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July 27, 2007

Introduction to Notes Toward an Ontological Fiction

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I. It Is Absurd

Listen, young one, to the sounds of my insights
into you, who arise
emerge as I do,
unlike the children who will one day grow up
within this vernal spirit.

Listen, young one, to all I know
of you, who found your self
here, fallen
from a very real heaven
They pitched you out
tossed you like a log onto a fire
landing with a crackle, embers swirling
into the air like rushing spirits,
each flying spark
an Indra, a soul king,
spending borrowed wealth
which They gave, They who tossed you here
then went away
dead.

You fell into this fire
chewing your tongue, charging
an electrical potential in the skull
in the guts
of the body
the sparks, words
which I gesture out at high voltage,
gutturally, limbically,
electric birds of art and logic
migrating to that on which no wings can alight,
in which no nest can construct itself with the help of beaks
and talons,
and the whistles and sidelong glances
from creatures on which it preys,
a thing far away from sound
as the stars of the universe in their quiet burning,
one and the same as the ground
from which all sacred mantras emerge
into which they dissolve
the source of breath
the irrational impulse to breathe.

As a rite of passage I will take you to the fight,
young one, I will buy you
your first cigar, your first cheap beer
in a can, take a look in the ring,
there in the red corner, weighing
in at 154 pounds
a man with a pen,
waterproof, fadeproof ink,
acid free paper.
And in the black corner
of infinite size and density
infinite water, infinite fading . . .
the opponent?

Take any one of these cornered creatures
no matter how beloved
no matter how many souls were fed by his magic beans,
somewhere in the universe, gods are laughing
uncontrollably at the moment of his demise,
no matter how painful, no matter how lengthy,
and during the wake they titter
and all through the eulogy they chortle and guffaw.
Even his magic beans
for which he cared so lovingly,
planted so thoughtfully
and with such inspiration--
they care nothing for him.

July 26, 2007

II. It Holds Thinking in Arrest

In a ragtag group of searchers
waiting for a thought
one said, “I will give you
something to meditate on.”
He sat on buckwheat pillows
a flesh and blood Vishnu
at peace on an infinite snake.
By breath and background noises
they knew time had passed,
by an inner working they knew time
had passed, by the confused dimming of a flicker
of subjectivity’s candle they knew
time had passed and someone laughed
and another said, “We are waiting.”
And the one responded, “Now
we have something to meditate on.”

July 25, 2007

III. It Shows Us the Nature of Time

Now is not a point or an argument
it is a disk in Vishnu’s spine
with a certain thickness and circumference
affected by the course of the day.  It rests
on what came before, giving support
to what comes after,
and without those it does not exist.
Without a spine, no disks,
without disks and bones
you have no spine.
Movement is being,
the how of your rhythm,
venom sparks flowing
through a sentient arrangement
of living stone, minerals and fluids
maintaining a balance of inner oppositions
in standing, walking, reading.
The disks and bones as moments
maintain their love for one another
caressing intimately, one now on another
a coiled reptile within
and within that an intimate contact
light from a star swallowed as food
by a body of stardust shifting
its infant emotions of pure fire
and poison tears
running in a trail of agony
and exuberance,
relationships moving toward and away
dust in thousands of lifetimes reborn
from light to lust
and back again.
The thickness of the disk gives you all of this
because it gives you nothing,
makes nothing given,
and nothing can stand on it,
a meaning that cannot be told, or held
or broken.

The ragtag group of searchers gather again
One among them is a monk.
He wears no priestly robes.
He sees the plastic buttons on his shirt
as sacred
without foundation
he chants a mantra with them
to ward off disaster.
A seeker asks,
“Does this work?  Does it
prevent disaster?”
The monk responds, “No
disaster ever befell me
while chanting this.”

What disaster could befall such a monk?
They saw him once
cutting a new board for the window sill.
The sun brought its peace through the clear glass
a crimson peony bloomed outside.
He did not measure the wood
then cut the wood.
He was measuring,
he was cutting,
a radiant body,
taller than the room.

In the heart of one of them
a three-headed monster
became calm.
Sentient beings dissolved
into sentient being,
for the time being
being was time
time, being.
His hands in the sunlight
his eyes on the wood,
a mouth long released from chatter,
a body-mind speaking hymns without words:
there is just a spine now
a blade of grass or a tree now
a curving river or a mountain
now standing or walking three steps
over the universe
neither here nor there
making space for us to move
without starting
or getting ready
or coming to an end.

July 24, 2007

VI. It Lets Grace Shine Through, It Leads Us to Grace

The poet only wants to clear his throat
the within and the without
meet effortlessly
by decree
of the king of wounds.

Ideas are rubble
covering an ancient artefact.

July 23, 2007

VIII. It Returns Words to the Body and the Earth, It tells Us What We Are

We placed animism in two dimensions
like a poor sketch of living,
black beans scattered on parched earth,
an unploughed field of white
paper for farmers of gods.
It was fertile at first, divinities grew there
and following them came scavenging priests.
Their vestments were tight,
these Clerics of Text,
they proclaimed their discovery of depth:
money, history, genitals,
culture, politics, difference.

From the fringe of society comes the Shaman,
dweller in the between,
searching for spirit and bones,
teeth, and totems
high enough to throw blood
on the vampires of the moon,
the shadows of the Clerics.

The Shaman teaches incantations
evoking the body
like four dimensional gestures.
Not gestures about,
but gestures of.  
Not a lotus that means something.
Just a lotus
blooming.

The Shaman sees the stripes of the Tiger
in his mind, moving with the light
and vibrating shadows,
intimate connections with plants of the jungle
like the intimacy of her nose and the air
of the jungle, her ears
and the sound of the jungle,
her jaws and belly and the jungle flesh
and blood, all lovers.  
Humans taught by the Shaman
work intimately with the flesh of the jungle, giving it
voice like birds and tigers do,
animated words and sounds
nothing more than nerves
and blood and flesh of the jungle.  The human
makes a sound like a bird, and the mate of the bird alights
in a tree nearby.  The human knows
Tigers love this tasty morsel.
He listens for giant paws, then lets loose the arrow.
He approaches the bird as if approaching his own mother.
He breaks a leg of the bird and lets blood dribble onto his finger.
He smears some of the blood on his forehead, and some
on the tree where the dying bird fell.
There was no bird.
There was no hunter.
What sacrifice do you offer
on the altar of That I Am?

July 21, 2007

IX. It Tells Us of the One Who Dwells in the Between

The Shaman took seven steps
into the other
side, and returned to tell us all
something we could not understand,
perhaps to love.

The origin of the steps,
the energy, the direction,
we attempted to detect
with the Geiger Counters of reason
and reconstruction, the compass of ideas
the transit of thought,
all failed to find a boundary,
we could not see another land
or an island
but we knew he spoke
in gestures and incantations,
we knew he conjured the moon.
He spoke in gestures that were incantations
conjured from a silent expanse of incantations.
We knew he did not begin or end
but he would die
somehow like the rest of us.
Recorded rumors said he carried the blue stone
of an alchemist, that it spoke to him.
I never saw such a stone
never heard its voice,
but I knew he kept a fiery bird
in the branches of his chest
and once
I felt its rhythm.

July 17, 2007

XI. It Must make Martyrs of Us

It bears witness to us
to the rhythms blossoming in our eyes
in the whole of us
spacious flowers opening
and closing between horizons,
to the sounds wandering like Theseus
in the dark labyrinth of the one
who listens.
Ariadne’s threads,
knit into the fabric
of the flesh
a sweater for bones,
scarves for every cell
made near a smouldering hearth
during an awesome night,
threads knit into the bones,
into the cells,
fabric stretching for miles on every side
nothing but an intricate yarn
continuous, uncut,
moving with the muscles,
the nerves, the blood and water,
moving them,
they move it
in return.