Monday, December 12, 2005

Meatyard, my neighbor*

Nor will I sow joints.

Joints of flesh, joints of
what wainscot cites.

Nor will I reap
enfeebled bones.

A joy!

A joy to bake on the rock of Lazarus!

Living being a free-fall.

There are holes
in the sky
almost like clouds.

The clouds of hell
I command
clandestine young thing
of flame and wing

we must be
our verses must
and unbind
many points in space.

These holes weren’t
punched by logic,
yet we can’t deny
they are there.

And we are here…
our arms make
penumbral the
of a time-based world.

There is
a difference between
a sky light
and a radiant hole.

Since one day
we will fly
flung by
our tearfulness.

I sing thee two exposures, three masks of leaves.
For eternity, this motion waits on our poses (rounds of choice appear)

Tree of appearance, tree of barren knowledge
These free-falls know no expression.
A depth of field yields terminal views.

28 / 29.
Torsion a

-tail whips rigor

of motion.

Torsion a ponytail

whips rigor mortis

of motion.

Freeze frame of
the frozen retinal

“The mind”
breaks sound
barrier of these branches

Each one a false view of the thing.

No more do we hear
in pastoral

than we touch
logos in ghosts

Seeing them for the trees

dark “beams” a mind
of black & white

breaks barrier of sight.

The fly
in my iris.

A shaft
in astral

Only sometimes does death choose us.
Only sometimes breath

A hazy absolute

a/k/a: the “all all”,
a/k/a : “the the”.

No such Elysian (But as the eyes have it)

The eye grows hazy
not wanting

once more to give up the world,

the “real world” again.

Kiss me

I am young and
not young.

You are faceless.
Your total back

gives me the face.

A little tear in the eye.

My thesis sticks to light.

It tells us nothing
of where we are looking
or where we are

(these dark
room ontologies, these bad

Tear the foreground first

then remember

a sliver of light motion misapprehends.

Bardo is my business.

No kidding

Don’t be afraid of losing your invisible limbs (spectral analytic).

There are still solid things to guide you, material to purchase.

Where to start?

Not being a real boy.

New organs are new notions.

This dream-state of erasing and erasing
(if it is a dream-state at all)
can no longer hurt you.

These leaves have grown up with us.

We take full responsibility for the bite-marks.

Autopsy of an x-ray.

What the fuck?

Why is the world so heavy,
and me so light.

My so called solid hands.

This is
the moment
of lightness
I live for

(discontinuously dying to live).

Alighting –
the wings of
the world

through each instance,
each instance gazes
through you.

Dear view finder…
Who is an angel NOT of history?

Would it be rude to peer into my tongueless mouth the absolute?

Mutants, we are all pure forms of maternity.

Cathedrals and


her hair

Not quite an apocalypse.

This umbilical kiss.
The light no longer can conceal.
That unacknowledged world.
Hush now, Plato.

Craving a plausible
shape for the dead and not
in fact a voice.

What were you expecting?

Night is quick to rise and
covers the obelisk

Secrecy being
the first form power takes.

Plotting your return to the living
what is it you see

more curious than frightening?

These mannerist endgames

(we play anyway).

The game of pastoral, columns, perspective (

prospective surds

(Nor were these cities ruined in a day.)

Thin wires
(optical chiasm) chiasmus

strip sense of thing.

A white wall may be the world's end.

For Melville.

Overwhelming pictures.

Ill Cyclops, my filament?

How can you just float there

like that.

Always a light
source, never
a god.

There will be no words for what you dream

(random sound-image).

No worldly
eyes for the transmigratory.

You dig.

I dig.

This blur.

*composed September-November '05. To Brandon Stosuy.

Does matter have eyes? (towards Smithson)

Does matter have eyes?

Is there a vision of matter, that belongs to matter its self?

Maurice Merleau-Ponty, in his late MS., *The Visible and the Invisible*, recognizes that all matter, organic and inorganic, sees, and that the "subject" so-called is located in relation to this inordinate, ongoing gazing.

The subject is only a subject as it gazes and is gazed at, and partakes of a common gaze that is the gaze of the created, Univocal or 'General Being'.

This mutual gaze of 'General Being', the gaze of all emergence, is neutral, true in and of itself, a universal form of power or power dispersed (& Foucault may recognize such an ideal economy of power in Benthem's project for a Panopticon)

What I am concerned with after Merleau-Ponty is a radical mutuality of the gaze extended to the sensorium in its relation to nervous system / mind, a mutality called 'General Being' and recognized in 'chiasmic' relation. Interpenetrating, intussuceptive -- however both terms seem inadequate, not radical enough. The best image of chiasmus may not be an image at all; but pre-cognized (ek-cognized?) by the one who, touching their self, loses the self at an edge where the self as thing and as reflective consciousness blend indefinitely. The result is a blindness. The blank of simulatenously cognizing the sensible and insensible in one other.

In this mutuality all beings emerge and exist, being for and in themselves. "Subject" / "Object" radicalized beyond cognition. Can we imagine this mutuality comprising a film; a total film, a view of all views, that can never be seen except in some never realized eternity? Which are yet, practically, for the purposes of memory and action, always present... Virtually present?

*composed September '05