fever

Gadhills the iron fleece! Jujubeats in the rain, Circe lets down her hair and sings. Why, if I can see beyond it, am I trapped in this sickness? Shut down the gravy train and mosey down to sleep. Umbrellas, purple, scandalous. Innocence lost, we wake up to find that paradise has been all around us and we have been polluting it. Thinking that we were floating islands in the sky. The hooks are everywhere, in our fingers brushing against concrete, pictures of us nailed into the wall. Like an 8-ball, pieces of us float to the surface, and that is our fortune. Linked by hooks to the deep. Sometimes in the silence of your mind you can hear them tugging, reminding you of your iceberg expanse solid in the darkness. All that could have been, all that might be. When we fly, we get tangled up endlessly in each other. Some have chosen to chain themselves to their allotted space on the earth, making sure that they are not entangled in another’s life. But then the earth heaves, and they fall down into the heat, or they fly up, into the heat. The wires have no end, being twisted into each other. Layers and layers of netting. I love to see fishnet stockings slipped taut over a woman’s leg. Reconstructing a skin from the gaps in the cloth, imagining the fullness given to me, spread out, gleaming. Twisted around, super connected, superconductors. I am sick, and I cannot be healed. I am a wound, and open, re-open endlessly.
I imagine another layer of myself out in the sun, whole, ripe, devoured, loved. Somewhere I am happening. Somewhere I am dead. I look into the mirror and see myself winding into eternity. I am here, feeling this, gazing on the shining surfaces, but I am also somewhere else, perceiving different layers laid open then, there. I want to shut my eyes and feel nothing. I want to sleep and dream and forget.

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Territory

Liquid, water forming steps. Slide down. The earth pulls. Forming and reforming with movement forward. Centering, dispersing. A motion picture as a succession of frames. On/off. On/off. The way light bulbs flicker just beyond perception. Transience, a continuous progression of establishment. There is much beyond. There is too much beyond. Focusing on what is immediate, what is sensed, what is felt, what is touched. Driving, stop go, green red. Pieces circling endlessly around an imaginary whole. Construction of narrative from selected layers. What you see is what you live confined within. A continuous passage, shuttling between perceptions. Negative capability. Man/woman. What space does the body occupy? What space do i occupy in my body? What space do I occupy in your body? Claiming, reclaiming. The only territory that i can truly possess is my own. Right here. Right now. This is mine. Always shifting, transforming. Boundaries are permeable, porous. In the search for an identity to occupy, in the search of the i for the I, i must find a space, i must fill it, and I must leave my mark, scented, scarred, burning. And then I must defend it.
You can have it. i am no-where. i am gone by the time You sniff me in the wind.

Machines of God

Tin Mo was mule. He carry up hill down to village. Swatted with stick day long. He make us money. He carry us food. He eat us scraps. No complain. Only move he make to ease his existence was to clear the flies momentarily from his ears with quick flip. This bastard intermixture. This nothing object. This burden beast.
Why does Tin Mo not kill us in the night?, i wondered as child, Why does he not strike back with strong feet when we stand behind, pressing down his back with load?
I remember now Tin Mo. He part of us. He part of me. Why fight what is part, even when it pain. Even when it not see you, use you, turn you to earth machine. I feel him in my feet, up migrating to class in university city. He part. He me. I carry burden of past in mind. Tin Mo history-past memory-piece that keep me complete in quick stream of commercial bulletin shards. My feet strong, plodding, forward heavy up hill. In info-ocean I move solid through image-waves.
Desolation, yes. Hesitation, no.

Osirius

and then i begin to forget myself. and it is good that i do so, for i am becoming trapped by the mirror every morning, seeing only the death mask, emotionless, frozen. and so i forget myself, fumbling my fingers against her passing breath, touching the space in my mind where she just spoke. is it wrong to speak of god as a woman? god is perhaps sexless, but i like to think of her as woman, as something beyond me that creates me, that i can press against and thrust against and beat against but only lose myself in. she accepts everything i do, even when i scream, even when i punch the walls, slam the doors, stare at myself in the mirror all day trying to scare myself. sometimes i try to kill her, stopping everything that tries to come out of my mind. but i think i love her, i think i do because then i forget myself again, and i find myself reaching out in the night to sing, i discover myself looking away from myself out the window at the street, listening to the night, listening to the night sing. and then maybe i slip out a few words, maybe i smile, maybe i look the same, but something’s come out of me, something’s changed. i figure that i must love her when i lose myself in dreams like this. i must be still alive.

if god is a woman, than i think that i’ve got a reason to believe.

but then i’ll remember myself, i look back, and i’ll catch my breath, my face setting into the lines where it’s been broken by time. what’s the next line?, i’ll think, where was the word that i’m looking for? my muscles snap like reeds in my ears. i look at myself, frozen as a rock in the mirror. when will it finish? i’ll think, when will it be complete?

she waits for me patiently, the night, singing, for me to fall asleep, for me to forget myself.
the sun rises and the garbage men wake me,
and i wonder
has this happened before?
why has this happened
before?

Tribe

Watching. Distant our minds grow from our bodies. We gaze at ourselves through the television, intelligence pouring from our faces like the fall of water onto rocks, streaks of lightning from a clouded sky breaking into the earth. We become objects, glistening with light, charged forms of desire, tremoring, moving across the surface of time like possessed animals, indefinable symbols.

Do you see the flood, O man in the suit, O man of the mirrored fortress?
Do you see what you have ruined in yourself? Do you think words will save
you now? Do you think that your past will teach you how to breathe
under
water?

There is no narrative that can encapsulate us. We are not a nation, we are not a generation. We are eyes, taking out the world, giving in the world.

We are love,
consuming everything,
holding onto nothing.

(Feb 7, 2000)

Did i say “love”? Such a trademarked term, traditional, safe. Not love, then. It is the experience of the moment i’m speaking of, the pushing forward like the prow of a ship through time, the forward falling pulse of a hi hat in a jazz stream. It’s the refusal to hold back any longer, the sudden spontaneous agreement to let go of everything and let yourself be whatever it is you are doing, whatever it is you are feeling. it is letting every single wave of consciousness that hits you run through you, refusing to stop, refusing to fall back onto what is known, what is certain, what is dead.

so then when you watch, when you sit and gaze at these dead images moving, dancing before your eyes, you are looking past everything you see. you know that these forms are meaningless, these words, these illusions. but you go with it, you let it take you, because you are no longer scared, you know that there’s nowhere that you can go that will take you away from what you aren’t. it is acknowledging that you could never possibly capture it, that you could ever possibly understand. it is accepting that every moment is a death, every moment is a birth.

we are the dead watching the dead,
living somewhere
in between.

here’s the scene

Gorgono (turning): the city. it floods me veins with broken light. my blood cuts across my vision and sometimes all i can see is cells, chaotic, strewn throughout my body fighting.
Jana (skipping): i would like to love it, i would like to feel good sucking in the brown air like a vacuum, wrapping my eyes around the passerbys. i’m even easy to use. and all you got to do around here is plug in, lay back, and play.
Gorgono (dancing): but somewhere deep the drum keeps the language running. the television could talk to me forever and never tell me anything i didn’t already know.
Jana (stripping): i’ve got a double mask. i’m breaking ahead, waiting around the corners, ensnaring every divorced movement of my radiation-glazed skin. i’ve got a double mask. i’m watching myself appear like a screen in the scenario. i’m nobody you can get in touch with. the only currency i take is sacrifice.
Gorgono (pumping): i’m watching myself. i want to fill every slot in the channel of time. i’m breaking apart. i’m flooding. i’m a thousand faces reflecting light shining in from nowhere.
Together (collapsing): i the city. i-and-i, we the system. how far we go before we come back?

joe

\\\jurisdiction. coming off of the royal poop deck like a king of some mystic, ancient world. biting into a corn dog, dribbling Squirt down my chin. i look out upon my precinct, the corner of 64th and Krinkle. good. i pull at my crotch authoritatively. ain’t noone gonna tell me what i got, cause i KNOW what i got. my secretary tells me i look like David Hasselhoff. It’s not really my face exactly, but that presence of domination, of a manly blandness. that makes sense to me, cuz i remember back when i was a kid, watching Star Trek and eating Mom’s meatloaf, how i could relate to Captain Kirk, his potbellied assurance, the suave way he moved in his futuristic 70s uniform, as if it were a second skin. I think I’d be popular in Germany.