House in the Colony Backward

I was  hiding in plain sight in this wonderfully made city of dreams. Down in the plexus of planets and moons, Antares a bother, Betelgeuse among the Cherubim.  Was it made Virgo Rosh Hoshana, Capricorn Rome, Pagan Aries or Cancer Laniakea? I felt the weight of every memory on my  kidneys, yet not all, one transcendent sleep, some good dreams, present helps for Adam, the list is long. How can tooth decay sustain the world? That weight took Jonah, national repentance. No problem with circumcision of beards and lives. Ezekiel, Jeremiah witness the dissolution, Babylon, Rome, Britain, America, but here, Isaiah said, I am like Noah. I hope. Just sober, no vocation but mountain history pressing down. That's what they call Cain and Abel from Adam, Issac and Ishmael from Abraham, Jacob and Esau from Isaac. That sober. Cherubim with two faces, young lion. The doors like two leaves made of thick planks, three stories and, to walk the vision not seen, where the carcasses of kings were put. Looking east from the house and the law of the house, to measure the pattern, toward the way of the gate where the prince would enter, wearing linen, there was no wine between the holy and profane head enumerating sleeps.

In these times names and identities go undescribed. Personality exists only if it allows for survival. Character enables the possible. So who the passengers were or are is no matter and where they came from or where they are going only matters if they live, though it's not much life to bury bodies for seven months.

I went down yesterday to see and smell and ended up on my belly and side cutting bags and black bags of wall, scissoring out the dripping red insulation of the Wailing, prying out the cracks between concrete, metal and wood. Sometimes mice droppings would fall out of the wall after the smell, mouse or rot musk, as I push up, get balanced, ease down another yard, feet sticking out among chairs and fans. Sighs of breath get me up like a blast off which leaves feeling pretty good, not thinking at least to dismantle the word and image machine. It was raining a little and that was when the lightning struck and killed them. In that area every year there  were dead from the rays and people know it is so. Average of deaths per year when the fatalities are added, hit by lightning so they could no longer do anything, a 21-year-old died and a man of 58 had to be hospitalized Sunday in that province,--altogether 55 and 60 people died, rising to more than 70.Truth, elevating the person of commodity through entertainment, whistles in dark for these visits.

The warehouses never improve. Industrial residences with many stories and passages of exiles, unguarded ingress and egress above and below main stories. In this first clapboard house in the colony, many times larger and mostly abandoned,  people are crammed in small spaces with real problems and close conflicts. Latest in the dream yard of roofed parking lots, shacks, is another huge warehouse I owned unsecured, never improved or locked, occupied by vagrants, migrants, gypsies, tenants, homeless, squatters, working men, blacksmiths, artists who had set up tables under the eaves The shops turned into a bazaar. Rumors were rife as the numbers swelled; various authorities demanded more and more. Papers of these refugees from the big black briefcase, doors opened and closed, and then closed for good. Escape was uncertain, indexed to laying hands on the right piece of paper to enable exit, discern that figural presence of a salvific lure. Changing directions of this compass transfigures industrial earth.

I come awake in the last apogee of idiots who bomb cities and crash.to account the execution. The walls rip their edges. Bones in embryo come to birth. I fall to my knees in destruction, swirl the wind, immolated, cast into sea. Where have remains not penetrated?  Every element in its chemical resembled a festival shrouded by day, loosed at night. Survived dilettantes of warehouses inhabit these posters of spiritual resistance.
  THE BLOOD ORCHID IS THE ATOMIC BOMB, the greed, the labor of thousands in its making, the belief in government, the killing of the buffalo by the ten millions until the orchids turn from fibrous roots into cables of our being "the roots getting thicker by the year, the first fine lines like lace on the bark of our lives...then coarsening as more and more wealth and power and energy surges through [a living gasoline explosion-Dario] and at first the roots begin to look like snakes, then like cables and later like giant aqueducts, the hidden heart pounding to the beat of explosives." (8) But in its truest essence the blood orchid is a metaphor of the post-human, which in short is the replacement of humanity by artificial intelligence. Granted, when "biological" this hardly seems artificial, but it is the ultimately conscienceless pretense even while it assumes the moral high ground of its own self arrogation. So whether we speak of social networks or hybrid life forms all are ultimate goods to benefit the human, understanding that as the post-human. How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people? As Leonard Cohen says, all the important mass murderers listened to the Beatles. These destructions and extinctions Bowdeen witnesses are but tangled weaves and counter weaves of DARPA, to call it by just one arm of its tentacles.

 Alice phantastes is majority protocol. Science does believe in the absolute, majority ruling. All histories are not simultaneously true for the majority. This explains America's unnatural war being lost along side the optimistic view that we can still win the war we lost. Majority history is the best of all possible worlds, censored for national security. These platitudes deny the horror of its heart. History is this Trojan horse built to hide the greatest conspiracy at the hands of the unknown cause. Oh do not ask what it takes us for a visit. Meanwhile eat Wheaties. I heard on Radio Zen rule # eight, appreciate diversity, but Whitehead and Russell, Albert North and Bertrand, said that DIVERSITY IS THE NEGATION OF IDENTITY (Principia Mathematica, 216), so I went to the antique mall and walked naked among dealers, shoppers, fakers, and honest folk. Can you tell apart alternative histories, all true, but not all good? Like the cheek teeth of a lion (Joel) the prophet says what comes of the blessed Jerusalem and of the Chosen is its unnatural history. Our Jerusalem, a blessed American hope of the ages, of Whitman not Dario, America of Roosevelt, anti-politic, America of war on dogs, where governments tingle at the sound of money to walk miles at night in the desert past the blooming white cactus, caching water.  Maybelline and Jack want to get high, race to the pueblos to take the oath. But compassion lies in the ditch with the wretched, upside down, fingers moving. Who knows but the words come out of the ground from some spring of Erebus, bitter water or clean, so clean it makes us see?
The physics is a hopeless fabrication of the endless universe wheelbarrow beside red chickens. It is history






 It is time to consider the inevitable rupture and collapse of the last empire. Some branch of physics must explain alternative states in the branching universe, possible selves in the billions. Results from all the choices made and not made lead to the not not made in the trillions; computer chips stored in the heel of the genome back to the stone. You thought it was the head, but it is the heel. Immigration status, financial records, inconsequential bios are head bound are the problem of the known. Alternative histories speculate. Only majority and minority views make the unchanging absolute.

 It's pretty much beyond words so we make up non words, add faces and places and clothes and sea and any manner of likeness. We explore the world and then forget ourselves and give it  away. It is all thrown back on us and the outer, the gifts of life...what is left, not the party lines, we go our way without.  A man returning after years of absence would know the place with his eyes closed by the rhythm of movement. It wouldn't even matter if he only imagined  he could hear the one great rhythmic beat. People here are left to wonder how they could not know. Life among the culpable, sorry to admit, blames another because it blames itself. Freedom, freedom, mock and throw. The culpable fasts and the inculpable lays naked. One person in the crowd is loosed, runs in the street. How could you know when you spend every day chasing the thing you sleep beside and see in the world in front a tail in the sky, ad smell in the air, that heart feeling that controls? Twice, Noah, Daniel, Job, the wise King of Tyre, symbol of that star. It's like you precede them when you follow and live in a fall that leads captive those who know. They know....To speak of the first to doubt this astonishment, its verbal texture, the language of deportation, some editor, as if he were an author, standing among three hundred jars of post exilic oil,  pretends to write these different worlds,. Ruins from the song and dance, tabrets and pipes of those who walk among stones of fire. Blue clothes and embroidered promises of pure azure spirituality, so conceived. Merchants of all sorts, blue as the ships of Tarshish, dressed love in blue. They delivered the gorgeous lustful horses to bruise her teats, then took away the nose and ears. Truly epigonous redactions of text, not to speak of incorporated Maccabean notes, preludes to cut-up theology reassembling its layers. Of course redactors always reduplicate with dyed attire on the head and with uneasy transitions.All that they have to offer is a screen to cover retreat from the colony...travel arrangements made, they blow the place up behind them. Offer a body forever. For this they sold their sons, sold out the unborn, a Garden of Delight, fake immortality.

 At least four died of lightning strikes.

Old Stevens joked in his hospital bed, "what a ghastly situation it would be if the world of the dead was actually different from the world of the living. . . to say farewell to our generation and to look forward to a continuation in a Jerusalem of pure surrealism would account for the taste for oblivion" (76-77). New Stevens knows better. It is Zion.

How to tell the minor prophets from the major, the body of work, the lyricism, the suffering. At the end of the rainbow the emollients, dilutions of our six minds reach up to the point where we believe we are no longer valuable or even that we are what we are. Like rockets.  If you're a major prophet they divide you in thirds. There is no deutero Amos. Isaiah was sawed in two. It remains to saw in two the minor. "I now think that things are occurring so far beneath the daily patter of our civilization that we can both feel the tremors and at the same time ignore them. I think we are dying, and what we are dying from is from what we are". If you can't see it yourself, the culture of death, now look for a miracle."

Prophecy isn't in words it's in tropes, mystery plays and silent allegories, examples of being. He is a prophet in this sense, not a saint. He bears in his own body and mind the marks of our depravity and defeat at forces bigger than ourselves, not just sex and commercialism but greed and fear, those two most bestial nodes. "I believe in the instant we forget we commit a sin" (110) He is a prophet like Hosea who marries a whore to mirror the unfaithful, like Ezekiel who ate dung, like Elecuria who says the poor are all prophets who mirror our poverty for us so no wonder we hate them and mistreat them. He is a prophet the way woman abused is prophetic of the earth abused everywhere. It is useful to know these people are even on the planet. "In that day one shall take up a parable against you with a doleful lamentation and say We be utterly spoiled." Micah

Images explained away, reconstructed under pretense of light, reshaping attempted escapes, fantasy boats and fable captains, visas for the countries of Atlas and passports for countries that don't exist. At port we pass for one of the sailors.  If you want to forget something that doesn't officially exist, empire  a terror in which the state as an end in itself grows a flow of stateless persons, expatriots flee to the West—not quickly, but in achingly slow advance from camps among wolves with dark blotches under the eyes.

A myth of space and time Hierosolyma. We should not tolerate the conduct of our lives in such a contrary state. Tramped alive with marching feet, a mythic reconstitution of the world asks, whose grave is this, this one and this? Search beyond comprehension in the predawn Alexander-built breastworks of Tyre that fill in time and make a peninsula.  Before Darius came down, and Nebuchadnezzar marched captives from Jerusalem, embroidered in all our limbs. 

Offerings, blood worship, river rising, first to the ankles then loins, many trees on both sides. It comes from the east and flows to the desert and sea, spiritu things, waters where all trees fruit according to months, one each for food and medicine because the water flows out from the house, the house a holy oblation four square for possession of the city and the name of the city Jerusalem, for Jahu is there, to complete the restoration. The west wall of Jerusalem is on my head. The geologic layers, the Babylonian Talmud are on my head. The Lehmann discontinuit, the Mohorovičić discontinuity, Hadean,  Archean, Proterozoic, Paleozoic, Mesozoic,  Cenozoic are over me, but in fact I am walking on their surface, as if walking on water, in which I sink, which gives some meaning of Leviathan and Jonah. And Jesus! 45 stone courses, 28 above and 17 under ground. Streets, cities, houses underground had fallen to ruin, a beauty of extinct volcanoes fertile from the lava that grows paradise orchards. To slip through the holes to turn, to wind, wriggle a way out of the evening you wanted to survive, streets and recesses overwrote history, millenniums over centuries, a year ran this dayman sunk in a network of arteries and veins. This land was once fashionable as a masif hotbed in a million colored lights. Like colored maps run the body, one extreme in another, expressed before put in words, waking existence led down, over topography, in labyrinths and lightning rods. Flash cones in eyes no longer of streets or sky, but eyes that connect ancient quarries and vaults, tunnels and caverns beneath. Artist talk, but not in words.

Different methods juice and oil. Cider press, putting apples to boil in cheesecloth and after all the drippings end, wringing the cloth to get the last squeezings. That 's what it feels  to get this now until the juice escapes. Thou watchest the last oozings.

We have to tread lightly. If we say minor prophets it is not just their names we spurn. Micah, Amos, Joel, Hosea. None are Jonah either, lamenting the gourd with a sense of fun, swallowed here, puking there. It's what they say makes intolerable, not just in your face, but in your ear. Pray they do not get in your mind and turn you to Nineveh. There are many ways to offend.Therefore I will wail and come to America. I will go stripped and naked, for her wound is incurable.  Roll in the dust you who plan evil at night and practice in the morning. All the graven images beaten to pieces, the high places of Judah - Jerusalem. Search out the mysteries of violence against brothers. Make you bald at the very Top of Esau. They see Yah before the altar digging sheol. From Mount Carmel to the bottom of the sea, righteousness turns to hemlock for those who carry the Moloch. The top of Carmel withering. Taken on their backs with pruning hooks. Sell and buy the poor. A famine where fats overflow the mind.

That's why we lost the war. Get over it!  Orchid America blooms and its ways all consuming old and young, narcotic unresisted, but maybe the hundred year drunk, our high, is the only way the old ways can survive unassimilated. They were too drunk for the world and rejected all efforts to acclimatize their language, failed-because they were drunk. They say the orchids cannot be removed, they say we have grown dependent upon them. For centuries people faced the orchids, saw strange clouds, felt something seize their bodies they did not understand, died painful and surprising deaths. Felt the heel on their necks. And not given in or up. So by the metaphor you know the survival of humanity is a drug-drunk necessity while the machines take over. Would they had mastered the anesthetic, not blindly welcome H+. We had to kill the thing we love [ourselves, Humanity] to prove our love...We had to sacrifice our women to prove our love—so many one-breasted ones now ambling around as testimony to our adoration. Kill the thing we love. That is our central legend. The mutilation of earth, the mutilation of woman, the mutilation of health, nobody can say why fish have sores in the gulf, autism rockets Rocket is our favority epithet of all rockets, everything but the GNP that fell to earth, I knew not where so I made a list here, called Pray It Not Strange, often links, back links, vids, arts, potheads among the gold. We have achieved our Historical Absolute like good Doktor Hegel promised us so long ago. We have made our entire nation into a reservation. 

The one who formed the mountains and created the wind declares to man what is his thought

One thing  to admire in the midst where all of us are dead, like Johan flailing up on the beach, Jonah I think he is, Johan with a second breath, like the two halves of Isaiah coming together in the resurrection, three boys dancing in a furnace, on and on. Among the prophet axeheads that float and angels that breathe in the face of Sennacherib, I cannot tell if I am waiting for someone to kill me or waiting for someone to turn on the lights. Bribed to say these things, to laud the unlaud, the details, dust, people, story, the escritoires, each idol crushed, all you need to be a prophet is the truth. Truth, inherently prophetic, shattering,  Ephraim who made altars to sin, so altars shall be his sin. Is there iniquity in Gilead? they sacrifice bulls in Gilgal. The sacrificers of men who made idols of their own understanding kiss the calves.

  Jerusalem! Architecture of gold beyond history. How do I not weep for the stones in the building? As if commanded, a cupbearer entered the city with Alexander, toured the walls with Darius the Persian, Darius Nothus, and intermarried with the inhabitants of the land. I have Nennius for consolation in Britain and Neemias in Jerusalem. The concept of "restore" or "return" in the Hebrew  is the verb שׁוּב (shuwb/shuv),^[8] as used in Malachi 4:6, the only use of the verb form of apocatastasis in the Septuagint. This is used in the "restoring" of the fortunes of Job, and is also used in the sense of rescue or return of captives, and in the restoration of Jerusalem.This is similar to the concept of tikkun olam in Hasidic Judaism.^[9]

 Darius, Nebuchadnezzar, Alexander were sprawled on top the rocks with those too superficial to be called out, Also abandoned flat at the apex sat the King of Jerusalem, a deceased ecclesiast who survived the fall, who wrote as if these kings were appealing, not counterfeits who compared the treatment of Goliath's head with the disposal of his body.  Rag picker history surrounded by ruin, collectible data, blueprint of dream city, this Jerusalem spectral and estranged and sprawled. So I haven't lived my life for nothing.

I have the only full grown momma tortoise on at least the block, so bring him in, and he has lived so since, not in her arms when the small rain down Would rain, but near her den. Today he is following her, bobbing up and down and there is funny business of the 20 and the 70. This is to say if you don't like Bowdeen you must be too serious a sinner and should lighten up, for "we were too happy with the raw liver smeared against our lips to worry about the vanishing hoof prints" (5)

I had to buy the British Nova Express for the red cover with the train on it and the phrase on the cover in Spanish, Spanish express, French boxcar


 Rains

How many times when you read a novel are you moved to pray for the writer? This happens over and over. I guess it's because he loves life so much, life, people, stories, folklore, but is in exile from it, from his greatest love, the fertile, fecund water. Unless you've been in a  rainstorm you don't know the rain, or snow for that matter, crystalline and utterly sympathetic to  the earth. His later work would like to be struck down, then he would believe, but he already has been, from his exile in the desert and where it never rains.

 This full character, himself, within the bounds, not counting the denatured after, being compared, the simple human heart that sheds all myth heroic illusions to say his name alone on the steps of  earth. He probed the alveolar deeps not the uvular in back of the throat, absent in English but common in the East, which tells the whole story of America's indiscretion in Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, its alveolar swallowed up in the deeps of thousands of years. That ridge behind the teeth still accesses the surface before it is swallowed up d, t., which is why Jonah is the only possible metaphor, if we take it, but we are more interested in the vehicle of his swallowing, the fish, the whale, than in him and the reasons for his down (and then up). I cried unto the Lord with my voice and he heard me. So many images prevent his surrender, for he will not be beaten.

Evil in the world has great advantage. It  can turn good on its head and evil on its. It can be episodic with no end result except to repeat itself over and over. It can be weak and we empathize and it can be strong and we regard. All this is found to be endlessly entertaining in its increased acclimation in adult entertainment, evil, murder, slaughter is its own best moralist. Sick dog, we get to the end we recognize our nightmares in the earth are our own worst states. Evil so endlessly appealing it calls itself truth, the only true energy! Jumpin Jack depraved is too small a word to describe he who wears their clothes. No worse than Oedipus Cain who is ever killed in whoever ends up with  faith. After digesting this morality he says that he will never die of sown opposites, but the initiate sources remain hidden.

Which high class stuff in regard of entertainment, abortion and hybrid rights, bionics, chem trails have no real following in the news. Higher class evils like immortality, artificial intelligence fall, soon to tell. A moralist of evil celebrates evil even as he holds it up to scrutiny to make us sympathize with every one of these characters in their essence, facing those odds,  epitome of what is human for the difficulties they must overcome.  This passes in the doctrines of the world for tolerance. What it really is in the drama is, get out the way or get scalped. Have your cake and eat it too, it doesn't matter if you're a muchacho or jeffe, draw the 4 of cups and professors will fall from their towers and tramp between the dog and the wolf to find out its meaning. But see, evil don't mean nothing. On a second read the asides are as good as it all. Say this and say I prayed for him. For who is too late, who is too marred, too far gone, who cannot be reached like Rimbaud on his bed?

These are Caprichos (Goya), combined with the more obvious rings of Dante's Hell. fabulized into a carnival all the screwy ideas of celestial virginity, fore baptism, predestination and the crusaders come home to dance. No need for biography, it's all in the books. Every character speaks, the truth about the world is that anything is possible, which goes on and on  but nobody believes the pure rigor of following without betrayal. But it is always because of the impossibility of knowing and THAT NATURE IS A HERCULEAN FIRE Drowned. O pity and indig | nation! Manshape, that shone

Sheer off, disseveral, a star, on the one hand, swallowed up in the ten thousand glitters of Cormac's flows, but on the other, This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, | patch, matchwood, immortal diamond,  Is immortal diamond. And always harmonious languagely, as if to fool by equivocation. No he is not. Oh yes he is. No.

Compare the Dutch painter epics hidden in the layers, signals all related to some great tapestry participating in the world fertile and corrupt, monument to fertility and corruption, sheol sans fire, shade that can claim the comedy in the Inferno. They say life is a life changing event in a Ledean body-yolk white shell, hollow of cheek mind, a king caked with mold to number each word over. These are all revealing the path. Get up to ten in the western wall where the candled wood-knots shone blood red and incandescent. We have to pick between early incandescence and later diffusion, the limbo of the Christless righteous, I in a terrestrial hell, the fish and the fisherman.

That's why we send him to read the sermons of Dr. Donne,  Second Sermon on Psalms, 1625, which tells of “hairy hearts,” “petrified hearts.” The 4th, 5th and 7th angels that scorch, who make the dark and the hail cause blasphemy in these. But whether “suffered to possess the tabernacle, as They sometimes are, the Pater ignosce, Father forgive them (#3), allows all that is done because “there is a weight of future glory to counterpose it” (57), he says that as soon as an upright man appears “as though the greatest weakness in this world were man, and the greatest fault in man were to be good” (98), he “is made now the Sewer of all the corruption, of all the sins of this world” (98) “as no son of God but a mere man, as no man, but a worm.” You would think the good would have their reward, but they are blamed for all the evil they did not do. If it goes against the grain of youth then say Pater ignosce. Ignosce ignorant of their deeds, but not of the counter weight to them of Psalm 22, Isaiah 53, the bulls of Bashan. This is the Pondus Gloriae, weight of glory of earthquake, flood, prison….”

“So let me pay my debts with my bones! In penurious prison! Wither in a spittle…and so recompense the wantonness of my youth" (99). This is what they think at 70.  Only the New Testament has an answer for it, to praise God through Jesus Christ Our Lord.

They ask if Revelations had anything to say about the shape of things so I will tell, then you won't know. It has to do with 70 weeks, 69 of which were spent between the recovery of Jerusalem and the coming of Messiah. There was a 70 period of captivity in Babylon before this, as in Jeremiah. So that leaves just the one week. A bad week. Horrendous. The good and bad news of which it hasn't happened yet. Evil works all make believe held up by nostalgia, as if he had never read Psalm 110.

This meditation of starts at the end where there's no need for a biography of or auto biography either, as he says, it's all in the books. Every character speaks for him and he doesn't have to affirm or deny anything. Clearly he has become concerned with the way the world turns, as if he had in fact waited for God to come into his life after all the divinations of blood. Who has not so waited, but instances are opposite. God came into the life of those who sought him not, only who would receive him. It says, he was in the world and the world was made by him and the world knew him not. He came to his own and his own received him not. But to as many as received him....

Cited:

John Donne's Sermons on the Psalms and Gospels. Ed by Evelyn M. Simpson. Berkeley 1974