Monthly Archives: May 2009

On Answering a Friend

My eyes saw a man, torn apart by days, smiling.
I was stuck on a train, wanted to reach out, but kept moving.
Another man’s face, older, about 60, had eyes that joy can’t help
but reside in, like a light, like angels took shelter when too much
wasn’t enough for the god in us all. He smiled, too.
And at once I was lifted to something other than my dwelling,
something more like ours.
As a landscape of One thing. For a moment,
I wasn’t down like when I woke, how sad I was.
For a second all that dribbled onto tracks,
into the passerby’s shoelaces and God was the warbler
calling for its lost mate. It called. I waited
for the train. It frantically paced, couldn’t even fly.
Even in the small engines of life sadness soaks its body.
The bird called to nothing. To station-house beams housing
blown apart nests. Nothing there, I thought. Nothing. But
the weight of my heart would crush its beak. Nothing. And still
that man, walked past me, our shoelaces geometric
jolts in time speaking in tongues to each other, listen.
The warbler vanished. Trains come, one and then another.
Blurred. As when, sitting in the bath, crying, it could be yesterday
as much as today. Small engines carry even the heaviest
weight when God lives.

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“Realize that nothing is impossible for you; recognize that you too are immortal and that you can embrace all things in your mind; find your home in the heart of every living creature; bring all opposites inside yourself and reconcile them; understand that you are everywhere; that you are young, that you are old, that you are dead, that you are in the world beyond the grave; hold all this in your mind, all times and places, all substances and all qualities and magnitudes; then you can perceive God.

Wanting to know God is the road that leads to God. God will meet you everywhere, he will appear to you everywhere, at times and places when you don’t expect it, while you are awake and while you are asleep, while you are speaking and while you are silent; for there is nothing in which God does not exist. And don’t think God is invisible. Who is more evident than God? That is why he made all things, so that through all things you can see him.” –Hermetic Writings (3rd cent.)

Five knocks inside the stomach. Bathtub hugs water, as though it’s inside an ocean, but singular, stoic, hands hanging off the edges. Five knocks.

Stravisnky would lift the corners of my roof. If hope is lost, do this, he’d say; play God into being– whether bitter or joyous, let air decide.

And foxes will navigate thoughts into thieves.

When the thought to paint bruises across your thigh hands herself to you, love her.

Stravinsky knew, a long road to spring meant burning through a page, getting caught among the wires in a field, twisting the shoulder out of socket to taste wild onions.

The barbed wire fence cuts, yes. But inside the bone, silk, cotton-webs.

Five knocks inside the stomach.

Foxes navigate thieves into thoughts.

Love them for the path they chew, for holiness stuck in the teeth of devilish things.

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Amazing

Please check out Kim-Leng Hills video: Memo: a still frame animation. It’s wonderful

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Interview

Check out my interview with Thunk.

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Variation on Vision, Harlem 125th

Tell me, what light bends
off the brownstones, curves
bracelets of God round
my wrists, clattering?
–ajar, maple leaves.

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Variation on Vision, Re: Fields

Reading about the concept of a Zero Point Field on a AA flight to New York. Sitting in an isle seat while the orange rim creates its own coastline outside the windows. Telling myself to trust what fabrics days weave. How, standing in a Barnes and Noble, the weight of my feet seem lighter because, surely, there is a reason for the tingling in my fingers, the underlying feeling of breaking open.

Dread, in the Kierkegaard sense, taps it’s words against my collar bone.

If particles are always moving, uncertainty is certain and God has a favorite number, I’m sure.

Someone asks if I’m feeling alright. Did a bad feeling pass through me? No, I say. I’m fine.

But longer things live in corners, bundled like a snake-coil in their own mistrust of themselves. So, leaning forward in an airplane seat, 33,000 feet above You, I’ll let it out that it feels like Dread, unraveling the mistakes I’ve made, containing myself this way.

I will write:

A field is a region of influence.

Standing aloft above the second, the feeling of seeing beyond what is normally seen.

Messages of other worlds move into the Self. Flashes reveal moments of great weight and importance to ones projected action–that is, one’s future. For the field of projection is already in motion (one’s future vibrates in spacetime) and so there exist moments where something unexplainable is able to reach past the deaf walls contemporary concepts of time have built around the psyche, and, at once, projections and lines of projection into the “future” are in the same plane as Now, circling the Self in swirls of energy.

Messages can come through. One feels dazed by a sort of emptiness and connectedness, both present, passing away and eternal–both fixed in a destiny and multi-dimensional in possibility. How open one is to the field determines recognition or simply a queer feeling of malaise and momentary confusion from what has been imprinted in one’s mind as “reality.”

After writing this, my blackberry hums with a message from Prince Edward’s Island, picture in JPEG form, attached:

“I’m hiking here tomorrow. The formation on the end is scoured by intense current. How it looks almost like stone henge. The rock is basalt so it’s very hard. As you can see from tree on cliff top, the cliff is 200 ft plus. Every year or two “somebody” gets too curious and topples over the edge.

There’s a section of my brain that stores images like this. Each sentence is a new born world, opening JPEGs.

I’d tie a rope to each end of a language of stones. Islands are themselves because of the surrounding water.

Energies are fields best bet we’re even here at all.

Someone asks if I’m feeling alright. Did a bad feeling pass through me? No, I say. I’m fine.

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How, among a hall of chandeliers, does one firefly spin into darkness, twirling as a drunk who’s opened the door to weightlessness?

I feel I’m struggling to hold onto the vision of things. I am an impatient wheel, distracted.

You are in my thoughts. You’re not a light that is going out, but one that is reaching further beyond where you thought you would–so the fireflies feel strained, but their only growing in their influence.

Hold on– the door to weightlessness only seems ages into the dark.

What the brain takes in, it can only transcribe–you think doors or the weight of bodies / thoughts are petticoats to the brain? No, the transcription is a letter the brain hands itself in the dark, having forgotten what was written.

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