep.
the hypnotist's pendulum & the machinations of the sine
breathe in
breath out
the bounding line: an analogy
the beginning of turbulence
from a sudden transition
the Gulf Steam too meanders
making loops of East & West
“The Image that will Save Us”
to-for MMKim
so we must sing it. it is sound in time. the picture that will save us. tells us who we used to be. breaking into a voice of legend. elemental memories. elicited from nothing. falling in that trundled way. that voices carry. clinking. against a tin can's clank. just how far have we come/gone. into death and back again. guarding against any demarcation.
this cannot be empathy. cast again into the specular water.
fishing for symmetries.
so we must sing it. it is sound in time. the picture that will save us. tells us who we used to be. breaking into a voice of legend. elemental memories. elicited from nothing. falling in that trundled way. that voices carry. clinking. against a tin can's clank. just how far have we come/gone. into death and back again. guarding against any demarcation.
this cannot be empathy. cast again into the specular water.
fishing for symmetries.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
dreamscape 6
i can hear you calling me
the way i ache in dreams
you must be calling
how else can i explain
this pain?
your voice is the air i walk on. & we will build a fire. gentle as a smile. that will kill schrodinger's cat. & the future will belong to us. better than your best dreamt dreams & coughed out of the ugliness of others. we will be what. we were meant to be. indented. genuinely impressed scenes frame puppets on stage.
spotlights inside.
everything feels laced.
tlkz 2009-May
the way i ache in dreams
you must be calling
how else can i explain
this pain?
your voice is the air i walk on. & we will build a fire. gentle as a smile. that will kill schrodinger's cat. & the future will belong to us. better than your best dreamt dreams & coughed out of the ugliness of others. we will be what. we were meant to be. indented. genuinely impressed scenes frame puppets on stage.
spotlights inside.
everything feels laced.
tlkz 2009-May
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Fate of Little Men
to/for Lee Sang ( the greatest poet of all-time )
is there any difference between man's gods & god's cock & and an animal's jaw?
each is its own distended center. collapsing into what it relapses into. because parrots are dignitaries. the only form of jurisprudence. they can only feel their own gravity. and cannot tell themselves from others.
echoing words they have no intention of meaning.
meaning words they have no intention of speaking.
this inverted echo
seeps into my dreams
until the reverb curbs
its own perturbence
tlkz 2009
is there any difference between man's gods & god's cock & and an animal's jaw?
each is its own distended center. collapsing into what it relapses into. because parrots are dignitaries. the only form of jurisprudence. they can only feel their own gravity. and cannot tell themselves from others.
echoing words they have no intention of meaning.
meaning words they have no intention of speaking.
this inverted echo
seeps into my dreams
until the reverb curbs
its own perturbence
tlkz 2009
Aesthesia
“Aesthesia, The Magician's Name”
to/for Jorge Luis Borges
i see the faceless God
behind the unnamed gods
& my thoughts are bereft
of objects. & my sight
is made of light.
my other name is Vertigo.
my final name: Aesthesia.
not just before the wavering moon,
or the terror of mirrors,
or narcissus' finger.
troubled by the crystal waters.
not just before the sleepless dreamer that watches us watching us.
the water watches us.
reminding us. that we are nothing. more. than what we dream.
tlkz 2009
to/for Jorge Luis Borges
i see the faceless God
behind the unnamed gods
& my thoughts are bereft
of objects. & my sight
is made of light.
my other name is Vertigo.
my final name: Aesthesia.
not just before the wavering moon,
or the terror of mirrors,
or narcissus' finger.
troubled by the crystal waters.
not just before the sleepless dreamer that watches us watching us.
the water watches us.
reminding us. that we are nothing. more. than what we dream.
tlkz 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Second Coming
2nd Coming
from death, to doom
mama make my bed soon
in the orange glow of dusk
better hasten to starlight
frost reflected on tombs
in the glittering gloom
resurrected at midnight
to earth I return
amid wreck! amid ruin!
mama, make my bed soon!
is there sooth for a warrior
lampooned in the ether
of flat time and dead space
baby, make your bed soon
if its comfort you yearn for...
then be eager to die for it.
tlkz 2003
from death, to doom
mama make my bed soon
in the orange glow of dusk
better hasten to starlight
frost reflected on tombs
in the glittering gloom
resurrected at midnight
to earth I return
amid wreck! amid ruin!
mama, make my bed soon!
is there sooth for a warrior
lampooned in the ether
of flat time and dead space
baby, make your bed soon
if its comfort you yearn for...
then be eager to die for it.
tlkz 2003
Saturday, May 2, 2009
The Philosopher's Stone / To-For AE Waite
the distilled moisture of the moon
the flower of flowers
the philosopher's stone is liquid sand
clarity and wisdom
hand in hand
one rock, one medicine
to which we add nothing
and take nothing away
not changing lead into gold
but gold into a clear spirit
the flower of flowers
the philosopher's stone is liquid sand
clarity and wisdom
hand in hand
one rock, one medicine
to which we add nothing
and take nothing away
not changing lead into gold
but gold into a clear spirit
Friday, May 1, 2009
"daddy incarnate"
special, special! what do you get? another drop. in the cosmic ocean. we escape our lives & love is paranoid into noises succumbing out of our way of praying. our kneel.
fear based models of god creep into sin as death. and the fleshpot model of sin devours sin. this is the paradox of our pretense to godhood. shit and farts and bodily juices. we are disgusted by our incarnation. so much so that we lust for it.
our godhood thus is crafted out of self-disgust.
a pretense to self disgust to destroy self disgust.
fear based models of god creep into sin as death. and the fleshpot model of sin devours sin. this is the paradox of our pretense to godhood. shit and farts and bodily juices. we are disgusted by our incarnation. so much so that we lust for it.
our godhood thus is crafted out of self-disgust.
a pretense to self disgust to destroy self disgust.
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