wonder luck

8/6/2019 Wonder Luck

http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/wonder-luck 1/44 1



wonderLuck is dedicated to each generation born successively to mine, but particularly to

those children born in 2002, and those born in and beyond December 2009.

Additional dedications: Popcorn, Harvey, Jacques, Djombrie, Kohlim, Mexicat, Panther, Lufa, Fernanda, Sabrixa, Sebastián

( allo pallo! ), Elorchri, Adrian, Thomas Dow, Thomas James, Curtis, Valis, Phssthpok ,William, The Bad Infections, Finally

understanding the Baptism thing, Lynn Margulis & Dorion Sagan, Bacterial Symbionts, The Psoas Tear, Those who will stand

bravely to rescue others in the coming travails, Zay ( and his parents ), Father, Penny, Ivy, Sleep Paralysis, The Bees who Taught

Me, Those who preserved the AmerIndian Ways, Schmeagle, and Ryan Heavyhead.

Free All Prisoners02.17.10

http://www.organelle.org

‘to the silenced’



Walkward

I’ve not yet spliced in limbo

as the perils walk me into stamens

wherefore art, where, for crimsonI’ve forgotten seven purposes

Here’s my finger, in your picture, here

I’ve thrown away the measure

what’s left is at laughter, the lag of death,

dreams going slowly unaccountable.

Land my fish and I depart, inexplicably detainedin vacuum, matter’s slow excrucible jape —

if only you would enchant the ghost of my plenty, if

you could fear and sound this depth

that balks the audience,

who rise like balloons — all those empty seats,

lost messengers of praise.

None foretold I’d tell you threes, or any

other acrobatics. I’ve no gold left, just these marks —

bereft of means, slimmer than lines. My perfectly saline

purchases, all spelled in autumn’s color, my

disciplines, bereft of forms and titles.



Tools Drop a Pick, Thinks a Driver

Any kind construction blocks me, chessmen buttered by French girls

giggling, fountains of sound rendered naked

not by what is gone, but what emerges.Who has taken refuge, mistaken in the pure bell of slumber

(— but it never rings, they tell me — it’s cracked with light )?

Utterly stopped people are having, hunting, urging; yet I am the bent key

in their cereal, an accident of angels and orbital moons. Some fame turned out

to be a ferret. Curious, sharply toothed and clawed. The sort of thing —

it’s so cute it takes your third finger off right near the lightning,and leaves a chunk of sugar next to the bloody bowl.

From my quiver, arrows of purest obscurity, from bone of my blood

of my Mother’s hood. Here the song departs for chaos, returning

to the page, later, as leaves and branches. So firm in my delusion, o hammer,

against my box of Father’s latest currents, his river collapsed, his

personable demon less mean, then meaner, then smoke.

The game afire now, the girls retire to bathing and exchanges of fruit.

I’ve no left mind left. This rightness rules, these tools pick their

drops, drink believers, puncture tires. I’ve relied thus far on

rivulets of tiny silvered function, accidental weaving ending up in

disbelief. The paints shatter now, the whole tapestry destroyed,

glass’s mess and purest pigment, seven hairs awake from the hope to lift it.



Structyr’s Flower

Love arises from the butcher’s art, the packaging, the market’s leaps and dallies.

I alone remember all the gentler weather, sounds from lumber, streamers of ants

following ghostprints across the roiling waters. There is no tower left,the skeletal empire’s remains become halved cubes, jagged,

the rotten uncapped teeth of nearly pure delineations.

The plastic has long since leeched its poisons, the babies died, their mothers counted

all the tiny things they’d touched. Somehow, recovery founded its own mathematics,

a basis from which to renew at least the simile of living pressure. But this is not a missal

from the edge of doom, I stand surrounded by the skeletons of hummingbirds, a sacredcircle whose gesture is better sung than spoken. The waters follow the hours’ marrow,

and I arise from the butcher’s paints, the target’s leaps and daily dodgings.

If you’d recall our purposes, remember blatant hues gone to bliss in mixture, aims often

better missed than made, the sweet perforations of lovemaking’s errors, and the bread we

never wanted but were buried in. I’d ask no more, nor merely measure each discrimination’s

fluted structyre, appraised returnings — all the terrors of pressure’s uncontested growth.

Balefully recriminal, my moment now but a passion of misfiring, halfly amoebic

underneath the costume poised to render all the tenderness of spectacle into easily

encumbered advertisings. All circumscription ( too little of breathing, of the being ).

The edges of the treasures, here, betrothed to wonder, every petal pure potential,

arrayed in roiled summers. And we can barely train their limbs, and yet are found alone,

so alienly peerless. Mistakes themselves transformed to highest art

— beyond the hounds who wail and hesitate, pursue and tree our transits.



Synephony

The kite’s a cross gone to float above all eyes, all hands,

and I have driven and been driven far beyond this paling luxury and into

the fiercest fire of battle’s grasp, iron-limbed, mysteriously certain. These landmarks train their talents, the dots on maps aloft and rising past me

there’s no world left, no word uncloven — the deer mark the truth with pellets,

the remains mark the deer

like a frozen sketch of what was once exquisite in expression.

Riffs and rivulets, rafts and rivers, the stony admonition of human slumber

near the water, near the tower, here’s the monument gone south again, one lastbonanza before the absolution of anonymity’s refrains. I would ask your pleasure,

from these presents, the driest form of honor I can muster — nary a moment can

pass before the guards will duly arrive, arrayed in battle’s semblances, armed

not with power,

but with orders.

Scale my merit, find me alive again, I beg you. For I have long ago departed

all things and ways familiar. I dine alone these days, within a trumpet’s fluted blessing,

me, the angels, and the mountains. Here there are no warriors or princesses

to win, something still exploding

beyond all human concept — a way of finding ways to gather all together here

without the same distortions, within our purer passions — a re-re-forming unity,

allied with none

and recognized in all.



Crucial Deviations from Circumference

And so the boxer’s sting flowed into us, following our ghosts

through every fine departure. Into your perfect sound

I drew my delicacy, leaving all hope of admiration far behind. As those in towers fell, we deemed their rude gyrations quite terrestrial, as of the Earth

itself, and believed that exculpation would be rightfully denied.

The light retained its glories,

besprayed itself in hues beyond our comprehension,

demanded of us no fee or debt but that we live inside it.

We turned, then, through every possible angle, cataloguing the dreams of the deadin the handwriting of the unborn. And I remained alive, though my home

was no more than a pillbox, a matchbook, a crack inside a shiver.

On the eleventh day of the selfsame month, victory assured, their soldiers did return

from long travail, and from their mouths flew butterflies, and fireflies, and lights. I sat

upon a mound of discarded helmets, never to see battle again, and waved my flag

to puzzled witnesses. It bore no color nor design, and was, in fact, transparent.

A child emerged, from out the crowd, a girl of 9 in stockings and dress,

and gazed on me a moment. Such innocence and knowledge mixed,

a face whose features etched my life in atmosphere itself — her curls like mathematics.

The orbits of her gaze became the fairest conflagrations of my visions,

and fair beyond the painter’s arts, or even that of angels.

In her hand, the subtlest curvatures; by which my own lacks range in fine comparisons.

Just then the sky turned dark, and by some trick of lambency,

her features were revoked, and in their place some shadows whirled,

spiraling, like smoke.



Elicity

To treasure fine elixers is to calibrate one’s dusts afore they are particulate,

but this is often said by those divers who later disappear as the author himself absconds

with every expectation of any reasonable future scene.Who will relieve us of this interminable weight,

as every penetration further tempts us to tilt away from reasonable angles,

toward the great and furtive radical which hath neither music nor measure?

None of them meant to mean anything that would later

subject them to the furor of referees, at the same time

nearly all of them did, in factsubmit their tightest treatises, having secreted their hopes

in lockets formed of the bronzed hearts of octopuses

and spiders. Did you covet any special

milk or laser, wrist or bullet, princess of bondage ( or bomb )?

These are the questions that you and I shall form together,

me in pleasing gestures, and you in broad absentia.

I will never sanction such allowing; without her nakedly we are all service you see, and some

might speculate that we are bondsmen, arrayed in heavenly regalia, dancing dangers,

whose eachwardly trusts are but the strangest of all investments.

I bank on your future fulfillment, and this is every writer’s poison, red minutiae

and purple petals all arrayed to form a finer instance of the moment’s

pleasant possibility. Again and again the game is narrowed and expanded,

all the players transformed into stage, the curtains become a fire of the possible,

the backdrop collapses into the turmoil of last witnesses.

And then, against every dark prophecy, and in spite of the most fertile terrors,

the green shoot of new children cracks through the inchoate stasis of the context.

Curving spirally from out from under the epic translations,



we will be given the mirrors we become,

across the sand,

across the elephants and the mountain kings.



Antitleon

Dearest potentiate, here we found her letter, stained with ruddy droplets,

amongst this veritable Africa. We were black then where the sound of shelter

pranced and fictioned with itself, arguing pro and constancy where presently we arranged for rancor, sooth, and effication.

Who came to grips with cracks in worlds, caves of crimson rip,

and time in eyes of living trees. Torn from Earth the light, in liquid birth, in might

— in power’s dreaming gyre,

these crystal morphs — dropping stars

amongst the inky murk which merges thento cool peripheries.

Malted talk about mortal fluff, nestled into the usual significations,

because the sweet, sweet thing

is the present tense — woven across the bones, always

there to point themselves out, to stand phonic and suspended,

these lies panprophetically engurgic.

Bring me your fevered valkyries, all their sullen remonstrations,

for which my remorse is made to solve, alighting gracefully

on foreheads not yet born, somehow I am sneezed into existence,

but the light is tilting sideways, always with this threat of me

sliding off the edge, invisibly, again.



A Sereia

Half of me was blinded by the light from her face,

the secret half was given sight unlike any previous seeing,

the world appears to me now to emerge from the waters of her — her swaying strands, her crystal coruscations.

Her soul whispers across the world, into my ear, and the flowers of my gardens explode

in bloom. When she goes into the ocean, I want to be the ocean.

When she comes again to air, I want to be the air.

The light itself must somehow become my fingers, my eyes.

The colors are her own children, and knowing her changes them — all —

to better reflect what is holy, and forbidden. I have never seen her movements,

and so everything becomes her movements,

here, away from all hope of meeting.

Impossibly married to the mermaid I cannot meet, one of my eyes now belongs to her...

and in me her eyes see her own light reflected back from a world gone ecstatic in unity.

Surely I shall miss the wall and strike it at velocity,

distracted now, with her every perfect frame.

Electrically motive, beyond my most hopeful evaluations,

I am the ghost of her in another body,

longing for reunion with my source.

In the stars of her eyes, I am young once more — and

lost in this recurrence of a cycle, I forget every necessary propriety.

At last I fall away from

the very fact of the world itself,

into skies gone to visions with desire,

and her distance.



Marcella

Lanced through inversions sought without ceasing,

she adores the child, who is tempting the moon to strike gold.

Several persons admire the shadow of the balustrades,happening to gather itself

just across from sounds of duty.

She lifts the child from the waters; his blade has certainly found purchase.

Dearest daughters, raised in sudden seed, dreaming waters from the waters

Eleven tremors of the gate, before it crashed, and fell to shards amid the shouts

The child’s hair is entangled with heaven, the Father’s eyes have briefly encumbered the dawnHere, the foods are sacrifices drawn to the orderly progressions of the court...

We have some sound from elderly hunters, from fallen Oaks.

It returns the announcement of its arrival into the gesture of arriving,

Orbitals concede their strangers to gather near the place of the birth

Far from interrupted, the Mother has regained every poise and premise,

The drums have engrossed the trees, ineffable fervors remonstrate with other stars and lights

Here she comes, unrecognized, her shape and scent surrounding the Father

Remote fissures and mounds recoil and shiver, ejecta scatter from the wreck’s source

On Sundays I fly upside-down through static forms and rationals,

none can find my pattern, there are slivers of me inside walruses.

The child holds a feather in his left hand, in the palm of his right there is a glow

Tomorrow we shall find the world ruled by silences,

differentiations,

turbulence.



Albuquerque

Albion, my altruistic verity the pleasantry of lapsed collations

I recall the pressure of your structure,

ages elapse and pass all regulated forest, all perhapses of differentiation.I will relieve you, sundry relatives and purposes, I will relieve you and recapture,

every supposition, every mode lost to trembling’s spin and westerly trend.

They trapped the dragonflies, trapped shadows of their wings, here

in thousandground, amongst the better sisters, the knights who serve the moon.

My mother left eggs in mail never sent,

the postman brings tomorrow out from seven towers. And here is where I fall, from there to her — my life.

And her is where I lived, and here is where I

leave every permanent structure

for the breath of futures not one but endless.

Every pattern reminiscent of the scent of her shadow,

every motion rendered meaningless,

in the absence of the gloried animal.



The Furtive Tribulations of Escapees

Walk the streets and look deeply into the eyes of the children of heaven.

And you will never tire of the ways of light and living water.

The powers falter in amongst the swans and doves... the tiny flowers floating. Truer shadows of departures, hints of births and glories yet to come.

The truth of the divine passes for nothing more easily than a stranger’s smile.

Under the silver waters, the spirits of the stars are dreaming, in the fishes, in the myriads.

Over the blue waters, the blue sky is dreaming, in all the eyes reaching up from home.

When your flowers turn to running colors, and the hours become magicians...

You will discover three prisons, twelve prisoners, and the seven men who count them.He who is speaking has lost the memory of names, the memory of a certain age.

Within the weather there are cycles of weather in weather. It’s inexactly spiral.

I have names for things and places, and values for experiences that are actually fleeting.

The chain binds me to forgiveness just as surely as it blinds me to my furies.

Under the snow, thousands of years ago, a mouse was frozen who will awaken as a lion.

The moon remembers, there are particular trees who have received the perfect signal.

Go now to the streets, and gaze into the living eyes of the children of heaven.

Every report will fail, every plan is more than all the maps and records.

The ways of light, the ways

of the yes,

of the living waters.



How to Write it All

I don’t know what to write, at all, so instead I will pull slivers from shelves,

imbed them in books, send these into the maze of matter, air, sunlight,

and cross impossible gaps into myriads of putative strangers.

Of these slivers I will make food for ghosts,

because, of course, it is merely shadows who attend this little exclamation.

It is discarnate beings who inspire it, move my fingers, ghosts who read it over whilst

endless crowds of changing eyes look on from every angle.

Is this comedy a circle? this tragedy a cube? — this half -pleased way of transit — is it spun from the between of things and beings, ways and circumstances?

Half the time my shadow is outside, the other half, inside. You follow?

If you pick up the mail, the girl ( the one your dream was with that night she... ) will ...

and from the cloistered chambers of near-passing comets, the rain

will take on their souls, nestled in cores of stone and ice, to land amongst the strangers,

amongst the eyes of those departed, those who never arrived,

those yet uncreated... flurries of celestial conversation.



à Propos

She is purported to have requested something more human, like philosophy.

In return I will write a month into butterflies, the egg becomes the body writing

its limitations and excesses into every fine contortion, have youheard the helicopters? Waiting there, wide-eyed in black water,

the whump- whumph of the blades somewhere

coming down on you from the sky?

And then again the howling noise, the tangling strands of chorus from dimension red

carried this day by Mariani. None will ever know

who put the stone in the bag with the kittensand dropped them from the bridge into the river far below.

I watch as, from the wreckage of the flower, bats and eagles emerge.

The possibility of the experiment wasn’t shielded from itself, the result

was outrage, and hours of the way this egg becomes a prospect, protozoan,

precollapsable, present.

There simply aren’t any more of me, said the Prince, as he felt that in fact,

numerism itself had come to refer to him. The waters then began to reflect the sky.

Previously, the warp in the mirror behaved itself, and kept the secrets secret.

Now, every subtlety threatened to emerge in musical patterns

from which the very future, quite certainly, would ensue.



Paliphiphery

Soon I will be collapsible again, however present company excluded,

the dangers will propagate appropriately from out the nations of their own better sound,

and the sleeping sons will, like pirouettes in smoke, have some purchase on the very canvases themselves. Their children, quietly singing into the ceiling fan, hearing that

bizarre irruption as the echoes swarm toward liquidsound, seeing in their minds

the color slipping down from some kind of extraterrestrial Ohio, I have the fingers of your

hands remembered, the fingers splayed against the very temperature of night’s inviolability.

We, the ambient, depart for the clean, clean longitude. We, the intermittently absolute, define

the waves’ amplitude, o generous bastard, o punctuation freak who polices the

black impregnations of simile and torn rejection.



Eventold

Here, away, these three sounds taken to last beyond my simpler measures…

And I see her, she who was reserved… I who was reserved for her.

There are a thousand cities between us, and we have never met. We are meeting. A thousand cities meet us, as we pass between

the fantasies of perfection and the facts of this easy -sounding adventure.

Here, we will live.

Between the wingbeats of hummingbirds amongst the flowers,

beyond and before all dates and places.

And I will be her every little thing. And she will, at last, be everywhere.



The Children in the Language( s )

And none will ever understand, the pressure of the code within these signs,

these brushed scratches from light, my purer force of chanced triumph,

blessed stumbling, the finality become neither abject nor like lightning in success.

In the numbers there are dogs made of sky, who hunt the sigil, night and function,

none will ever mention how these ancient slumbers dream themselves to fact

words...the crushing press of codes precedes all future and all folly.

The undersound will please me, in its turn, slain to rapture, present to each new dimension.

Here we shall envitalize each other once again, so long to recapitulate the features of the story,so delicately sketched in organs whose magic escapes all academic category.

Understanding isn’t ripe, but the transpositions happen — the networks of real and irreal;

you can hear the way the living nodes will sing, express, collapse, reply, disappear, and find

goodly purchase in the microsomal flesh thriving deep within the hidden hour.

The doors are bereft of questions, and thus to proceed we must make many doors within

the between of the doorway itself. As this happened, the children up and disappeared, each

with a peculiar musical sound accompanying the scent remaining in the air, after the lightning.



Aligne

Begin a line as if you were addressing a letter, then the steps will disappear into your own

patterns, the crux of symmetry will at last become itself in you — you, who hope for powers

of ascension, who dream the light’s escaped retrancings as it stories through its heavenly directives. I will hold myself apart within the rush of movements, and the records will fall,

never encompassing the superiorities of transformation, who give their moment of inertia

to the patterns from which our dreams emerge. A line as if the crux of myself at last became

itself in you, and we will disappear into the letter of ascension, held apart within the rush

of powers, patterns, directives. And the records were like addresses, who give their patterns

to the symmetry of light’s escaped superiorities, you, who hope that the steps will disappear

into your own dream’s heavenly encompassings.



There’s Plenty Clemency

There is no cause but meeting in a sudden shower.

The eleventh seeing in the lengthwise thought, their battlefield involvement, all of these

will assert their equivalent involutions. Certain subjects, she will point out, are almost furtive,lacking the essential gravity with which we might amend our order, our shown refutations,

even

these subtle observances made as if under constant surveillance.

The explosions happened inside-out.

Travel south along the sense of her disappearance, where new versions of the accident

are overhappening; our reception is of course compromised in these very fashionable styles, yet how easily the children overcome everything that beguiles the studious elders. They

needn’t even have this in mind.

Experimentally you could say that the subjects outgrew pre-established frameworks.

Here you have this guy who, well...you can see where I’m going. There was a ploy,

embodied in a plot, and we both knew this guy was guilty from the get- go.

Seventeen years ago the organist walked me to the door and said ‘You will fly now’.

I would love to discover the way to explain what this would come to mean.

You will see secret gestures hidden in shadows, but their hands are completely honest.

Who would not be given such a hand, to take it further than some modern implication?

The water-creature’s toy is a hypercube, if you should find this, retain your distance.

In the heart of an overpowering transit, everywhen is found, and once found,

you simply disappear.



The Visiting Victories

The encumbrances of academic acknowledgements, the pastoral liquidations,

have your port be awash in a bewilderment of mercenaries, or you could select

some circuitous bouquet whose splendor is so profound that it justcontinuously gives birth to rivals wherever it is revealed...

Another salvo of perpetual crisis in the form of erratic language,

gestures rising up from the perilous distance of trim, the distance of angles.

We would later report that there was an evident geometry, originally overlooked.

Later, the child’s poem contained this poem containing it.

It’s less and less possible to be naked here, in the actual verdancy of the remembered.

I’d like to know more, sound further depths, but the possibilities of quotation

surround and aggrieve me. My swallows withhold their migrations, diverting to the garrison,

where lately men dreamt of fiery lizards, salamanders, and winged horses.

A man whose horse was worlds. You wish the traces rendered into steps to follow, home,

to the long birthday, the risen correlation of opposing force’s latest methods of painting

these endless areas of the child. Of the child of the Orange, it turns out is an excellent

philosophy to adapt to flying with me now.



We Didn’t Dare To

Thirty -seven million years ago the bone of a dinosaur wasn’t having

itself unburied in ambulances, or tricky little station- wagons with

extra juice, there was instead a sort of embolism, you would say volcanic, really, involving magmic flutter amid the protests of

a great number of ‘those who were eventually disenfranchised’ was

the newspeak for it; of course some people were literally blown

into dreamspace. Honey, have a few more of these hammers, please,

there are many occasionally rare condiments, none of them were ever found.

And all those workers, those faces eventually tangled in time, lucky titles won,and severances despised, there more loose than extra, you would call it

the name of a place, but it would mean the name of a time. Weeks so vitally

critical of some people we literally flutter, eventually harvested by speakers

from any direction exuding grandeur. The occasions of our stations, unburied

in our gestures, the hopes we never dared to speak, you see, the crescent of the moon

implies all of this, and this is not the beginning of it. None of them,

none of them at all were ever found.



Upend Those Henchmen, Please My Garden

When circumstances became immediate a door crossed swords with the Enemy.

( running, and surrounding the lost three ) The door was opened and men shouted;

the sounds of metal and clicking, light bursting outward just before his voice, a shocking burst of brightness, followed by debris, flags, bits of jewelry, charred

candlesticks. Ready to be made by my departure, as was so often the case, a number

of men who appeared to be hunters arrived. They seemed from another world,

carriers of an living emanation authorized by the Stars and the Everything.

The original purposes lie encoded in the patterns informing the emergence

of blossoms. Within the generations people of great wisdom have been misled;and reason lies in living creatures. It is like an archipelago of histories, but inverted,

such that only the invisible parts ( the submerged parts ) are consistently habitable.

Over time, we become these islands and learn familiarity with depths that defy measure,

since neither the surface nor the bottom can be sounded. Yet each door still becomes

a circlet of flowers. Inside the Enemy, the shouts mended themselves, as, nearby,

the hunters followed circles of wind in the sky. We are still aquatic even now, and all of us

remain convinced that the square’s excellence is surely too nakedly ordered.



Line of Married Sovereigns

Through stems and stalks of every green or woody form,

rough with themes we talk off the implicit blue of skies

do you remember my good memory again, here from the lake’smany evaporations, the ghost of it, following our shadows through

their constant transformations? And you, from lands beyond me,

with your flowerings and sudden atmospheres, in whom I’ve hid

my time and treasures.

We have for too long now been walking in the sky,

and thinking ourselves still grounded, because we mistakethe real for the actually objective. Here in my hands, I have

two palms, and each one elicits dreams from other worlds,

other times. From the very crucible of the impossible. And

we become these dreams, but think ourselves machines?

This will be another hypnolution, formed from certain angles which

emit a tangible factor whose function is to compel us to watch the

profusion of stasis, and miss its stranger sources.

In years from within now, the colonists will find ancient maps,

previously misapprehended. In these maps the riddles

will not be solved, but opened,

like alien dimensions too familiar to fulfill our standards.



7 Sectors

I have a white snail. Inside the woman is a black jaguar.

The snail is a living term expressed by The Spiraling.

The hero is a circle in the darkness of the jaguar, who,in slipping through the world,

becomes again my progress, the blind one’s inclinations.

When the very quiet man began to speak, each world aged him three years.

“This child’s soul is a tornado, its smoke is like a snail, and the walls are made of jaguars.”

All of the dust in the battle of light streaming in around the frames,

around all the more necessary stories we’d thus far conserved.Here, the quiet man was really just the sound of their membranous wings,

brushing busily against each other in the shadows of their rooms.

The entire sanction is comprised of birds. Each of these birds is a world of eyes.

In these words, there are plants, comfort, storms, and other cartoons.

As you come to them, you will be known, and you will begin to understand

the fundamental integrity of metonymy. Later children will read encyclopedias

in the languages of pollen with their mouths.

At last, we will see that the seeing was the seed from whence a deeper way arose.

The water of dreaming absorbs our haste. Drink, and we

shall find the rightward emblems, the furtive chances held against combat,

the seven sectors of my father’s eye.



In the Star’s Dream, Some Terrains Were Fission

Drowned affiliates today denounced present temper’s thinning encapsulations of

the literal angle, wherein the sounds could become authentic, and the felt movements

would bring us round from out the shelters, to ocean shells, where the living thingsswarmed gloriously, had formed whole rhapsodies of themselves, there,

in the naturalness which was the very basis of the there. Here, where the opposite

obtains, a lawyerly calm descends over the assembly. “We have come to address the issue

of Lions existing inside tiny bubbles of water” and “No one can accuse everything of having

failed to suppose itself adequately into our actual experience”. The masks of the loosely

affiliated observers are evolving as we speak, full of clemency for the upended.

Lost to offers of glazed obedience, lambs follow the day’s clockwork as we collapse into

conflagration. Here, along the embroiling future of plain interiority, capacity is not condition,

potential not yet symptom, and the jobs of space want to know about all the little categories,

pleasingly arrayed like falling mist, or apple-pressure — as if fossilized sound comprised the

penetrating isness of every urgent utterance. From what shall we choose the next set of forms

our functions will surely elicit?

Cells from ultimatums, bring me country as I here elapse and found these many derivations,

anything we’d like was understood without our better inclinations. How to suppose a kind of

activation which will not be so easily alleviated, some self -assembling resonance heretofore

unimaginable, yet present everywhere as pure potential.

We hadn’t known that we’d been the gravity

of dependent histories drawn onward, unspiralling through

swarming orders of possible reals, simulations,

memories, distortions, errata.



Quintosome

Futures lapsing into droplets, the rain has its children, and the children

are a music of circles. You can hear the latches, late at night, the breathing

of the catchers. None can see them, all their gear, the special uniforms.

All around the turntable there are children’s stories, tendrils of association

held immutable through generations, all those long departed timefarers,

the places they left behind, fairly ringing with their souls’ expressions.

The broken architecture of the walls, their abandonment to atmosphere and moments

passing through the world, through us, our eyes. Our own adornments, shelters,the marks that time writes into us like books in secret languages.

Hold me closer as the dance’s cycles raise and calm us, I want to feel

your breath upon the tiny hairs of my cheek, my ear, I want to smell again

the ancient chemistry of your breath. This, without you, this is not breathing.

How long shall we languish here, stranded and estranged, becalmed in the ruddy

flower of thickening time. Wrapped up in bandages. There are parts of molds,

templates, schemas all attached to us here. We can no longer fit into the ships.



Was Then Sold

I would like you to imagine orange. There are several forms of thirst we will here examine,

however please continue to imagine as previously suggested. The saw with which the event in

question commenced was recently discovered; here are the sounds of several children lostduring the ensuing confusion.

For a moment, imagine blue, then return immediately to an even more charismatic orange than

the one you had previously been holding in mind.

Please return to imagining purple now, the scent of collapsing quasars off the delta of 727. Here

we shall hold our memorial, in the flying explosion of pyrotic generations, a small sum of

accelerants married to the idea of this way of traveling. Imagine purple shot through with

orange. Traveling through a mysterious corridor of stone, the scent of damp earth permeating

the senses, and here we find no cadaver, no murder, not even a crime; simply the present glimmer

of light from undisclosed sources, the eyeless wanderlings. At junctures deep within the

labyrinth, umbrels and ponycones lay fiercely entangled, of course — our fingers were

entwined.

There were endless diversities of them. The forms. Evergreens and all of those little distinct

ways of appearing to be on the ground together.

4 million years without noticeable change because, of course, they were perfect to begin with! And

you can see how their improvised escapes trump the wildest sorts of technology which we allshall agree simply cannot compare. Imagine the verdant green of the rainforest, the serpents.

Let this green call out to you, informing the very structure of your bones. The dinosaur species

had its name first pronounced in a Norwegian dialect, having encompassed the myth of stony

chondrites without further confirmations.

And you were born, their question, purified through endless streams of erroring and death.

You were born their celebration, the source of traveling itself, a mysterious order enclosed in

such delicate futurity. The soul of their beloved. The present glimmer of blue and orange,

purple. Green.



Unsounding A Call

Numbered columns begat the interplay of unifications, some mass of data,

unclassifiable, being addressed by cosmological peripheries. Here, on the

staging area where the examinations are conducted,any future candidate is as good as research.

Underneath the prevalent noises, radio astronomy made a map of intense sources,

entire ranges of nonoptical emissions seized upon by enormous distances; the births

of galaxies synthesized from nonempty nonshiningness. There is a species of bubble

whose function it is to produce ways rather than outcomes, and these decay instantly

when approached with any preconceptions regarding measurement.

The analogous white lines are a phase transition, inflated and smoothed, their promise

is the ultimate paradox of halos formed within the entire population of right now.

A field whose character imbues them with mass? The ball’s dog is perfected

through the various transformations that his motions are only the expression

of; and we, the believers, have exchanged much of color for charm, beauty for strangeness.

In terms of truth, our traditional strategies of proportional shimmering

happen primarily by extrapolation.

Giant mirrors are duplicitous to the very degree we have failed to comprehend the dandelion,

and whosoever regards these initial asymmetries recombines abundances of temporary

stabilization, and this resolves to language without the slightest sound.



A Third of the Story

When the dog turned inside-out a cat was revealed whose method of escape had

involved the widespread promulgation of an emulative gesture — one that made

the cat appear to be reading words from the magazines. Each of the morsels of food was pressed into the shape of an adventure which such a dog once had. These, when

spread out on a dish or other surface, naturally arranged themselves into narratives.

In the first story, the cat gave birth to the fire, and the fire gave birth to the dog. Thereafter

there was a gathering, at which the silverware arranged itself into symbols and algorithmic

equivalency theorems, and fairly -tale plot schemas. One grasshopper gave rise to clouds

of locusts, and thus the lamb contains the flying lion.

In the second story, the cat was born from the mouse’s eye, in a moment of lightning. This

left a hole in heaven which we used to call ‘the elevator’.

We would ride it into the living bodies.

The first ones to cross over were heroes, because no one knew what lay on the other side.

Later, we invented various scenarios and limitations in order to further complicate the game.

You reading this comprises just such a scenario.

In the third story, the moon was implicated in a virgin birth from whence the very source of

stories themselves would emerge. This story superseded its predecessors, even though they

happened before it did. Various other logistical problems ensued. There was, it turned out,

a small room which remained undisturbed for many years. In the end, we found

an elaborate vase in the center of the room, always filled with clean water,

and three peculiar flowers.

Just think of this third story as one of those flowers

In the hidden room, History made masks for itself...

surrendering to various paradigms of evaluation. One of the masks, a fiction,

has taken me, and moves me around the game-board,



while I signify various speculative angles.

You are these angles, however I cannot yet detect you.

I speak to you of the superfluous capacities of flow;

characters and dimensionalities of intrauterine conversations.

There isn’t really any Idaho. Kansas exists only in relation to those distant orbitals whose

perturbations give birth to our ideas. We’re all exchanging little germinations constantly,

and should not be surprised that insects and ghosts involve themselves. Of course, these can

never be statements, affected as they are by the clause

prohibiting affected astral dynamisms

as might comprise a schema from which malign dolls derive.

The known sources of exerted futures act similarly; where the language has

breached all approximations of whats and orderly process, there is a vortex

emerging in our own position, as our own position, and here is where this

body of semantic appropriation of deteriorating icons has it’s fineries and palaces.



Upper Central Stratospheric Functions

My folded fingers span the wards, the hallways

endless miles of tubes, all those systems

of delivery. And there they are, arrayed in stacks,against the side of the mountain, in the light of the sky

surrounded by all the daily things and ways ( of acting ).

Like any dream, attendants vary, some are undecided,

others make holes or administer chemistries. Outside,

several strangers may as well be puppets

for all the purchase their movements have on local circumstance.

Are we yet betrayed?

The dawn held secret covenant with transmutations

deep inside the harmonic extremities of color itself.

Princesses were interviewed, and suitors of many stripes examined.

The battles all invisible, held in the womb of a darkness almost

perfectly internal.

Irradiated blood.

My friend’s comfort or discomfort.



Responsive: 050409

The wind drives the fallen petals in spirals.

Their soft associations inform the very atmosphere.

Half a ballerina can still apply her butterfly adeptly. Tomorrow no further absolutes are inferred from abstractions.

There’s the natural tendril of thunder, further prohibiting this urgency.

Under her language, I’ve established 27 places for caching astral measurements.

You are actively connecting these intelligences, like proliferations of peripheries.

Here are the words as I have recorded them into us; do you recall their order?

Fog pours over my cup’s edges where this has never happened.

The correct Jessica is of course the beautifully dead Jessica is now speaking.

Another future of yesterdays impinged itself into our familiar language gestures.

I here further comprise the circle’s largely transliteral implications.



This Thunderous Coverlet

In his perception of danger, let me make him Christ, a way that might allow

information waves into iridescent word. As an illusion, numbers are sticky;

back in the 60’s ( they said ), a book on the philosopher’s stone was the basis.

Each summer is another mathematician’s predicament. I begin here to fall away

from the urgency of common interrogations, and to Saturn I devote this.

Yet, shall we be allowed to broaden perfect vantages,

outcornering their aspect in every variance?

One imagines thousands of lifetimes, many simultaneous transitives of extancy.Rhythms founding turbulences glad and new, lost to collude with dust once more vital

than brightness expressed in the purest hues. Let me allow the winter’s force, uncurtailed.

We’ve slid awry to story every proposition, treating nuances to daggers, and petals

to but the barest of translations. From allusion together retrieve several insubstantial corbels,

and fit to inure the storm, three positions will describe an almost pure projection.



2002 wR/ 2010 AG 30

Rising up into to seek the circle where all the vectors meet

juries will pronounce that I have been unruly by order

you cannot really say this is prospecting for undulations or loavesmy perspectival absolution has here brought us all a future pasture

I am rising faster, unannounced and cannot say in which annunciations

of the circle’s tidal lapses you will find the perturbations, repetitions, echoes

who are novelty in the semblance of the familiar, fundamental to recognition.

The stranger positions are those inhabited by the hairs of her yes, irrespective

of the shades inside the shadow all those sketches of abalone how different from opals

I would like here to suggest that moonlight is less physics and more something having to do with the subvocalizations of the dead, the rememberingness of atmospheres

over fallen leaves, the mystery of the skeletal cat who rises to prowl at dawn, enters this poem

through commas, and disappears into us from the world of things and means.



Joining Certain Spandrels

registering visions, the dream emerged from above

the gentlest perfections transpired again within us

her sound and how it drew me downto the split ghost of myself reflected in her gaze.

she offers bread and i’m too baffled, the light upon the water

the water on my eyes within her light, expansive conspiracies

forms and reflection — the bread upon the light within her hands.

sweet resonance her voice, even now, she is here, arriving,has always been beside me. the birds landing in the water.

and again just gone. here, the quiet smoldering as myself,

for i was afire there, and near the door i’d hold

her like the path we took forever,

through the all the world’s secret labyrinths.

and now i must remember everything, the light inrushing from her,

every angle of the miracle that somehow happened, and she will keep

the secret i have now become away from any possibility, and i

will find a way somehow ( the nymphs of the stair ascend and dissolve )

to let her temples sink from view, and but encumbrances become

beneath the sands inside me, up from whence my heart so dearly raised them.



mise‐en‐abyme

unrepresented by the tenor of these many diffusions she’d favor antitheory in certaintriumphant gestures and you cannot yet discern the further utterances from within this long trembling practiced through proficiency into the invisible, the unspeakable thusness thatprecedes any rain.

at the stones we made our absolutions prevalent, mercurial apprehensions raised thoroughbredchildren as if to erase our readings, the rituals and rites, all the merry labyrinths for which thedolls are fashioned and — to which the dancers flock.

down listening how the grains surrounded our mistake, its hand, like a sequential codicil of decaying cyphers. will you accept the gun? otherwise an alternative method of crucializationmight splay its roots into any peculiar situation you’d have to have otherwise absconded tosurpass.

somehow, for our sake, the night arose, handling us like waters it had spawned from the very rudiments of memory, vessels cascading forward through unimaginable transformations.

bring down from high the anciently established glories and we shall again have known a worthy repast as the incalculable elegance of the moth becomes actual fire during ascent. incandescentprosecutions of smoldering pulses, a prescription for translating the entirety of one’s being intoand through the membranous dividers that warp and sign, collapsing in upon themselves intransegmental series.

suspensory terrains invert my highlights with such unparalleled sweetness as is known toattract even the most exotic afterlives, and will it will please your fury to decide the question’shidings and detractions, here, before we’ve thought to begin arranging erasures of thesereadings — here held hopefully before you all, for nothing more than night’s sake, the eleganceof the endless identities glistening above the very world itself. and i became the suddensounding of my disappearances, and you were not the audience, but indeed the authors of me,as we were all increasingly aware.

here, now, her shadows coalesce against the angles of many surfaces at once, each shadow forms her moment, and my own seeing. her movements, such authoritative superstructures,begat mine have only begun to receive the attentions of those whose vocation it is become toshut me.

our you has been overserialized for sales to wires and discoplasma bereft of duties all theseturning children have ( and I want to tell you this ) ‘expressed certain machines for which therecan be no further absolution, or dissent’. i’m wise to you, see. wise to the summer of implicatedfusillades — of unsubstantiated instigations, wise to the sound of my own furtive echoes,extablishing the very boundaries of the numinous. shearing off at right angles from thereflections, it is, in the end, our own bodies who receive and transmute the lethal project:



Eschew Traditional Rolls

The surface of the water is a movement so like music, the light of it, twisting and swirling.

You shall recover the source of keys, then the source of recoveries, and then…

the singing silence.

Seven wings with four fires, twelve eyes whose lightnings reach beyond disaster’s plane

I’ve had this line that breaches every door, follows every child’s purpose, asking treason,

spoken fluently.

Whose arrow is this? This again, again, discharged, again, displaced, again, discovered?

Within love I am a lens, within the lens, I am a love, within the love I am as a dragonfly inmystery, driven forth from history’s tempest to sound the trumpet’s silence.

Within the arrow, the bow’s string is become thunder-child, turning end under the between

some origami caused of folded dreams, torn waters bending rainbows, the epic

of the salmon’s tail gone truly into the depth of the first most perfect riddle.



Cichehkryium

i wake — you making me you — sounder, you sound makie

you awake making — me sound — your sounding, you awakening

me I am sound — you sound makery, your make makei would like to hear you repeated, the way you are repeating

in my making sound of you, i am repeated in your make

here i am taking your meaning, of yousounds. i am coming awake please.

i am door-making. makery door, window of your sound we awaken.

her sound unexpectedly light, my makery make indivinvisible.



2002 tM / 2010 AL30

the red turbans meeting all these freshly overturned goblins,

i have pressure, collapsible envelopes of hope, i have stunned

the vanguard, here, at the necessary boundary between wherei rose and where i shall indeed lay dawn to last

the many fevers have come, whispering in my curvatures

of fortunes lost and favors retraced, the balloon, previously frozen, shattered.

and i have slept, and fallen, i have washed and cried out until the heart of the sky

turned red

here, still within you, i am ours.



Revile Reveal Reveille

you do not want to cave to the first transmission of mastery’s imposters

neither should you please yourself in volunteering for the big capacity

various smashings and ultimatums seem certain to ensue; the terminustoss the room, spill the literature, my game, you see, has disappeared

all that now remains is the clues, like the bones of old terrain once trusted

but now mistaken, fraught with fatal errors of identity and relation

summoned up beneath the nothing they kept saying so loudly, you

will see him climb all of a sudden up from the shadow, into the spotlight.

a wraith whose language grows more mechanical with each communicationabove the place where the ocean meets the stars in their impulsive coilings.

with but a single foot his arch tears children all asunder, their mothers splattered,

unmade, leaking away into droplets.

a bear is near the door who none shall pass, his rod of otherNess perfected,

and the fathers with their daughters stand remembered,

three leafs, four blossoms. The red tree sprouts from the center of the ancient garden.



Chikotkapii

The quiet comes around, has its way with spaces,

something outside

The cartoon has cometo visit unannounced. The lapsed processes,

which is a shape that language

must forever balk before.

You’d want these ways, but no

one finds me I

did not go absent,as was the common rumor

the wrecks that haunt these distant

shores are not so sudden

shorn of valor, between these certainties

families disappearing

my shells


http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/wonder-luck 44/44

metabolism is the business OF EVERY DEAR DEPARTURE.

P.S: Henrietta Lacks Lives

so obviously a matter of never remaining at rest

a particular Life produces cometary progenitorsand other effusive authorities. no one’s sugar is

always sweeter, but it’s really about getting the thing

to turn on — and the ceaseless interrupts.

light itself results in butterflies. further to the permanent

snows of two thousand million years ago, you have become

my passenger. we are now each other’s now.

footless ghosts of gas in their vaporous spiraline ejecta,

the path the map itself followed,

unencumbered by observers.

the transvectored understanding of insects or mollusks

actually producing human intelligence directly,

crickets spawning in the spring wheat

the stones of Earth themselves

emitting living light

wonder luck

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