Kerf

 

 

Kerf

 

The hard part to know is connectedness, compassion, relation and love. Shall Thy wonders be known in the dark, Thy faithfulness in destruction? Shall the dead arise and praise Thy righteousness in the land of forgetfulness? Otherwise it would be sleep. To grow into the experience, what the sentient felt begin to understand, with instruction, pierced the ear. It becomes a musician in this that the place made the man as the transformation of an event into a being. To take the body as more than an instrument, as an event position, a superposition finally, the place makes the body, the soul conscious. Irruption in an anonymous being becomes known as localization itself. So there is no arguing about Franz Kline’s coal mines. The kerf in the present is anonymous but becomes a subject, an identity whose time is the isolated willful ignorance of history, a disregard of the past. There an anonymous being becomes a subject, a stop and a start up. When you arrive at such a stage that you remove Him from your thoughts and senses, give up the possibility of conceiving or imagining His essence, because he is not thus to be apprehended, and you realize Him in the evidences of His activities, as though He were inseparable from you, you will have reached that limit of knowledge which exhorts in the text (Deut 4.39) “Know this day, and lay it to thy heart, that the Lord, he is God in heaven above and upon the earth beneath; there is none else.”

 

That I should bare the underside surprised between, the bare body of some extraterritorial space covered in the night, in private, at home, concealed, not turned toward the sun,  naked, the true experience of the other I seek to show myself, the kerf,–not its kief, to ambiguate the intoxicating I long heard, eavesdropping in the spirit. Immodest but the only way to speak, naked, as if even the plain clothes of address were insincere, still such, but what can we do?  Whether to walk naked and unclothed were better all doubt, but some say a kerf denotes snuggle in a bed nude, pretending to sleep in full embrace to kerf the night away, for in the world the world is other only through its clothes, otherwise it is me.

 

The ecstasy of austerity got me to this space that separates the planes, no matter how wide you cut, always the same, the width of the blade, kerf in the thousandths of an inch, the saw that keeps cutting, that roars and leaves this space between where the sword cuts asunder, soul and the spirit dividing, the word of truth the width. Whether I was meant to or not I overheard that this Kerf reasoned out in speculation as what results after the fact of a saw, that is, sawdust, or if a sword, part cut from whole. The kerf greets the space between the parts, divides worlds, or words, whatever is cut. The divination of the blade is its divide, existent or existence, actor or memory where soul and spirit, joints and marrow divide. Discern the thoughts and intents of the heart, cut between the heart soul and the spirit breath. If kerf refers to that there is nothing subconscious about the clay toes inside the iron boot of the final kingdom.

 

Recesses fit for caves destroyed at the same time they create, solidified to total avoidance, cylinder, dome, disk, plate, slab, various combinations of irreverent muscles. The minute you begin to understand what you’re doing it loses that searching quality.  Your emotions take over and what happens just happens. Usually you don’t know it’s happened until after it’s done.  At six malleable innocence is passé to the inculcate alterity from the womb done by the child buyers, comprachicos from that time. Daniel was spared that and I was too, but he lived in purity and I in pollution. Before overhearing these words I took it that the pollution wreaked upon a five year old was a freak of nature of a beast in natural form that came up out of the sea and destroyed the earth. There the boy lived while all the people around him said how wonderful it was to live in that place that felt the iron toes. I had a dream of this character, one NEWK Ba(r)ker, named for a giant chain saw caught in a huge split stump and trunk of a tree, the saw coming up thru it, and both stump and tree contained in an iron ore rail way car with a plaque of WWIII.

 

By the time and place a child gets to be nine and light enough in his own nature to walk up and down the railroad tracks with a gun, climbing cliffs above them, exploring slag pits and strip mines in every valley, creek and spring in that square mile, an awareness brought in doubt if we think a child is unique, we would not believe the world or the people in it, even when made necessary to participate. Turn the dressing back, seem and go your way. They said the creek was not horribly polluted, that they canoed it. The slag pits got filled in, the ground overtop replanted. Godfather says that the higher up society goes the worse it gets, but here at the micro level alcholism and depression, deformity and theft, burglarly and arson tie heavy to its heel. Perversion in the soft coal rises in black soot to serve the iron. If community halls dull with Players and art clubs hanker to that godfather, but otherwise caddy for him at the country club, every day after the next town over you can ride the bus or the walk a couple miles down the backbone where Senaca camps overlooked its subaltern deity, the whole valley at the bend of Chartiers. The longer they look the more the divine beings fester. On a pleasantly cool summer morning, with breezes gently wafting through the porches, it seems just an excuse to hold up these rugged, expansive picnic pavilions -- empty now but echoing in the imagination with the music, conversation and child's play of a century of living.

I don’t say I asked for any of this but enough was given for the impression to last.

 

To explain Illeity, the external embodiment of the self, the figure of the il ya  to a child available in the present, not self oscillating between self-revelation and self-concealment, but the Il ya, of two parabolas intersecting at their bases, open at the top and at the base,  transcendence and transdescendence, the other human being, not Being itself produces Illeity, from Latin ille (“that man; he”) + -ity, an external embodiment of the self, a horizon mirrored in nature, neither gift nor summons, the open space at the base of the parabolic figures, “the heart of the being of the world. Like a surplus that overwhelms us even as we enjoy  the warmth of the sun and the illumination of the morning sky,” I overheard I was a Kerf Baby, and whether I was meant to or not the hearing must be borne, no pun, since all the rest had to be reasoned. Is the kerf something or nothing since it divides worlds or words, whatever cut? Truly the blade is not the kerf’s existence, since the kerf comes after, some sawdust in case of a saw, or if a sword, part from the whole. But what is the kerf but the fact, since two parts previously exist, the divination of their divide, existent or existence, actor, memory or both?

 

 

Many instances of precognition, serendipity  and synchronicity order this skein of the worlds, the skin skein onion simultaneous all happening at the same time come what may, many into one, one into many, expand and contract separately and together as I lay on a girl’s lap and looked at the stars to bring them to the earth. This is that knowledge of the worlds, a kind of medieval thing the quantum, all stories told with Bruegel, Giotto, spiritual beings everywhere.

 

If there were an analogy of the quantum landscape in this plus, minus, both, maybe, neither, then every hill would be a valley, every valley a hill, and both and maybe. This asks whether there is one instance of quantum in the world and if not then whether it is a phantasm, not real, an invention…This is the quantum landscape. Once you start numbering beyond 100 where do you stop? 110? 10?

 

Elders want their vision of community in spite of obstacles, but Karma lords, storm sewers, railroad ore cars overturned in creeks, hillsides steep as railroad spikes, cabooses, torpedoes, flares, strip mines, slag piles and in the valleys below jack in the pulpits didn’t ask for any of this, but it was given as a privilege to measure the impression of 80 years.  It was a town of perfect beauty with an Allegheny spirit of iron. As a child I stood on the shore of this era and waded across.

But he is a sponge dipped in time and space for whom the shock of Fairywood, the Creek, the railroad, the hills, the strip mines cancel their vision in his eyes, even if he benefits from their protection. But there was no one to protect him from the effects their vision fostered they knew nothing of, the dynamite, the arson, the burglaries. He blames it on the pollution in the landscape but it is the pollution in himself and in the Mistor Earls of memory in the water transferred by the upstream Memory in the land transferred by the deeds. The Streptococcus in the fields of Morning Star put there by the war on women and children (Taos Revolt). The memory of the acid reflex in the gut of the Chartiers mines. Are these acauses or effects of territory the prince of Pittsburgh? Spirits that rule? Which should make us respect our own flexibility if all the thoughts we broadcast ourselves go into the land and the water, along with the microwaves and the elf waves, like some kind of battery charge and recharge, all the pyramid memories, the memoir of their sins in the land, storing up their charges for the flux. Electroflux, katabole, barah, sin seen easy enough on Mars scars and the iron core of Mercury. Mercury, our mercury…these ghosts of memories in genes, to the 4^th generation of obedience and disobedience, blessing and curse, one of the town.

Mercury

Split a scarab out of the diamond landscape like  lobate scarps of interior cooling of Mercury. All mining produces contamination of surface and subsurface. Mercury  has a larger iron core than other planets. the cumulative compressional stress in the lobate scarps causes a decrease in its radius. Ghost plane Slag heaps, gob piles, subsidence, runoff increase, chemicals concentrate in water well situated to recall, carrying its memory traces. Concentrated chemicals run right by with mine tailings and runoff. Abandoned smelter stacks and slag wash leftover mines. Here the intellect pollutes the natural with art and thinks it is mining the heart. Like it or not, mines are mirroring life that cannot take the pristine upright, something like the fire of a volcano. Considering the barren hills, the river poisoned, sky filled chemtrails all the sun day, what is not pollution. I am listening as if the spirit of knowing and not knowing simultaneously invented then reinvented the history of hillsides...geology, archeology, layer by layer...prime gap, crack, smash, sludge, break the torn edge plastic, viscosity drying, slashed, embedded, incised, scratched, scored, incised stacks, plates, STACKS!

To give a history of the global aspects of Mercury that lead to a loss of surface that secreting, planting of contradiction into the body makes. Slumping, cutting earthquakes, seek the volcano in the pollution that calls fire out of the medieval Cloud  with the spirit. Fathom that volcano, like the shell of a man shrunk, the heart sack creased, expelled from itself, then you don't have much to say. Thought burns up. Intellect ceases tasks. Parietal lobes rewired stand struck. This destruct is art? Apocalypse is art? All firings are apocalypses. After I left I read that the sixth angel would loose the angels bound in the Euphrates. Think the sculptors and the piscine shapes of women know that we go in this fire? Been touched? Once burned? Twice? Why the Euphrates (not the Gihon, Tigris, or Nile)? Why bound, now loosed?! You know why. They are kilns some critic would say, wrenching scripture as does Kafka's analogy of the Wall of China for the Tower of Babel. China to Babel, horses to kilns, call to the prophets, Enoch, Noah, David, Isaiah, Jonah, John are traditional and iconoclastic. Consider making a whip to cleanse the Temple. The 200 million horses breathe fire. Kafka enforces scripture with the best Biblicals. Believe that and read the Great Wall of China and the kiln opening like my nephew asking what the opening of the seventh seal means. I told him that I hate to spoil the ending. I subscribe parageography to geology Poetry? You say there's a difference between water and earth, air and fire, male and female? More pollution of  intellect? We are in the middle of a katabole.

Such meditations eventually led to the proposition that at the beginning of time there was a fictional war between ancient human origins and some forces opposed to them who sought to corrupt them. It would be like introducing German words into French, for the French pride themselves on the purity of their language, or the introduction of Celtic into the original pure Latin. Likewise, taking this analogy up a notch, analogues of Vulgate languages picture what occurred when myth was introduced into science, making it impure. These together are all analogues to the corruption of the human genome by the introduction of hybrids. The intent of these forces to corrupt culture, mind and thought, the genome itself into something foreign to its birth was the final skirmish in this war. These forces known as gods form literature as the vulgar hybrid of the streets of Rome. In the end they destroy Rome. Genome and language are analogues of the processes of thought that behead the brain. The irony that it took only 300 years to do and undo classical science  and replace it with myths of the universe now called "science" ensured the loss of the old mythical imagination." It did its work, mined and polluted the creeks.

 

 

Hypogeum undergrounds do have order, but not exactly beginning, middle or end. The order of revelation, history, geography is no order because written long before, a chronology largely forgotten until the mines. The biggest impediment is the first impression, but because of the infirmities we live in, sell themselves. What you see is the best pitch to the seely NOW. the last thing is to see the world as it is, upwardly mobile and economic aspiring.

A kiln can top this, above 10% in the final firing, so a reduction gas kiln imitates an anagama planet and core contractions produce these lobate scarps [scalps], cliffs of implosion, displacement thrust faults, compressional stresses, thermal contraction, lineated terrain. Preexisting crater rims disrupt into crude polygonal hills and fractures on Mercury, mantled, blanketed by impact ejecta.  Kerf a ghost plane, a spirit plane unseen.

 Were there a slang of kerf as full embrace in a bed while pretending to sleep, the only absent thing would be clothing, or to change the word slightly, if it were a kief of intoxicating resin a good dream turned toward the sun, the self in the other happily and the landscape too, good luck taking ecstasy as the world does and not as austerity in the space between, a kerf that separates planes. Wide entanglements beyond thousandths of an inch roaring between the spaces when the sword cuts and soul and spirit asunder divide the word of breath.

 

So I was a kerf baby emerging between saw tooth toes that Daniel called the feet of iron and clay. That Fourth beast was a little more than natural, terrible and strong, with iron teeth and its feet stamped the residue.; With ten horns it was different from all the beasts that were before it. And then there came up among them another that plucked three of the first, and in this hourn were the eyes of man and a mouth speaking, but not long because Daniel saw it cast down, and the Ancient of Days white as snow surrounded with wheels as burning fire issued a fiery stream and then the ebooks were opened and the beast was slain, its body destroyed, given to the burning flame.

 

 Servitube, captivity desolation were the three phases of Jerusalem Daniel knew, I don’t know how many of these I did, for denial is that strong, and the Sovereign One gave equal measures of audacity and sentience in that measure. Which is the hardest part to know because it is connectedness, compassion relation and love, otherwise it would be sleep. To grow into the experience of seventy years, what the sentient felt the elder begins to understand, with the help of instruction, pierced ear, it becomes a suspicion that the place made the man as the transformation of an event into a being. To take the body as more than an instrument, as an event, position itself, superposition finally, the place makes the body, the soul conscious. The irruption in an anonymous being becomes known, as localization itself. Hypostasis 69 So there is no arguing Franz Kline’s coal mines. The kerf is an anonymous in the present that becomes a subject, an identity whose isolation is the willful ignorance of history, disregard of the past, where an anonymous being becomes a subject, a stop and a start up. When you arrive at such a stage that you remove Him from your thoughts and senses (ie, give up the possibility of conceiving or imagining His essence) because he is not thus to be apprehended, and you realize Him in the evidences of His activities, as though He were inseparable from you, you will have reached that limit of the knowledge of Him which the prophet exhorts us to attain in the text (Deut 4.39 “Know this day, and lay it to thy heart, that the Lord, he is God in heaven above and upon the earth beneath; there is none else.” The many instances of precog, serendip and synchronist order this loss of the past in the memory that contradicts the present.

 

Where is memory, but the soul in memory and consciousness of the remembered event? Many people experience this loss of the past. The topography Chartiers doesn’t exist if the mines, the railway, the creek, the springs, the strip mines, the fires in the landscapes of memory don’t exist. The ground is changed, redeveloped and nobody would remember it that other way. So memory is all there is, not reality, not history, not geography, memory. How we are affected when our past ceases and worse, to be replaced with a Vichy construct of history books that do the metaphoric acid mine drainage (AMD) that associate the abandoned coal mines with us. There are hundreds of sources of mine drainage in the dislocated shoulders of the hills in the Chartiers Creek watershed, iron, manganese, sulfates and aluminum from the coal mines into the creek. Most deadly in high concentrations to aquatic plant and animal life is – iron. Here’s to Thornburg review

 

Probably the best gift is the silence to work not interfered by words of praise or solicitations of art. Artist being a revolting term. Populated by nothigs. The Tao of it, symmetry forced by the wheel, a medieval torture, the wheel of fortune that crushes Boethius’ head. The strip mine looked very like this blue green water at bottom except it was mine residue later filled in and was circular with steep walls and no tracks

 

Once there were two earths, which we know from the interplay of the magnetosphere with the troposphere, further evident in the breasts of a woman, which signify this mystery. These two worlds were in and out of each other, sometimes ethereal, sometimes physical existences recorded by the ancient paleoliths here, but also on Mars. Some think the moon a scaled model of earth's twin. This twinning of course is most important in the physical modes of the fallen universe. So the Order tells its tale as arbitrary as what cosmos gardeners and astronomers make out of stars. Fairy tale and folklore dwarfs, dragons, elves, fairies, giants, gnomes, talking animals and moral beast fables of denuded forces, planets, tutelary beings that pure empiricism allowed existence to nothing but itself. So how does it come about that this empiricism invented even greater myths of itself, that life forms long extinct should be recreated, that hybrid life forms should replace natural, that life for the elite would be endlessly prolonged, and ancient existences of spiritual beings would be invoked by corporations and government? Remything absolutes. The last presumption wrestled incomplete travesties of these giant forms and saw them transfer to the thought of the age.

If you’re sick enough, or get touched in the noun centers, and you  read the book of life, your own, with too many events to list. All constantly read this book but don’t allow it awareness. Embarrassment, guilt, shame, regret are too great, but we do read in a flash, item by item the segments, the tawdry, head shakers. Other notables are unspoken. It’s all about memory. “Surely darkness will conceal me, night will provide me with cover,” but darkness is not dark for you, if night is as day. Everything is open. I am everywhere looked through, touched. Thus Jonah could not escape his mission. With only a single face, I have a place in the rear of the head, the occiput, accumulates my hidden thoughts and my mental reservations. Refuge which can hold my entire thought. But here, instead of the occiput, a second face! Everything is exposed, everything in me confronts (fait face] and must answer. I cannot, even though sin, separate myself from this God, who looks at me and touches me… Levinas,167.

 

The memory of cubes sunk in the creek, scrap metal and railway cars, the smell of that first soft coal hauled down at flood over whole expanses that froze to a skating rink among dunes and traps and trunks in winter, flotsam and jetsam on the odor of decay. That was the bottom built on the cliffs. As you went up the strip mines at the top, slag piles and great pits of blue green surrounded with such steep sides that if you fell in you would not get out, later all filled in of course as much as the microhearting engineers turned the black smoke of the freight trains white, but not iron runoff as they came up the rise.

 

Cited

 

--Franz Kline used a six-inch housepainter’s brush  for “the old-fashioned engines that used to roar through the town where he was born.” jutting, intersecting beams of black… Lehigh Valley’s soot-shrouded landscape — pocked dark forms of coal-breaking towers and steel mills, rived by railroad tracks, trestle bridges and speeding steam locomotives. As if Kline’s paintings had some sort of religious significance, balopticon swift brush drawings wrenched out of scale by enlargement, white masses and speeds and black masses and speeds meet with blunt force…drawings magnified bodilessly loaded with implications and aspirations and regrets, loomed in gigantic black strokes which eradicated any image, the strokes expanding as entities in themselves, unrelated to any reality but that of their own existence. He fed in the drawings one after the other and, again and again, the image was engulfed by the strokes that delineated it. - he began to whip out small brushes of figures, trains, horses, landscapes, buildings, using only black paint. The speed and the weight of the line kept increasing until finally the objective image was overwhelmed by its own outlines. (Meryon I, Tate Elaine Dekooning).

 

 

 

 

Brubaker Going Out

 

A Bruppbaker is a multicharacter in historical time but the name is the same whether he be a, b or c. To show this we have named his other names. It is purely a personal fantasy that he is none of them. He is all of them, but if you add all of them up they are not him. Have our cake and eat it too why don’t you. H cannot explain his origins. Can any of us, really? So cut some slack when we list them, Dyan Effir, Jon Rousseau, Augusto Todoele, Chas Erb, Rubino del Sur, Sjon Larsson to name names.

Historical time is taken here as a bridge he walks across, but not like Milton
Blake, another character who saw something like this scene, in technicolor, and invented a language of symbols to tell the untold. This here is black and white, as simple a first person account as could be managed. It is like the flickering projection of an old film screen, sometimes there are gaps. The gaps are as important as the pics. There we should take a breath. That Brupp needs all these mouthpieces to explain himself is axiomatic. It’s just a given.

 

The Bridge

 

So far the bridge has kept from falling. Some say it’s a bridge of iron and steel to cross but it’s a bridge to build the world. In all its inimical stand. Our Brupper entrained his loose clothing with nano bats that charged when he walked, harvesting from eyelids and venous return, arterial pulse and footsteps. This enabled the veritable to walk. It needed electric don’t you see. To participate, suffer, sacrifice, feel pain with those named. The Colonist's step over this bespelder'd floor was All in One. It came on as swift as a car slams as you walk or your legs flow to the pavement of themselves. There, one and all, at midnight with false papers, we are commanded to walk.

There is a double strand of layers on whose upper deck long legged thrones sit in rows whose feet hang down. Gyres of immortal turpitudes of their feet hang down and glow. Feet and head connect as an ampersand. Under their seats endless hedgerow volumes of commentary and journal in every language stretch from one end of the bridge to the other. This is the reality that the thrones as rulers are creating for their kings on the lower deck, who indulge this ferment by projecting it in the violent passion of riddles in the dreams of those below, the moon chained villages that live on the river and the ground. Suspended from the deck so they could be seen by the villages on the ground, dingle stars in radium pyres flash beside the thrones like fireflies in nightjars. These were the stars that lit the wishes always rising. They could as easily have been plum-trees that grew crooked over the rivers overhung with ripe fruit to feed the gulls that circled in and out like wheels in wheels out of the eyes.

One question of our history concerns whether, when the bridge is destroyed, any record of these versions of history remain. At least there will be no more new tomes as are now constantly being added. Are these to be preserved in some cloud? It not how will we know that any of it is true? Like the dream where

eagles nests on road signs change into geometric symbols as we look, or where on the edge of a lake in high season we go down a high road to an apartment where a woman gives us a fluffy, red, green, yellow, blue, white bird to ride on our shoulder as we walk. It is playful and likes to flip around all day.

 

In the end I wonder if all of us are not guilty of trying to prepare people to live in a world we do not inhabit.

Flying like butterflies in fall about the heads and necks of the Bridge travelers, swallows of different colors dart in and out. Hawks and chickens, ducks, white and red orange parrots thick as leaves in a wind. These are thoughts. We call these bridges because those who cruise the lobbies of river mouths do. We should call them divine gates, and the beautiful puffed birds, powerful, corrupt, grotesque, are everything that could be said of bobbling on one ungainly foot.

The bridges suspend from even greater reconstituted towers which fit the quantum structo, both and neither. We merely observe the algorithms, concurrent with our sympathy that runs in waves. In the case of vulgar idiots who profane this wilderness with every breath, the root for this quantum info is to sell it to the masses with that analogy of plus, minus, either, both and maybe neither. In quantum landscape either/or every hill will valley, and every valley hill, and both maybe together invent a numbering beyond 100 where you stop.

The images flow upward from down below too. The tribal folk along the river give up visions and sound. Home and Rome become Holmes. Songs in this state of mind wear chartreuse clothes with yellow scarves and dandy hats that impersonate the nightjars. The ones below impersonate the ones above on a two way up and down. The up and down are one, the down up, the up down one. Projections of poems sail from the bridge, which is not over or under either, but around and through. Water birds inhabit winged trees there where high herons dive. On the hill shoulder, pears and parables of sun light descend to a rookery where Democracy makes love in her Sunkist hair to the alabaster plain of the moon. Winds turn the mother of pearl to blue. There are no lands or sun or stars. The crowd is singing of itself—House and Mouth, but neither exist in that way except as radiant abyss. Just the opposite of pure vacancy

Once this was called empirical thought, well designed, but don’t take my word for it, see for yourself. The boots of the kings lay in contempt upon the tomes of the books like necks, whose heads have been left below in the trees. Book heads, nicely bound in leather, lay on the ground like Egyptian mummies, at nice 7 degree angles too.

In a party game two players lift their arms and others pass beneath. Holding the shoulders of the one before they hurry lest they be caught. The descending arms of the game are a good place to start, but the game ends in a tug of war. The bridge becomes a tug where neither wins. The bridge connects both worlds.

2. You may need some time to absorb that Brupper is not moving. What is there to move for? The whole earth below is noise. The noise miniaturizes to a poof. Wear the earth around your neck in an instant as everything revolves. Earth, planets, space and plane simultaneous as breath, myriads of the spiral hairs on the head of Brup and his alternative Burbreak, Brubake. He wore them every day that they were wearing him. This sounds like the moondust from the feet of Buzz, but the many Adam planets are worn quick wigs on the ball of a bead strung round the man’s neck where the universe extends. He arrives and his eyes half remember the bridge, the wave of corded strands of telepathy all told as a bridge of fire.

I prefer my Brupper had no name but then those who do will think it odd, for who will you think he is and how will you know if he has none? But how could he have a name, he is one who came the way all of us might think we have, special to ourselves without doubt, trumpets of fantasy mind, until reason kicks it out. How does anybody escape? In public character, seeming humble and empathic, to be as interested as much as I am in this one with no name, this everyman came down from the sun on ice waves and hydrogen fire of forgetful joy to the world so wrapped up in his coming one forgets the exit. Then the brain waves change. Oh you didn’t know it is coming, takes about seven decades later to get the news, lust, peace, hope, death.

So we don’t have a name for him, never did even if we have been writing about him all his life, a little obtuse in his pretendings, but with the ability to dance, no need to think him different from any other despite the scientific studies that justify his steps. He’s a dancer making onion skins to cover up the nothing new, so he has no name when all the coverings are taken away, although we insist on his dignity.

Surface ememory what I said to you, just now forgotten, and the dozens of layers below it, all down to base memory of the circumstance that permeates the other layers up, never forgotten but replayed things I think and don’t, as a kind of decoder’s manual, believe nothing and everything according to the truth. Unacceptable premises proving and disproving the mythologies of the world. The world is false, I burn the dross, nothing is revealed.

To complement this mystic tinkling at the knee, the truth to higher and lower worlds, I won't make a stew if ---Sothli a strongere comynge above him came him, and tak a wey alle his armeris, in which he tris-tide, and dele abrood all his spuylis. I mark those lives chosen, redeemed forfeit before the beginning knew the beginning and end. Armaments of the Word and the Name, the Blood, the baptism, the Branch, the deliverance praise breath, coming armor into battle with harps and song.

 

 

A huge anima of Bridge Kings confeigorole hung in the air. Neptune spun its round arms about the shaping circles of moon. Not to dislike moon or crocodiles hatched by the Nile, those sea blown arrivals would quarrel like squirrels from down branches. Black kestrals caterwauled steadily at seabears and dove at the rigging of boats in the breakers. The babble of relics and ad sticks and bodiless smokes stoved muscle in the struggle pouring down, enamel panels for the skulls of the menial. Against this fabulous curtain the asses of thirsty hemispheres breathed the sky scrape. Even the stones there speak out loud and as if they groan and float to invented bird notes, not to use such terms as tower or ghost is a crime in these windy mansions. No fair form loin but of horn and dawn and circuses of sky wagon send against the sharper any sword that wields on the bridge, a comet into the sun with all its ghosts and rooftops.

Schimmel parrots, Craunch scythe, marrow bone, broke shin against the shell of a snail, spinet, Dionysius Hallearnassensis, more savage and cruel in proportion to this bulk, trencher, small cider, grildrig splacknuck, eyes like 2 full moons shining in 2 windows, pumpion, scrutore, scrutorian. Effigies, nonfunctional embellishment of an artifact used as a container. Pitchers, mugs, small monty jars. Human effigy bottles, horse effigies. ion sputtering and regolith.

Poems flew about the heads of the travelers like particles of aluminum. The travelers thought they were outside but they were themselves the medium.  Particles of reflective  goose and crocus sprouted from the air like  snow, as if the air were ground where bulbs came up, except they weren’t flowers, they were heads. When the heads flew off  these left overs from  previous winters sprouted. Skeletons were a means of their speech that emerged in the spring among the take offs of thaw.

These registered greater and less in the minds of aristocrats who wore their towels like shirts with a knot at the shoulder like Roman legions wore  a  mantle, but these only visible when remembered. Otherwise  invisible sheaths swirled about their chests and shoulders. The big ones floated like luminous whales offshore in midair. They probably thought they were white gowned tongues hanging from the pole star.

Knowledge for the sake of power preoccupied megalomania of Soul of sixgun mushroom bagpipe powers justified anything superior to the world of sound and cloud and snail. They ordered the extinction of the invisible or of the visible to force the world into this flight upon the rude tree, filtered always through megalomania of the three terms, the visible, the invisible, the megalomania rising. From the steadily falling night came also a fourth, the true man who opposed webfooted supernatural coitus, cosmic intercourse of ancient existences of spiritual beings invoked by corporations and government. The remything absolut engineers made a twin world spinning double to milk the bronze root of the rose of fortune.

Not that it was crowded, not that it was fluid or solid or that any positional space was described because in some certain sense the snowflakes of navies under the sun  all flew through each other. The poems and birds yawned like sheets in a storm hooking over ice jams the salt beak of spirit kings melting over the liquid world galleries of their drifting hair trailed fresh oer their breath that run a long trais of association you couldn’t see. The end of or the start of all the mythreal sword of Arthur taken from the stone as their dividing  seemed so and now you know what they do on mountains lifting pretty heads from pillowed beds. The sun  shining in their hair is not a dream, it is the mythreal  poem, the words the moon opened. The moon, the moon to show or to tell all was also a doctrine, the greatest of which was to keep them on the bridge, going back and forth forever, never getting off. Great tomes to explain the meaning of the poems flying, commentaries, languages, sciences enforced the doctrines on the rivers below, the great myth asanas.

 

 

When the dish jumped off the table Brubaker got out. That Brow Bender went someplace else besides Calcutta, Ca Ching, New York, ca ching, London. Those provinces were Moo Hicky just like the spoon. Is there a book no one can read? That's where you go if escape is made. Let'em argue while you pass. The pot has swallowed the ladle and the armored Brinks trucks flee.

 

GET OUT OF THE CITY KNEE.

LEAVE FOOT,

HENCE ARM AND LEG.

 

Idaho, Utah, Nevada, and the Great Basin washed away. Ohio had long since been gone. On market day, with eggs to sell, and boots back up the hill,  if you live toward knowing and the north wind blows, then the butter truck pulls up piled bodies of fox and hawk, coyote, horse and seal. Yes I have seen it.  The road winds around some cliffs and   multitudes fall from trucks. 

 

  

You understand that on Houston Island the honorable men of  No-Cleveland and No-York with L.A. saw the global shaken out to tread the clay.

 

Visions of Providence plunged the waves of Toledo, Akron done. Miami, Nulon Rouge, Akron for Gaza was mistaken, Manhattan desolate drove out day.

 

Again the bone boats sail. Japan was sent sleeping to the sun. Straight out, the Forces shot

to dark to hide the light to disorient the fish. Rowboats loaded to the gunnels with pennies pushed beyond the lunar mount.

 

Spontaneous analytical precogs where the sage man shuts his mouth came to tell you all.

 Alert bridges  pontaneously swelling sailed by.  

 

Held further down in letters written in stone creeks, the man tells all under the factories of wax You can see him for what he is, filling in the entrance, a thin layer of hard earth on top with loose soil further down "You have seen many things, but pay no attention; your ears are open, but you hear nothing." 

 

The amount of sleeping gas doubled down.. Instead of writing what we did we wrote what they thought. Either let loose was a thing to decide. The first and middle stages of unknowing are unconscious, but consciousness can work many a surprise. When time brings recognition that there's a continual Rapture In Progress have no purpose, no goal, the thing to finish this  romance is to reach another world. An puir wee crannie doodlee broke in different minds into the barn, hid the mass effects of  a twister twisting a twist. There were three choices:

 

1) was he a black man upon a black horse who would not acknowledge the collective?

2) was it just a pig fiddling out -- thinking to be autonomous?

3) was it an old sow in a terrible swoon that our minds were our own? Odd poems came from this like, “thou must barn thy mouse and thrash off the shoe to read.” So psychiatric patients renamed themselves for disease.

 

 

 After the face, the nose, the brow among the hunchbacks we are sidetracked in the staging of the news. A  vision of stone cuts like faery heads illustrates the speech of Brupp's rose-preparing Fut. If they say the black and white topographies, tunnels and roads, and oil fueled by undermined coal is the future stay out of the mines. There we lived beside the tracks. Those who know Whose name is this, this name and this, make pretty cartoons.

 

 

Possession renamed the users beneath the water as Ford families, Sony people.  Genuine interiority changed for commercial identity. This said, we were doing well. UK planetary agents had mutated fifteen dimensions.

 

I know the truth because I had seen the fourth beast stomp, diverse from the others. Teeth of iron and nails of brass break in pieces all residue with its feet where the other three were slain. Yes when the four winds blow then goats stomp stars and then Leviathan comes for the lettuce, a gigantic tadpole, followed by lexicographer, a pestilent fellow

 

This great fish would seem to fail,
a great fish without a sail,
    hauling pillars and high arched roof
ribs blunt and thunder-proof

  follows to its whirlpool fall

 that drinks up seas, and eats up all.
 Jostle islands, shake firm rock

From its flail-finned and steel-beak locks.

 

 

This naive fact does so without wondering, which neither explains the current or a bird. I prefer the great river. To go to sleep amd wake up in the data base naif, this would be lost if it must first be known. If only you could teach it to pray, they say. Practical seizings this moment intuit a method. Nothing about the universe had changed, unless it's the way we hooked memory ports into the veins, to oscillate a polarizing. They call that Homo Zap'em. Hey Willie Winkle doesn't give a cheep when sown seeds sown make a kilowatt.

 

Thimbikin, Thimbikin, broke the barn,

Pinnikin, Pinnikin stole the corn.

Spiritual tuffing and wadding unpack,

Portions of spirit, circumcised heart.

 

Poeop-ple of the fairy tales

 save the pekldfille up and down,

love pep0le saving in valleys below,

protect, pertect peoopel, peertect du peoplez.

 

Children sliding upon a place so thin, at last did fall and they all fell in.

 

***

 

Look at the faces below the skins, the pudding-pie ridges named. Below the plateau in mountain caves you can see a topography of face, a nose, the cheek, a brow that shades the eyes, one knee stuck out among hunchbacks, joined. Gully swore one's a girl, which guy had got an arm around her, looking down, praying something around his shoes. 

 

Shoulders, heads, one, two, three, long coats, hats on top, left on the rocks like ten thousand flee. Brush off the cobwebs of sky. People who play with the clouds of herringbone put them down. Some unborn eye hidden in a cliff, toddles the rocks.

 

Another arm sticking out to brush cobwebs off of sky. You know what that is? A Dilly dander bird on a fat roost monk. Don’t have names for them all, the samurai behind the back, elbow down in a chair, knee to the left, shoulders right, entities of Collective Mind.

 

Yes we had a picture up but it was the only thing on so we took it down. You can assay it yourself by image search, but beware the eyes and the shine, the tilt of head and hair. What depraved can come in the communities of hell. The insensible loosed acceptance of the thing we all dread to know. Twitter in a major element, Smart 9-11 biometric names, numbers.

 

Disaster is an experiment, a metadata culture to harvest information to produce the future optimal trip, fifth dimension of existence, capstone event. It's not what happened, but how the story tells in the dimensions. Actors set a stage for effects. The future or what will happen is the fifth. The sixth extends this paradigm. Hegel has to play a part but then you knew we were training him.

 

Behind the events broadcast by the blatant beast every opinion  was wrong. The entire purpose was to absorb the attention of the single celled. Network actors on  play to the audience of History peeled in mutual relation to each other as onions, none more primary than another, except of course in the fantasy the stages project. There the drones rule by channels. There have been drones all our lives. The worker bee fulfills the dictates of a "higher" power, the queen and the hive. Bestiaries have always done this to the natural, to demean bees if we take them as symbolic of ourselves.  We had seen drones among the neighbors spouting shibboleths, zapoliths.

This is the one

that broke the barn,

that ate the corn.

 

Charley Wag ate the pudding and left the bag. I picked it up and threw it in the water and none will dare there find it.

 

Dis is da een 'at bruk da barn,

Dis is da een 'at still da corn.

 

Undrape! Undrape! I cannot find a shoe to fit the mouth, but turned the spit and cannot pull my fingers out.

 

I dropped heavy stones from the small bridge to explode them, fastened torpedoes to the undersides of little metal sheds that housed the pollution. Among overturned bales of metal never taken from the wrecks, and slag piles that breathed iron rails and oil stains from the pumping fires and unscrubbed smoke, that later white, but now was black as soot, Jack pulpits hid in the springs. Creosote ties, spikes, rail rock made their beds. On the dirt floor of the firehouse nation with fire axes and mats sat Alexander-Nebuchadnezzar of the north. Alejandro-Nabucodonosor! Ophelia was still silent about it. Apocalypse sat in his chair, glum, with a lump of a beating heart, but a right rock in its hand.

 

This is the one that ran away

and like the one that came to tea

it had a thing but did not  know,

it did a thing it did not do.

 

The cock on the wood pile blowing his horn.

 

Dis da een 'at ran awa' on,

dis da ' 'tell ya it a' on.

 

Who are you, up before your time? Little Horn! Alouette! Zip zapped its horn, unzipped unseen. Undredged divots of lariet-like swings of pigment, loops and swirls, where did they go?  They go "in that day to where one shall take up a parable against you with a doleful lamentation."

 

My tongue, every atom of blood form'd from this soil, this air, Poet of Body and Soul, Guten noir. In New Jersey I feel transcendent.

 

oOOO OOOooo

 

 

Fly angels fly, fly angels fly, its rescue time .

 

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