Not Even Rabbits Go Down This Hole
for Jerome McGann
1 getting to Laguna from preverbial nowhere
I refuse to die until I’ve been fully born.
I don’t know the secrets but I feel them moving around inside.
Perhaps the accurate feel is the life escape or slip into where life is outside itself.
Ear to the rim hears you say the beautiful thing guaranteed to hurt my ordinary.
Slanderous secrets are not secrets.
Romantic insights embarrass when too true.
Secrets are what have successfully avoided the maps.
It’s time for eye to page resuscitation.
Turning page turning mind.
Marked time passes fast differently.
Runaway mind drops its bridle.
Dying will have nothing to do with the word—the right ones come in their no time.
Happiness hurts waning.
Being right is tedium out of its cage.
The secret radiance you see is an act of self protection.
Like language it makes no promise to communicate.
You can’t place its rhetoric or hold on to an eel.
It’s natural like reader pressing poet to say what she doesn’t understand.
The answer is no.
The sorcerer sings out of tune to an end.
The end should be flamenco with sudden flare unbearably beautiful, so no end here.
2 free to fail
I’m feeling a delectable uselessness.
The real this life is barely a scent.
The thought trailed off before it got to me.
This is my net for carefully dropped ecstasies.
Life no longer wants me walking too far from here.
I’m tethered by attention I scarcely have.
Looking out on here things are more detached than they look.
I’m still hunting down the radio with scar tissue, Orpheus.
Honor the stain defining the way roundabout through.
If you’re feeling safe you haven’t arrived at this spot moving sideways downwards.
Watch for the hole even rabbits won’t go down.
Dreaming awake slackropes writing.
This is just another cave outside timespace.
Bad to push symbols which push back in turn.
A line is an act wanting me different.
I have to let the words dry out before using so as to sniff out fresh cracks.
Landscape is a site of things secretly connected in their escape from view.
This is what I could think right here, and the wind blows through me.
I can barely recall this moment.
3 where thinking lies
Rumoring jungle insects invented the bamboo flute so the wind could play human.
This is the stuff of myth which is the stuff of intolerable focus.
It’s real when there’s no guarantee. Duende!
Slackrope writing is an open imperative.
Lines wave across the page in an effort to completely be upright.
Miraculous verticality is a horizontal dream writing all out.
If you see the line activity from above notice the hieroglyphic movement freestyle.
Certain books avoid understanding reading cultivating theretofore impossible flight.
Mind takes off midsentence. Querencia!
Accuracy differs from itself shot by shot.
Stumblebum thinking has its own yoga.
No taking aim like butterflies.
Two wings required for the single thought.
It’s gone, it’s coming, it’s anywhere that’s here. I’m thinking music.
Where thinking lies the heart lies.
Dying starts long before when old friends drift to the silent margins.
A complete poetry completes the life as complete teaching.
There’s no wiggle room without a body.
Line by line it adjusts its sightings on me. Hello Lake!
Nothing’s the same but I live it the same.
4 everything is what it seems
Music delays the inevitable indefinitely in the moment.
Sad song makes a rail like a Braille for the limping mind.
Thinking torque says torsion thinks.
What does one another mean that’s so instantly beyond otherness.
The question mark is reserved.
Things senselessly said out of context expose the skeleton in the grammar.
Words hide from you their secret meaning to ensure reading incurs.
The fate of words is to intransitize.
Verbal sex change is a power reflex.
Every syllable wakes a consort suspensed between the ears.
Third versed hearing plays out the two.
Music peels away.
Footfalls actually listen.
The center gets physical with the incursions.
Numberless cabalas count in skin.
A thing’s initials initialize you to initiate the next reading.
A reading is reading itself reading to itself. So I listen.
I become what I hold.
5 now the world begins
Today is the day that never happens again in my lifetime.
It’s time for the alternative civilization building up all this time.
Actual intelligence is interlaced.
I have faith you are following my thought far better than I.
Poet is one willing to travel second class just to get to go along with the song.
Tone deaf until this moment.
It’s hard to believe the world begins right there out front.
No one notices anarchists being born again by the moment.
Once you start you never stop aspiring to write with tasteless taste.
This is a pep talk to glide without hope of landing.
The poem I seek owns self-defeating as a path beyond the edge.
Landscape up close is capable of anything.
The map is its own territory and invites you eye first.
Its same taste is non-self-tasting.
Restless contentious is a path beyond dogma.
Looking closely the thing doubles at least.
Any moment is on the verge of knowing what no moment can know.
Some music returns to tell ancient history to the root.
It teases out the koans trailing under the lingual radar.
Reading own work as sacred proves it’s not one’s.
Proto music is older than old.
Today is the other day that never happens in my lifetime so how is it I know of it?
Learning own language badly is necessary to clue in, eh Detective?
In real prophecy prediction is neither here nor there.
The test of a saint is faith in understanding readers where language emerges free.
I carve away at the surface to find the syntax inside, running wild.
Language evolves by dangling.
Metaphors are dying to mix it up.
Linguality up close whispers what you’d just as soon not hear.
The self-sensible tongue teaches itself alien.
Close listening is a doubler.
Everything here chooses itself behind our back.
When you get hooked on the syntactic Doppler effect it’s probably a poem.
A proleptic line knowing what it is before it begins is still forgetting by the end.
If you knew this before you have existence to look forward to.
The ancient poem takes itself away in time to make space for meaning.
Soon come the modifiers hoping to dangle in plain sight.
No axes to grind yet growth axes extending subterranean indiscriminant mentalia.
Culture ignores the joy of having become oneself—the alien.
Dangling modifieds are primal deviants offering healing hope to metrophobia.
The writing hand is the nerve of this moment registering the start, day’s startle.
7 thinking thinking without thinking
Take me to the lost & found for suddenly fruiting verbal formulations vanished.
How to track the disappearing never before seen?
There are tones in the garden only green ears appear to hear.
Backroom speaking is keeping repeating what flares darker than dark.
In a set with smoky mezcal that must be drunk daily a door opens to your earth.
If it has the same taste it’s tasteless.
Force of poetic environment drives the change in names on the land, listen round!
Metaphor is a lever of difference despite the comparative addiction.
The writing hand is not the upper hand.
Culture destabilizes owning.
The Golden Rule requires a not for masochists.
Metaphor is learning to leap over into the unspeakable gap.
It’s difficult not to doubt a spirited thingness in the gut.
The odd sock is one thing that does find its way down the rabbit hole.
It’s an odd thought and longs for the strange place that preserves it.
It feels in waiting for us.
Only negate with a stirring attitude.
The esoteric truth of the esoteric is that its truth is innate like fire.
Metaphor walks the plank over turbulence and never saves itself.
You are as able to fly right as you know you are born that way.
8 the sign of the gripping belly
Some thinking is bottom up.
Managing chaos is not.
Listening improves when you think it’s for you.
Taking myself seriously indicates taking myself ludicrously.
The sense of mission is uncovering before recovery.
Nonsense calls for an original dignity.
Danger thrills if for you death trills.
Whatever you’re thinking about is more present than you are.
Art is tracking self unknowings.
And there’s no way to know what that means one instant before it owns up.
Writing is listening when it gives up awareness of this fact.
There’s a right moment for everything except this fact used as plan.
Listening is more mysterious than talking unless talking realizes it’s listening.
They call it music, you hear music, then doubting it you doubt yourself.
Faith is for laughing better.
Listening re-experiences itself when it loses track of its object not losing intensity.
Time to imagine off-reading.
Conclusions are not drawn.
Not answering self chooses. No knee jerks.
9 who feels
We’re taking a break from seduction for the current bardo.
Let the appetite rage to its heartless content.
Content talks back for no good reason.
If no narrative tells it true no story goes bad.
The words are angling for a better view.
They look for chances to get the mind off to the side.
The source can’t be found but it’s palpable.
It’s subject to palpation in the cocked head position.
It speaks right past one’s addiction.
It’s uncomfortably unfamiliar like sleeping in a different bed every night.
A change of pace is neither good nor bad but it’s felt in the gut.
Embodying at the charged angle is never convenient. Body up. Body out.
Reading in bed is bad if your angle is bad for the bed.
Sincerity is something you can never be sure is present.
An almost inaudible movingly real talk pulls at the strings you can’t quite locate.
Confession is not true because of what it says.
Listening to what is there affirms being there at all.
Non-commitment to what is being heard may not be listening at all.
Confession tones true or not.
Metaphor learns when I speak through a wild cat’s face.
I’m surprised to be here in any form.
Stay with it a line longer it stays with you.
10 the name I can’t tell is hers
Everything becomes more possible the word following.
The feel of the breeze syntactic modulates the body electric.
Her body shapes its way just seeing her saying her here.
It’s that I can’t tell you through the fog to know you from Eve.
Same difference is how we tell.
We can’t tell our selves apart.
I don’t believe in epistemology, she whispered, proving jokes mean what they say.
Drama comes into life where you pretend not to be looking.
A poem can’t find where it’s looking until you do.
The way it means itself is walking through your house not knowing it instantly.
The body alien territory lays me down to sleep. This is its map of no scare.
The bottom line shakes until moving along feels between its dopplers.
I can’t help getting familiar evolving by attraction.
No place for minding is not an option.
Getting close to utterance muttering mothering closes in on her meaning.
You don’t learn these ways.
People performing make me nervous if I forget I’m not them.
Then I’m them even with no them there.
Their education puts things in your way trying to lead you out.
No name in no time.
Personal irony is I don’t only mean this.
I can make no claim to represent myself.
11 verbal medicine
It feels like writing in circles but it’s spheres and alleys with turnings.
I still don’t understand language and yet I get you.
Nothing changes until one’s appalled by what sticks to the mind in the me.
I claim I make no claim to having said the above. The me theme.
Why do anything?
The answer is instant by instant only if ever.
You say Samsara to remind yourself no matter how beautiful it is you’re fucked up.
Elegance is nonsense of a higher order.
It’s so music as a matter of posture movingly.
It teaches saying what makes me feel otherwise as myself.
Only at certain intersections is a thing’s reading practicable.
Only taking what’s handed over takes aim inadvertently.
Two times only splits the one direction, and we’re off.
A line is an opportunity to be shone in the curve of oneself.
I get laid out as the posture of listening linearly radially.
It thinks in torcs visually historic to the seeing eye mood.
Disruptive artism teaches disruptive anticipation.
It puts things in your way to lead you out, said so.
It exposes itself with cave inspired vividness.
12 self fast
Far in toward the far end the dream gets realer than real.
You can’t tell if you’re either here nor there or neither either.
Real is your tongue twisting at cross purposes with what you think you’re saying.
What saying you’re doing is what I’m hearing the other way around.
This is the territorial hazard.
I’m here learning the reality of language to know the language of reality way around.
It’s what you don’t have to already know to know now.
There’s echo, with no original.
A single string of cello raises up the body electric.
This discourse makes the cursive course.
Unforced lines of force do not force but allow release coherently bounding linear.
It seems to be happening but that’s only one angle.
Being thinking is speaking true.
We think what we hear should excite like life which is never enough.
Thinking gets urges.
Reading glimpses forces.
The lines haunt nature from within.
When music timely touches your timeless zone it stays near.
Not mine to reason sly but to shoo or fly.
She sings like this into my place of fear.
13 that music razors through
Sir, your persona is showing is the first line of the opera to come.
Such a tune carries involuntary satisfaction.
Thinking is only the never thought.
An instant thought is too quick to say like life.
I only like fantasy I can believe in once and for all; otherwise it’s not fantastic.
The mirror spills.
I have nothing new to say this once only, which is why I’m trembling in the lip.
Sectioning the mirror only amplifies the same.
Multiplying the mask unmasks it.
To think this cuts in on identity.
We play this tune all night just to hear ourself think.
You can’t focus on identity without slippage and danger to the body.
The blade is between the details or else the syllables.
The ear slices sounding finer than fine with me.
Meaning is that you don’t know what it is but you know already.
Terminality runs alongside.
Language has tricks it never tells you for your own good.
It has no time to tell you how to read it yet it never stops telling.
Over time it cuts you through the veil until you know it’s you.
14 primal deviants
Sir, your persona shows, middle voice.
Death is a character in my drama when it knows I’m not its enemy.
We co-star only but never can get it straight.
Life has my permission to think it’s its own end.
I said it like a field for once just like the one it cannot not be.
The future human knows itself without bothering with these ideas.
Making impossible claims with a straight face is as utopian as it gets in these parts.
When I see 4s and 3s near each other I breathe in relief.
Lines rushing across pages are striving to stand up straighter than ever.
One another is a lot more than one other.
If we off-read long enough the latter-day logic will bleed through.
We know the world through self imposed stigmata.
By off-focus we discover … but the thought trails off.
Thought interruptus leaves room for self outing desperate sublingual koans.
Life comes at all angles despite an aggressive preference toward direct-on.
You can’t know what’s the end in sight or when you enter ending.
The art carried all the way through is what no standard works for.
Music for my fears enclosing ears. It’s all lettering.
The text weaves out of reach most of all for the writer reader.
15 my taboo against taboos
Lacking celebration calls for the middle voice way.
Metronome music gave up music for me.
I’m irregular if I’m a day.
You can’t turn around the same once.
I can’t even think what I’m thinking.
Ranger frills. Long range rhyme wills.
Everything encloses something forever.
He said Napoleon said the battle is won or lost in the fold of a map.
Folding doesn’t map.
It doesn’t even map with itself.
The incredible part is the intentional part.
Intention is by nature inconclusive.
The authority is in the persistence and then falling off.
The author has no right to require belief for right is not conclusively believable.
When you can’t hear what is said you feel deprived to the point of indignation.
Listening’s commitment to what is heard were an obstacle to further self hearing.
Correctness pauses vitally.
You feel language going in and out of understanding uncaring.
One false mark and I shoot past the mark.
16 learning ignorance
I am not joking because I am not a synonym--
I am the name itself.
Clarice Lispector, Agua Viva
Once you start thinking the other way there’s no stopping.
You get all caught up without a net.
Close seeing doubles.
The life train is speeding ahead and the fear is getting thrown off like a dangler.
The music is the pulse made audible in the descent.
There’s a stillness that haunts excitement down to the toe tips.
It’s neither music nor not when leaving the tongue.
“Why don’t you get plastic surgery?”
“I want to find out what God wants from this face.”
You come to a standstill in the way you are born.
Memory has little need for poetry.
The principle of a thing mates with what it touches.
Confession of a life slave.
Experience is that you go into the place and know it yourself.
Life’s happening on the inside with attached lining.
It’s the word that goes feral the moment it leaves your lips.
We are reveling in imperfection to know the possible alive.
17 getting out from under a life dragnet
If I could cancel the c. 34,000 preverbs recorded to date for novelty would I?
An answer here had no relevance to a previous line by novelty in its principle.
Expect nothing is the poetics.
A poem is a species of language unconcerned with me. Me as merely me.
It has its own ups and downs which make it mine. The mine not mine.
Disavowing nothing is the operative poetics.
Nor reaching further than sense attends in a moment’s going by even now.
Language hides from view the facts inside the fact that it is alive.
Its nature is to elude showing knowing its nature. Stop this, she says.
It has the same no being without my being I have while othering.
It can’t lay off the gesture.
It waves its hands speaking on the phone Italian style.
All for my benefit which I can only deny.
It’s selling itself as we speak.
It talks with card shark shifty eyes.
Its nature is such that you wouldn’t believe it if you knew it.
It’s no more believable than poetry and for the same trumped up charges.
It plays charades for the best of causes beyond causation.
It cuts through the middle of the half-way said.
It sucks in its incompletions between syllables half uttered.
This dance is happening nowhere fast.
Its belief is a tune to come.
18 line of flight
There’s a freedom of saying what no one can claim least of all me.
Your clown witnesses what you can’t bear.
I’ve been calling on my personal impersona all day so I know she’s there.
It’s a poem when it is conscious in itself.
At long last a foreigner to myself I begin to speak new.
A line of flight haunts nature at the level of skin.
Personal circumspection rarely extends to mood swings.
A poet is a person complex devoid of self-knowing when not getting any.
I alienate, intransitively speaking.
I want a line like a fish line the free fish makes in flow.
Feel the ripples on the go.
I’m sketching a world from the inside out.
This line is going it knows not where, or how it knows precisely as I don’t.
Its truth is not applicable.
I stop reading when attention is not worthy of the book in hand.
The shocking new is just non-recognition with an unrecognizable charge.
Meanwhile the concept ends up in a struggle to represent.
The freest thought doesn’t know its author.
Meaning’s so now it precedes me.
19 tracking evanescence
If the angel of life came to tell you her message would you even notice?
You know you’re peaking when the date astonishes.
Can I eat my way out of life?
Dowsing the currents until I hear otherwise.
Life talks back to itself through people, poetry proves.
She suggests dying might be a selfish pleasure.
I feel the spasm that makes you think soul.
Secretly you make up your mind on the reality status of the invisible.
Listening alters the sound heard.
The read sentence is my new.
Page reading reader tells the poem tale from another way round.
Listening harder hardens sound.
Duende shrieks without complaining.
This report’s from behind the stone apparently living again to tell.
I’m plotting the unknowing darkening in the sweat of its brow.
It hardens the core to the core.
Don’t know what to do with the mind when things don’t line up yet still slip through.
Meaning is going up in smoke so we know the fire.
20 atonal bliss
Here I go again unlearning English.
A poem in its patois is calling to its natives.
It’s forever spring is a mode of reading faithful in the laying of traps.
It has me by the ankles here on the edge of the bottomless, setting the angle.
The daemon crawling through the syntax scares the semantic before taking hold.
It’s taking us too long to catch on, hence the sense of danger, the verbal falling off.
Poetry plots the unknowing subsyntactically.
It starts where thinking completes in the act of itself.
Liberation is sentence by sentence.
The time served.
Some images lose their connection to form at the moment of birth.
My best sketch absents itself along with its objects.
I’m addicted to language rerouting my response before I own it.
When you root through your feet the earth rebounds through your mother organ.
Living in the preverbial now is indescribably infinitely describing.
I found my most individuated moment had less me in it.
All things being equal if and only if they always are, are.
Reading alters the sentence read.
Seeing anything even the page and its moving objects is hands-on.
21 elegant stammering
Seeing is not eating
As life is a fatal condition the poem tastes the reader.
No point in complaining about its being in your face.
Why anything reaches across to anything else is linguistic motive still in the dark.
Poetry teaches me I’m an experimental person.
I’m speaking directly but the air between us curves.
Lingualaria trailing keeps trying to get me saying it.
It’ll never happen, it never stops to happen.
A vortex passes before you and after.
Who can talk in a place like that, the talking never stops.
Pronouns are feeling a sense of endangerment before turning verb.
It thinks like it rains.
If the sentence had legs they would spread verbaling.
Even thinking light spreads shadows.
The eros of quicksand is a way of mind in the mouth.
When a word hardens over you choke.
Speaking narrowly escapes expelling.
The shape has feel and tonal.
And pastures so to speak speak out flat.
The field is self timing.
You can’t think outside it and still be you.
Saying life and then saying death lays bare a gap in the weave to the touch.
22 dead talk
No time is like the present.
There is no wisdom not heard. They say this.
Alien tongues have the advantage of surprise.
Wall passage describes how it presses the mind.
The technique is slowing down the background while shredding the foreground.
We seem to be stuck with sensory dodging in the face of text.
The poem shows up offering a manual for seeing through gaps.
Giving up sense and sensibility throws open the corral of the never meant to say.
Or who says among the never known till right now.
Learning to read again starts life all over in an alien tongue.
If it’s not strange it’s not talking.
The talker through walls is calling you by your remote name.
Can’t stop wanting the metanarrative saying all is well in the end.
There’s talk aiming to be intransitive.
No freeze, nonsense frees.
Your own drama itself outplays.
Pressure mounting to say a thing is hearing voices.
What’s cute is looking the other way when death shows.
No one resists understanding easily.
What poem and death have in common is time neutral.
Anything enters from anywhere at any time—from anytime.
23 positive incapability
Imagine an entire discourse in your own language you understand not at all.
Call it the drama of the transdramatic or the mind plays intransitive.
I can believe anything now the instant is showing.
Resonant verbal crossflow butterflies from line to line to page between books.
Text boomerangs by the phoneme. Nowhere is safe.
Rogue letters litter the Buddhafields and stay lit.
A line is an eternity surrendering to immediate focus.
We’re here because it’s endless in our attachment on the move.
I give up consistency to know what consists.
This is literal.
It takes you by the letter.
Conscious art knows like the back of my hand.
Dead talk calls out the exverbial.
I aim to outplay my own drama.
I’m addressing my failures to refer.
But it’s getting away as I speak.
Anything from anywhere anytime and further.
The subtext is transtensing.
The idea is time neutral.
It’s willing to talk itself into the ground.
Everything goes both ways without noticing.
The end is where it stops getting out of itself.
24 aionic time
The longing into eternity lines any moment dead center.
Never having said it sources.
Inability speaks exceedingly.
Mind lives from the middle out.
To know it through means speaking recombinant.
No can do has raga.
Neutral never neuters.
It takes effect over time.
Knowing true is a matter of ear.
Wandering page after page wondering.
I keep my eye on the blank spaces with a wink.
Her life or her poem holds together by resurgent (re)quest.
The hand won’t stay still says dakini shows writative.
It’s only language for the moment.
Her poem carries on by asking.
She heals so to speak by the lighted finger within the page.
Things happening raise impossible questions no one notices and then do.
Meaning is the pulse cresting in your mind on paper.
Her spasm that makes the soul seek words images truth.
We’ve heard this before as we go before verbs right now.
The daemon’s between the details.
25 never turn down wet
He had a way of talking, 'twas a language all his own,
Life's story, love and glory if you listen when he plays it for you,
Rashaan Roland Kirk
Exhaust the vehicle before it exhausts you.
Knowing nothing progresses things progress knowingly.
By what measure her freedom of mind but I fail before you.
I know the art knows me like the back of my hand, which I recall never.
A good sentence loses you before in the end you are found.
Effect is an artifact of sounding at home.
I don’t speak koan unless it speak me first.
I’m over educated and under informed.
Unless these words get jammed back together, truth sails freer.
We keep meeting like this like there’s no other way but no tomorrow.
The instrument crashes that mere memory burn.
It’s hard not deciding.
Text the receiver proves porous selves.
Intransigence intransitizes awkwardly.
Anything verbs when verbally.
Grammar puts out in hiding.
Love text is subtext of own text. (Theorem I)
Getting fiddled in hindsight is insightful joyously.
I never get used to how hard she talks.
Letting now go now.
26 time vacuums
The multiverse wants to make love to itself through us
but we fail to grasp the terms of engagement.
Ontononymous the Particular
For most of life dying is what other people do. Then not.
Truth is unknown to itself but it knows its voice.
Words are trying to pull apart serving their sentence.
I pull back the lens in time.
Working on the inside here, bare labials, I’m reminded.
Unwinding is dire dancing. Think dying.
Language is a monumentally unthinkable fact.
The word uses up the thought for the moment; then stores it away.
It gets my mind off the hook. No stories apply.
It converts to magic by releasing its intrinsic ability to change what it touches.
Dance acknowledges there’s nowhere to go.
Poem matches as spur for bounce back.
A line is a vein.
The poem makes me strange to myself.
Duende surges through the friction of letters.
It scorches time until it yields to outside.
Ravaging time teaches inexorable living.
The poem goes against nature as nature wants.
Metaphor faithfully drags into view the incommensurable beloved.
It comes to resolve no resolution.
27 daimon betweens particulars
I long ago gave up thinking here.
How can I say this but do anyway.
I even try to cling to what I can’t think.
This is an ancient conversation, I wasn’t invited, dimly overhearing.
Others will have said this before me by the nature of misunderstood thought.
Poetry imitates nature in its mode of operation by going against.
I write the thing so it can turn strange and forget me.
Compelling this conversation (that) never knows where it’s going.
Modal verbs talk roots in every breath.
Imposing my thought on the word it sounds pain.
No can do this breathing timely immemorial.
I don’t understand my own prolepsis and can that word even mean who knows.
When I hear voices I think it’s only things.
The conversation stretches around the globe and presently.
Imagine every word charged with meaning everything ever not said. History.
Biodiverse is verse with a future in hand. Read my fortune.
Sentencing the world is word order cutting through.
It pulls roots up and higher it goes.
You are already my future mind if you’ve come this far without me.
Babel is a modal reality stretching syntax from within.
It can’t be liked. It likes for itself.
28 a line starts life over
There is a point in any utterance when it flashes empty: no change necessary.
We sit around waiting for the world mind talking back.
Syntax hides its own parting of the waters.
I’m not from your tribe, so I’m making this map.
Undertime undermind retains our waiting.
Attitudes find nowhere to sit.
Do real things come out of the woodwork?
What lives inside this question?
Believing in what you say is a reach around the back of the actual words.
We’re trying to stay in contact as the winds are pulling us apart.
Writing about dying requires dying inside language in equivalence.
Poetry makes certainty undesirable.
A word actively engaged is not mainly signifier but matrix nodally happening.
Reinvent restart. You never know when it will get to you.
Get close enough and you turn multiple.
Nothing oversaid, nothing to unsay.
The poem creates a big enough surface tangle we find our way by unsafe means.
Not getting lost on the inside requires reading signs of the invisible referent.
All your ducks in a row trips up orientation so scramble.
Read the poem barefooted.
29 moody multiversality
Welcome, I give you a world I don’t know.
Being contrary likens to seeing a star cart is both ways at once.
The sorcerer’s text embodies knowing knowing itself in the way it knows you.
Stand clear or else.
The rider is giving the only kind that can never be given so as to be taken.
The function of my cherished statement’s little more than moving us along the edge.
Poetry distracts us from vertigo.
It’s coming in time which can mean not at all.
The text is true when every reading of the same differs.
Looking actual identity in the eyes shakes the foundation.
You recognize the unrecognizable and lay back relieved.
No attempt to reach the other side matches it’s coming to you as rite of passage.
Time is disappearing you, you have to laugh.
Mind is not minding but I do mind.
Intuition is truer surviving counterintuitive thinking.
Incursion is unexpected by nature.
Mind on drift dumbs down to average the response.
Putting one foot after the other knows the earth flat.
All the world in a line swirls the given spacetime timely.
The poem is touching as with fingers reaching out of a hole in planet earth.
30 unthinkable thought
The forest collaborates by mood.
May be necessary to hold back from buddhahood as flesh comes to flesh, traction.
Subvisible light suffuses by the aperture subfuse.
A word means what it says so read mind first.
Living in mind enters appearance through linguality.
That brings us here. Word or not.
In poetry life is at stake in that death is.
Mind is not mind that minds minding like this.
Just checking in to see what’s offered.
It’s only suspect when it aims to please.
It cracks heads like eggs.
The poet is the last mind bending.
The line starting life over is not poetry beyond beyond.
The referents may hide but we can’t help smelling them.
Hope is no one and nothing minds.
The vehicle is not moving but it goes both ways at once.
Duende can’t sit still.
Think shaman whose day job is private eye.
Life staked, blue dagger, tent flaps flying, can’t stop crying.
I say I am the sacrifice here when I can say I is.
She wants me worn through so she shows thread bare.
31 irreconcilable sameness
My daemon likes me better at the end of my tether: zero resistance.
Tamped down to the stub of memory no choice but life flows its first force by me.
Call the indelible poem to show residual recall of self-stalking.
A moving space open on both ends is receptive to absurdity.
The fine line you walk between art and trickery is the plank.
We become what we withhold.
I discover acting with unreasonable reason. See Spot run.
Reading being impossible made me impossible.
We become what we extol. We’re instantly out of fashion.
Unresolvable difference is mainstream.
Racism is a subcategory of otherism.
So here we’re hacking away for a poetics of self-stalking.
I’m trying to take being tricked as a gift.
Language stirs in the nether.
This is a space of like it or not anything is said and not for me to say.
Assemblage please a little to the right.
Prime singularity has no peer, no fear.
Self-destruction is non-functioning here in the bright nowhere.
The true tricker self-tricks before you.
Look for a readerly poetics of lifting your disguise midway in the sentence. Too late.
Bye bye buddha guise. Boils are just for show.
32 the phenomenology of nowhere yet here
The variant human never stands before you.
The many worlds theory tells us we’re unknown beyond the wildest imagination.
Suddenly you almost can’t resist going outside and screaming once for all time.
Alternatively ask nicely before absolute action.
It’s not in the words, maybe it’s between them, but I feel surrounded.
Words are hard when given their proper place adamantine.
The words I don’t know must have forgotten me.
It is by such logic that teachers trick you.
All important is being polite asking for the impossible.
The no ruckus request tracks cosmos in its rare clear mood.
Didactic jokes have alchemy on their bad breath.
How otherwise get to our lost others but through their death?
Last breath best breath means now or not.
Making progress in the place of no progression.
Predicate likeness by speaking to yourself through your own death.
Sooner or later all lines point to an actual center that goes where you go.
Never going on display is the upside of the wing on its way.
Raga replays never same.
Rereading the page is an altered state happening.
You half remember the path of almost unbearable bliss.
33 the long way down
No remedy for studying nature in my dance steps.
She knows the poem real is taking you over the edge.
Not quick enough to catch my act I fall through the cracks.
Outsourcing is playing out with hands open.
Some teachers turn tricks for prophets.
The problem with first thought best thought is how first means.
Not to translate the non-human but to serve being its resonance.
It gets me nowhere where no is not.
Place consumes to resume.
Uncertainty never goes away.
Act true like an angle.
Not noticing puts you on notice in time.
Symbols are unreliable in empty hands.
Nothing is beautiful but it teach unrequesting.
We fall into shape.
Never not thinking dying.
Poem flies with a dying rise.
The daemon smiles demise.
Self generating terms of engagement happy to incomprehend beyond belief.
34 it self mirrors beheld in beholding
The smile inspires the poem separating from its properties.
This is putting my writerly Cheshire othering on notice, performatively speaking.
Writing daily to know who I am now. Shazam!
Honor the longshot head held high still above water poetics.
Poem creates reader.
Thinking discovers it wants outside itself enough to seek a bypass.
Every line an ars poetica.
It talks about itself to liberate me from talking about myself.
Death aspires to be the matrix of beauty.
The threshold between living and dying hides the limen of artifice and nature.
Heightened states know my two arms, two eyes, two brains, two tongues one wave.
I cross waving.
Poet and reader have parity variably.
Particular is anywhere anytime anything whatever wherever is or not itself.
Balance is being on the right side without loss of wrong side.
Quanta falling stick around with no need of crossing, poetically speaking.
Duende stirs the midpoint at both ends.
The poem is the other to another we are neither of now.
Soma the body between shows up eaten by the end and therefore here at last.
Like likens like to like and unlike alike.
The hole in the whole is the heaven within hearing.