Astronomer in his tower.
Outside, the cloudy flowers of atmosphere.
Up above the twingling flowers of the light years. Let the years light
upon you. Let the light years sit light upon you. The sea years, breaking
calmly on your shouldershore. Surf roses and crustaceans burrowing in
the sand. Rocks with breaking surf around them, seen from the
clifftops, look like flowers.
Stars emit time.
Stars trail light years behind them. Light years rise to
the top while
the others sink down and melt into a black shiny pool. People attach
ropes and baskets to the lightest light years, then lurch into the sky.
The lighter than air years. Lighter than the Air Years. The lighter of
the Air Years? Zippo!
Style geese. The Geese of Time. The V-Geese, the Victory
Geese,
flying in a vee, toward southern Nazi Germany. B-17's and B-25's are
Victory Geese. Steel geese and iron rivets.
Geesus! Jesus Geese! The geese of Christ. Christ led the
gaggle to
Golgotha. Roman soldiers giggled on Golgotha. Don't act so surprised —
if someone came along today with the same M.O., you'd clamor for his
execution. And sigh relieved when he died.
Guys in the guise of geese, guiding geese on voyages of keen
release.
The original poetic archetypes
were formed in the explosion of the
universe, and over time elaborated upon by copyists. Emulate the big
bang! Explode new nuclear formations, new storm nations, into the
shocked, radiated void — don't be afraid of moaning nebular ghosts and
screaming x-rays. The formation of universes isn't a job for the week!
Build your bulging godmuscles.
You have to shove through the murk before the murk knows
to give
way. It sees you want to go there, then pulls back like friendly tar.
The murk wants to know you mean it. Don't be hypnotized by the
rainbow patterns, the rainbox patterns, the vox populi of the rainwalks
— the road of yellowy brix will slowly appear, created just in the nick of
time by feet with surface confidence.
Feet create the roads they want to walk. You think the big
bang
didn't meet resistance? What "nothing" was there that the big bang
banged into? Can we postulate a big bang and still believe in
thermodynamics? No energy is created or destroyed...well, except for in
this one instance? Seated on several parallel stacks of contradictory
and arbitrary theoreticals, deriding all these bibles as mythos? What
the fuck!
The universe was a virgin before the big bang. He tore her
hymen. It
was a membrane of murk. Monkmurk, the tar of the uncreated, thick
syrupy virginblood.
Every new idea is a big bang. I desire nothing less than
the spasms
of novel universe novas. Novals. Novaverse. The Nova Police flash by,
searching for Bill. But he has fled to the Land of the Dead.
Novalogic. Novallogic. No valence logic to these atoms, nor
violence.
What's between quantum states? The same stuff as the universe before
the big bang. The blank immaterial virgin matrix. Hidden smiles in
the lightless uncreated — make light with your eyes! Eyes make light
like radar — bounce it off things. Oh yeah? Prove me wrong!
Prove a remove, Prevost! A votre sante, Santa. Bring
me a sleighful
of proof this Xmas. Kissmas. Christmiass. Eyeradar. Radarded.
Redounded redarded in the redoubtable...
I slowcreate exquisite external paranoramas.
See years. Sea years. Sea
yeers. See yeers. Seieres. Sereis años.
The seers see years. The seers of the sea years see the seven
seas of
years.
These seven years were seen as the Sea Years. Green sea years,
with
nothing in between them. Leafing through the weaving waves, lazing
in the waving weaves, a green seagull lolling on the bobbing, popping
waves.
The seas on this planet are of carbonated water. Water with
extra
car bones in it. The bones of cars show when cars are burnt to ashes on
funeral pyres. Their tyres offer prayers of the blackest smoke up to
heaven in a brightflamed liquidy string. Their wives sit suttee in the
passenger seats, alongside their staring dead husbands. They often
reconsider at the last moment — but the doors are locked from the outside,
and the fire masks their screams. Hair, fingers like worms writhing against
the
foggy makeout glass — the aunts turn away, and make the protective sign
of Mother Ganga.
It's said that when the skulls pop from the heat, a sense
of release
sags through the crowd. The spirit let free at last! Watch for the burnt
carbon bone chips! Flesh's last laugh — a splinter of your friend in your eye!
Sucking stars in soda.
Seeing stars reflected in the years. Years of cars.
Carloads of years. Look into the night sky and see the millions of years
hanging there like drying stockings. Here and there a dash of carbolic
acid, somewhere near the Coalsack.
Stars are soda bubbles. The skies effervesce from dusk to
dawn.
Bubbles of carbon. Bones of carbon. Carbonated bone chips from the
immolated skulls.
The Green Seers.
Green years. Blue years. White years. Yellow years.
Green sea years. Blue whale years. White sky years. Yellow sun years.
Yellow corn years. White light years. Blue dusk years. Green lawn
years.
Years are pears. Bloom, ripen & fall during the green pear years.
The near years, the far years. The near side of the white years, and the
farside.
Queer years. Queer queen years. The Green Queen years. The Green Sereis:
The Green Will Be.
Lying on the green blanket
sea, the seared green blanket — it lay
heaped atop the camper, where its exposed ridges were baked white by
the sun. Spread flat, it's tiger-striped. Where do these bedclothes come
from? Over the years, bedclothes and towels and furniture collected
from many unknown sources, among the buddies and roommates.
Roommates and noodles. The Ramen Years. Pots of macaroni
and
tuna. Instant coffee and chocolate. Thin foam galaxies 3 inches in
diameter. A linoleum table. Cinderblocks. Particleboard shelves. Black
& white TV. Tapes. Wordstar. CP/M. 8-inch disks.
Years are ears. They capture
sound and hold it, on ice, cold it. Each
year is a box full of boxes of life. The trinkets of life experiences. The
souvenirs of the life expectancies. An expectant life mother.
Burning insense in centavos.
In sense años. Insensitive insanities
provide incentive. The insensitive centuries shirk their responsibilities.
Put a clean white shirt on the years. Put a clean white skirt on the
years. Measure the echoes with the insensometer.
The flyears. The astral
flyears. The austral flyears.
The gnat years. The beaten spat years. They spat teeth and
years.
Years were caught in the gears, and so the gears froze, an ice age. It
took the Year Team an indefinite amount of time to pry the years free
from the gears. (There was, as you might have guessed, no way to
measure the interval.)
Meanwhile, the rulers stood erect, trying to order everyone
around.
The compasses were full of circumlocution, the calipers poked fun at
everyone, the scales equivocated, trying to keep everything on an even
keel, while the wheels, wailing, ran round in circles.
Whales can be amphibious — if they have whale wheels. Some
whales
have been known to grow wheels, rims from baleen material, tires of
blubber. If you go out some nights, you can catch them popping wheelies
all up and down the strand. If they see you, they'll burn blubber and screech
away into the waves. Unless you very quickly make the magic sign of Jonah.
Years are dogeared, and
turn up at the corners. They fly away like old
leaves. Plentiful and prosaic as old leafmatter. If all the years were in
your yard, you'd be raking for an aeon.
In Hell, I've heard tell, it's always fall. You get there,
and Satan
hands you a rake. That's a joke I made up 12 years ago now. Years
come more cheaply as years come. They flake like dandruff.
Media flacks picking at the corners, always trying to peel
you up. To
peel you like a banana.
Give the girl a green gown.
A tumble in the grass, a greenstained
dress. She's the Green Queen. The Greeninator. The Green Goddess in
the graceful green grass. The grass of grace, state of grace in the grass.
Grassy graces play in green Bee Spring.
Spiraling spring belief — it will soon be spring again here.
It can be
sunshine. It can be spring. Inspring. The greengold godwinds. Lemon
trees outside, bursting with fruit in the winter, waxy green leaves and
round hard yellow balls. Kitchens, lemony smells, winter's lemony in
Southern California, the lemon sun slants through the crackling
streets over the hard prickly lawns into the tinsel-decorated windows
across the golden lacquered floors across the sleeping cats, a glowing
shaft of spiraling dustmotes, winter motes that will be reencountered
in the spring cleaning, spiraling again in perennial May.
They have May every year, you know. March, April, May, the
triumvirate. March is persimmon orange. April is coral pink. May is
magenta, magic magenta agent of spring. Secret spring agents are on
the loose in those months, loosing goosing moods of moony feathers.
May's magenta, magnetically attracted to June, which ripens
and
washes out the colors over the summer. Lemon June. Tangerine June.
Digging a tunnel to heaven.
Break through round about eleven.
Heaven's the land of the midnight sun. Heaven is full of blue sports
and crazy weather systems.
Here in the blue filters of imagination, I fiddle with the
realities of
the world. The blue fliers dive and swoop.
Before you go to bed, put
out some food for the Time Being. Don't wake
up in the middle of the night and definitely don't sneak down and
surprise him — he'll jump and flee and won't leave a tomorrow!
The Time Being hefts a sac of tomorrows. Furrowed brow, he
gazes
down at you dreaming and sees the sumtotal of your desires. He then
extracts a suitable tomorrow and leaves it at the foot of your bed like
clothes. By morning it has expanded to fill your universe.
A Platonic year is 25,920
years. Precession of the equinoxes. A Great
year. An Age is 2160 years. The Age of Aquarius begins sometime within
the next 100 years. Not just yet, hippies! There are still a few clampdowns
left to go! So throw on your hip-waders, grab a machine gun, and let's get
it over with!
The red light years. The
green light years. You'll notice the traffic light
flavors — melon, banana, cherry.
The pink labia years. The Lamia labia years. The licking
Lamia
years. The licking lame Lamia gears, limping interlocking through the
years.
The white light years. The bright side years. The side salad
years.
Tearing through the tear years. The green tea years tore
green tea
leaves into prophetic patterns. Slatterns read patterns in the green
teas. Then they tore out into the years to buy gear stocks, having seen
gears go gold in gladder years. Gears of solid God, churning out the
greengold godwinds.
Unwind the wind. Unwind in the wind. Let the wind win. As
the
wind races around the pylons, an air race with itself, doing laps around
the vast outdoor arena — let it win. Let it wind around the pylons,
smelling like wine. Let it wind around the grapes of the trees and
unwind in the winey rain.
Let it wind around the pylons, plying its trade among the
rains. The
wind rose and came forth from the four points of the compass, rose up
on its haunches and barreled downslope, gaining energy and heat.
Heating up hungry to eat the snow off the ground.
Go to the high mountain where the winds' wire windings are
showing. Here's the gigantic turbine of the wind, flecked with chthonic
tarnish from the unimaginable ages. Had the ancients known of such
things, their maps would've showed this machine, rather than the
puffed out cheeks of hoary godmen.
Oceanliner propellers fashioned by unknown hands from out
of the
benthic depths of time. Metals smelted in the middle time, Midzeit, in
the opening of time, when time was new and hung with bunting and
banners.
Purling gurls unfurl curly whirling worlds. Here in the airframes
of
Transoceana. An entire country living on anti-gravs roaming over the
surface of the waves.
1. The drunk sex years.
The trunk drive-in years. The drunk driving
years.
2. The white camper years. The green Pinto years. The blue pool
years.
3. The green ocean years. The brown library years. The pink breast
years. The red baby years. The blue morning years.
The amber
evening years. The gold nighttime years. The golden
morning years.
The golden morning golden years.
Circlets of weird wordworlds.
Lock me in the word ward with the
wordos. Those weird wordos. Weird does gallop through trees that are
only descriptions of trees. Trees that are only explanations of trees,
such as you find in science books.
Blurred wordlings, circles of waxy worldlines, surly surlings.
Fingertails walking on the yellow rails. Let your fingers do the walking
through the yellow rages. Fingertales walking across the surface of
your corneas. The years purr with purling water. The years are full of
purring otters.
Blurry wordy furry circles. Cirlcles. Girlcles. Girlicles.
Garlic girls
swing icicles. Dreamicles hang from the nipples of the Icicle Girls.
The only thing we have
to fear are years themselves!
The green leaf years. Fall
leaves go from green to yellow to orange to red.
Then Fall. This is the order of the visible spectrum. It's a motif, a recurrent
theme among the systems of nature, the understanding of which creates
new useful associations.
The Lightleaf Motif. Once the soul of the leaf crosses
the threshold of
visible light into the infared, then the leaf itself at last is dead, and its
husk
free to fall. When the souls of new leaves rise up the trunk, they're rising
into the visible universe, through the ultraviolet, then glimmering: violet,
indigo, blue, and when they reach the stems, they're green and it's time to
be born!
This answers the old question of why some ghosts are
red, and some
are blue. A question which has perplexed natural scientists and
astronomers through the ages. It can now be revealed that reddish, dusky,
sanguine ghosts are from the past, receding away even as they haunt us -
- bluish, callow, cyanotic ghosts are approaching from the future.
Days are like leaves. They grow and fall and their
particles nourish the
unborn leaves of the future. Leaves die in winter, then come back again.
Leaves reincarnate.
Every leaf on every tree is a major event, involving
a great deal of time,
preparation, energy, and organization on the part of many millions of
discrete, cooperating individuals. It's a statement, and a commitment, it's
a
platform for molecular politics in the spring campaigns.
Japanese hammers pounding
tattoos of fear on the steel oil drums of the
cays in the areas of the rear. Japanese Alabamas slamming their
supplicating palms on the sands neath the palms slammed by falling
coconuts.
This stretch of sand has bits of palm in it, and also
some grass, and
crabs, and the wind rushs in fitful watery gusts full of the sea and salt and
spray and spume and spindrift. The wind is blue, sunlight yellow,
chromium yellow, the blue of desert skies over the waterworld of Oceania.
The vast stretches of Ocean ensure that nobody will ever work that part of
the world to death, and that there will always be wet clouds towering
overhead like Portuguese Man O'War. You see them in all the sailing
movies — clouds like galleons against the sun marching off in the
impossible distances, curving over the dome of the earth and out of sight.
The earth turns from west to east. From left to right.
Counter-clockwise.
The panama canal actually goes from NW to SE. With north up, it's top left
to bottom right. Why did north become up? People need a top. Not much
was happening in the southern hemisphere when the mapmakers were
making the rounds.
The wind is blue, the sunlight yellow, the palms green,
the sea blue, all
these colors thick and strong and wet in the nanometers. All the seamen
riding the lustily pitching decks pull out their nanometers to sample the
electromagnetic spectrum. Peering through theodolites, examining the
data from the radiosondes on the movements of the upper air, the
scientists scratch their heads.
Memorywaves. I am a waveform.
We are a complex signal. We are
immaterial eternal things who exude bodies with deft simplicity, and stand
in our simple cities, simpering and capering like apes. Tame apes going
lame in the zoos dues to abilities we do not use. Apes running laps.
Monkeys play in the canopy of the green tree years.
After a while, they
drop to the ground and knuckle around. Gravity grinds their faces into the
dust. Gravity stands on their backs and their knuckles buckle.
That's the ark of the circle for you. Draw a circle.
Draw a horizontal line
through its diameter. Now it comes out of the ground, and retreats back
into the ground. It's a day. The sun does this around the earth. Same with
you. Your consciousness arcs high in the day with the sun, then high in
the dark in the other world. Turn the circle over. What's the difference!
When you fall asleep here you wake up there. When you fall awake there,
you come asleep here. And vice versa.
I am a foaming waveform ark surging through the angelsea.
Angelsea
is just south of Swansea, which is just north of the Los Angeles Sea, not
far from the Bourgeois Sea. You're soaking in it, apes. Up to your napes.
Every ape is allotted two sheep as flotation devices. Flotation? Da vices!
Put your vices in a vise and squeeze 'em up nice. Don't
let sheep tell
you how to organize your vice. What do sheep know of being wolves?
Precious little. Theories, but no more — the most famous sheep
philosopher of all time was ignominiously consumed by a wolf one night
when the dogs stepped out for burgers.
What do sheep know of driving drunk or carrying a gun?
This world
was made by the forceful actions of natural processes and men. Not by
the safeplayers and the downtalkers, the dawnsneakers and the dieters
and the sleepers. But by the dreamstalkers, the wideawake and
noonwalkers. Not by the big game talkers, but by the big game takers. Not
the big name droppers, but the big game droppers. The kickass
nametakers.
The world is not something you back into. Happiness
is not a
phenomenon you are left with when all else is removed. That's tofu.
There's poetry in the pantry, so help yourself.
Stand for anything. Posit. Freely. Freely Posit. Post
your boasts on the
coasts of the Bourgeois Sea. Stand your posts on the sandladen coasts.
Let the natives string kites from them, and the naïve naives string lights
down from them.
State firmly. Exaggerate. But don't get stuck. Don't
hold firmly. Keep
moving at all times. Defend a thesis today. Defend its antithesis tomorrow.
Flow like liquid. Wish and wash like water.
The real will stick and the false will fall away and
the real will fall away
and the false will stick. Real and false are the same object seen at noon
and midnight. Take them away and you are left with...nothing! So enjoy
your realities and falsehoods. Reality is just something you see when the
falsehood is removed...when the realityhood is removed, you see only
vague bits of swirling color.
Don't go baa in the White Sheep Years. The Sheep Shearing
Years.
The George Shearing Years. The White Sheap Sleap Years. Those slap
happy shearing sheep — all of them blind with smooth coats and smooth
rhythm sense!
Little glowing green girls
with veiny wings kneeling playing Nine Men's
Morris. Little mauthers. Mermaids' purses littering the beach in the liquid
bronze longshadow light of sunset — egg cases of sea creatures. Girls
dressed as mermaids intriguing party guests in France in the 1600's,
singing beautiful songs and seducing men outside on the grasses of
gigantic country estates in the Loire Valley. Sirens of the grasslands, of
the forest, of the cut grasslands where curs roamed baying at deer. The
girls solicit confidences which they then pass back to the King.
At night through the crystal windows, fairy bears could
be heard
thumping through the underbrush. Searching for nuts and berries, all
pinkwinged.
They singe, too, baby — what, you thought they were
cool?
Those lights are hot! Stars are stationary fairies caught in the ceiling tar.
———-