In Diegesis

The Soviets Lysenko had them
(via Marx)
believing in Lamarck, that
if you pluck a plant’s leafs
its offspring will be born
leafless.
After the war Tolkien
got back to work tapping
into a Divine Source, and not finishing, no,
but ever building another universe,
without end,
but indeed, paralleled. Poetically.
Thousands of kids right in the heart of Appalachia
(my old home)
releasing eight years of pent-up
life force,
celebrating in solidarity the death of
a man who became
their enemy before they hit puberty. All while
Chesapeake Energy busts up the rock
beneath their feet.
And what, tell me God,
now that I have found You
(hiding in a dark wisp of cloud
eclipsing for a moment
the full moon over the Alaskan tundra),
what has any of this to do
with survival?

Here rests my conscience
for my fellow man; for America
herself the drunken orgy she is,
the homosexual republican with the suicidal fantasies.
Let each keep his own shame
(and love)
close to his chest, guiding his individual
movements. I believe I have gathered
just enough of both to keep me privy
to the endless ways in which I can fuck up
(or create) a perfectly
decent thing.

Here’s to love
again. Here’s to my
fantasies again: to Dean’s
thumbs tapping on the wheel,
the French countryside passing us by,
Molly and I in the backseat, verbally
forming the longest sentence ever spoken,
word after word, with the moonroof open.
“Andromeda”, “does”, “lovingly”, “spark”, “remarkable”, “dreams”, “within”…
Here’s to MW and all my other beautifully virtuous
guy-friends serving as the crew in the Brig Niagara
in the War of 1812. Every look we give to the open sea,
Canada, enemy ships, the moon, will silently say,
“Leave us the fuck alone, England, Mom and Dad.
We’re goddamn grown up now, and free.”
Don’t give up the ship…
Here’s to dancing in a small bedroom with my next lover,
whoever that may be, whoever is doomed or destined to be
intertwined with me sexually.
Here’s to running up the walls flipping
over and falling dick-first
into fatherhood.
Splash.
Here’s to love blowing up moment
after moment, never ever knowing
when my heartbeat ends and the work
begins.

It’s hard to remember those days
back when I thought everyone I loved was dead.
It’s hard to remember the times
back when I loved to (just for fun) cry and cry and
cry and cry under
my bedsheets. In my windowless room.
In the basement.
Not that I really want to remember those moments
when I felt like the reality of my love was
completely different from the reality
of everyone else’s love – I’m just saying.
If I wanted to it’d be hard.
I plumb don’t emote like I used to, and that’s
probably for the best.
Now I should start
finally feeling as one
with the rest.

You were breathing in
God, out
God,
and I couldn’t look at you
in the eyes, you know
what I mean.
Like the third time I peed
on ecstasy, so
relieved.
The mirror in the dark betrayed me.
I saw the universe splitting, particles
filling the killer inside.
You were breathing
in God, out
clouds,
but you never knew
what made us friends.
I was always listening to your
heartbeat echoing on the bed
next to me. After you kissed me.
After I told you I didn’t know if I wanted
to beat you to Hell or
suck your cock.
And I can no longer tell the difference
between any of my friends.
What is the object of my love?
Look what manifests, what
manifests, what
manifests.
You always seem to know where souls go,
but this whole time my head has been
turned around, squinting eyes at a hole
in a tree where there seems to be
a tongue sticking out at me.
Frogs hopping all over Sam’s naked body
in a sunny meadow, no one else around.
Sam.
Giggling like a little boy, like a reincarnated
pineapple. And I can’t move.
The clouds’ movement is a stillness in
central Pennsylvania. Appalachian
forested hills bulge up and down
like cat’s breath. And each step I take
is a slow-motion breath.
I was breathing in God, out
sperm, and you were bungee
jumping off a cloud.
Reality was too vulgar
for our friendship, I mean,
reality is too vulgar for my love.

Here’s what I want:
To convince a girl that I am incapable of doubt.
And to likewise believe in the solidarity of her resolve.
This could only be possible by concerning myself entirely with beauty.
No more facts or opinions, no more subjective philosophy.
Cripes, no more words!
From now on my bowels will obey my breath without hesitation. Every time I go to the bathroom it’ll be ten minutes before I really NEED to go.
I’m going to hang with Confident Dean and meet a girl at Penn’s Landing.
It’ll only take a few minutes of silently looking at a big, lit-up bridge for me to really get to know her.
The Delaware River will shimmer George Washington conviction.
Our kiss will FINALLY balance out the violence of the American Revolution.
All the Native Americans, from the Iroquois of New York to the Yupik of Alaska, will suddenly know exactly what to do with their festering feelings. Their hearts will open their eyes; they will throw away any booze lying about, kiss their wives, don their grandfathers’ coats and step boldly into the light.
Bored men and women of civilization will surprise themselves, remembering something they had forgotten while toiling on the first farms thousands of years ago – namely, that the future should be embraced lovingly, moment to moment, not fearfully, season to season.
And She and I will never see each other again.
Because Confident Ian doesn’t get bored.
Because Confident Ian is one with the sovereign will of humanity.
Confident Ian is Good.
He has “Revolution’s a Lie” stuck in his head all day every day.
A Krautrock life. A rolling, rhythmic conviction.
People who meet Confident Ian wonder silently to themselves for days afterwards:
What does it even feel like to relax?
Indeed, this question haunts my every movement.

There is one stance democrats and republicans could agree on to conform, I believe, that is, electoral reform.
We must do something about these panzies’ egos and itchy fingers and green libidos.
Here is what I propose, a semantic slight of hand.
Let us change the word “President” to “Pharaoh”;
“Congressman” to “disciple” or “priest” or “shaman”.
And let them never be re-elected, but rather die in their position with no outlet for escape in retirement.
Let them truly prove their worth! And let us truly saturate our mistaken judgements!
I’m tired of ‘so and so promised this but then changed, like, he’s so different now!’
wah wah.
put your conviction where your scripture is, and let’s call Obama our Pharaoh-God.
Can you picture it?
Stimulate the economy, turn Oklahoma into a statue.
Use the homeless if you have to.
I want to see Obama with a sword in his hand.
I want to see Henry Paulson’s head on the Washington Monument.
Joe Biden with a crazy eye, bulging temples, wondering where the Hell Mitt Romney went.
I’m so sick of my fellow One Mind constituents not admitting the obvious.
The television is our church.
Let’s bow down collectively to C-Span.
Shag carpets, old potato chip crumbs, Dad’s cigarette smoke.
“The Pharaoh is willing His Nasa legion to send men and women to the Andromeda Galaxy…”
Here, here!
Amen.
The rich need more money! The poor need more money! The system needs to work!
This way! That way!
By God if we’re going to be hypnotized let’s do it right!
Let us gaze into the emerald scepter of our Pharaoh, let us chant His praises. Let us channel all the Gods of the Human Spirit through him.
Praise Allah! Praise Jehovah! Praise Christ! Praise God and Abraham! Muhammed! Praise be the Pharaoh who carries the sovereign will of the One Mind!
I simply can’t believe people can believe so wholeheartedly in the difference between them.
Honestly, we are all God. This is simple ass shit.
The world needs to run. Humans need to turn. This different countries with borders and diametrically opposed political parties stuff is not working. The human spirit is in fucking danger.
Oh Lord just give me a pharaoh.
And I swear I’ll never doubt myself again.

I’ve got it all backwards.
Absolution is not my solution, it’s my means to saying, “What’s up?”
“Nothin.”
Nods.
“You?”
Shrugs. ”Oh, y’know, I’m just busy suppressing the God inside me.”
“Uh huh.”
All this talk, I can’t even believe it.
Department stores are more than real.
They’re cosmic, they’re divine. This is stunning to me, that the sacred can’t be obliterated.
That after all these millennia of wars we haven’t managed to …
Absolve.
Or, shit! At least dissolve.
All this resolve, I mean, what’s it for?
Who’s it for?
Kick-snare. Walking through that door.
All the sex I’ve had, all the dick cumming, whoring boredom to death, cheek sweating, Tower of Babel loudspeakers shooting orgasmic moans across the oceanic bedsheets, Poseidon spitting, ass pounding, bubbly breast escapist memories.
They’re just memories. (Where’s someone else’s worshipping of my pleasure when I want it, huh? LOL)
And the elementary school bullying, the hating my father, the cutting off from my mother, the umbilical cord of my soul floating off in the nothingness of space, all the senseless Rachel Maddow purposeful evenings, all the conscientious shameful feelings cutting me off from the One Mind.
It’s all in the past now. Yogic squat, back-bends, Kundalini and the chakras.
“Yeah I saw them. They were pretty good.”
“That’s cool.”

“Check it out, it’s your child, it’s your gypsy, it’s Heaven, it’s Heavenly!”
Where?
She just jumped off the Comcast building.
Soaring. Kurosawa couldn’t capture it on film, so he made “Seven Samurai”.
She’s going to hit the ground soon, and amazingly,
life will go on.
I mean your life.
Personally I can not wait to be done with this will to absolution.
So annoying, always challenging everything I do, always weighing my worth against the worth of my baby’s cheeks.
Get it?
I never REALLY wanted to die! I was just considering my worth is all.
For a decade now I’ve just been considering my worth, since the first Lord of the Rings movie came out.
A Beautiful Mind won best picture.
“Picture,” LOL.
Considering, considering. My Suicide.
For your consideration, esteemed Academy voters. You should like it, it’s a Holocaust story.
It’s the end of the world, the essence of life-affirmation, like Steven Spielberg swimming in his pool with his kids and regretting the end of Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
He was so young then, and starry-eyed.

“Mommy, mommy, you really should meet my Dad!”
I said that. I was nearly two and a half years old. They were recently divorced.
This is my poetic statement,
Martin Heidegger, you goddamn nazi.
Revision, overhaul, novel, movie, album, pending.

Thinking alone without a clear purpose is weird to think about.
On the one hand it’s just brain exercise, the exhaust of an active mental energy with no definite outlet.
On the other hand it often makes me depressed.
Or nostalgic.
Fine line there.
Depression’s even weirder to think about,
because really those feelings are just trying to pull me back to the center.
The Source.
Love.
But in this weak body, in this troubled moment of time, I often confuse the Source for something physical.
It follows then that when my thoughts are idling negative exhaust fumes and I don’t know what to do, I masturbate.
Or eat.
Two nights ago while lying under four blankets I imagined the All-Beauty.
It stretched out above my head like a never-ending thought bubble.
Filled with the dark colors under my lids but with no discernible outline.
To illustrate abstractly:
The other day string theorists found a way to explain the lack of the the nine dimensions that the theory apparently presupposes.
It seems the other six are trapped in infinitesimal particles somewhere.
They got bullied and crowded out by dots, lines, and bodies in the free-for-all maelstrom that followed the big bang, or big membrane bounce, or big black hole ejaculation – the supernatural, Higgs particle disturbance.
Or whatever.
This endless beautiful thought bubble of mine was kind of like one of those other dimensions.
After I reeled in my night-time sense of it all I thought of you.
I imagined your face.
I had no idea what it looked like where you were of course.
I assumed you were sleeping. Bed, blankets, pillows, a ceiling, darkness.
Your face.
Then I took that blackish-purplish infinity and pushed it out in a spiritual wormhole.
To the cloud maidens and wind phantoms it must have looked like a roller-coaster of a solar coronal loop.
I rode that wormhole with not an ounce of my body.
Soon enough I whooshed into a giant loop-de-loop.
I thought I might not reach you, that my mind would just do a loop-de and come right back home.
But I rode it out like a weathered surfer and before I knew it you were awash with my spirit.
I was right. You were sleeping.
During those brief moments your face shimmered in the darkness like moonlight.
All that infinite beauty seeped under your eyelids.
Your eyelashes gently combed its subtle entrance.
How I wondered what you were dreaming!
I felt so strange being there, hovering amorphously around your cheeks.
Beyond innocent or impure.
It was a matter of beauty, of spiritual capability. Curiously following the mystical pathways I come across.
But in an instant I was pulled back into the wormhole.
In the middle of the loop-de-loop I tried to return, curling back and forth like a DJ’s fingers scratch a record,
but I second-guessed myself.
Maybe this kind of power shouldn’t be abused.
Like the strange, dark gateways people open in their souls with pornography or one-sided fantasies.
Maybe I should leave other souls be – find another way to soothe my restless curiosity.
So I returned back to my bed and sighed.
Alone, again.
Then, determined not to feel at all depressed, I ducked my head under the covers and quickly scratched the afghan my mom’s mom made for my mom.
Blue-white sparks popped and cracked so close about me, like lovers’ pre-dreaming whispers.
This is one of the many lovely perks of spending a winter on the tundra, where the cold air is dry enough to split the skin on your heels and knuckles. Fortuitously I had forgotten to use a drier sheet on all of my linens, so now I get to carve light shows out of the darkness under my blankets with my fingertips. And when my breath has moisturized the air and the blanket is out of static electricity, I pull my head out and return to my circuitous and fruitless thoughts. Ten minutes later the tundra will have refreshed all the magic.
I repeat this process until I fall asleep.

Isn’t it weird when you actually meet someone who seems to know what love is?
The depth of her feeling of purpose and life-appreciation can astound you.
As though you had not just forgotten some memories and ambitions, but rather, you lost them completely.
Which you did do by the way but that’s OK – don’t think about that.
Just when you thought you were growing up, becoming more real, pushing forward,
there’s this crazy fucker with Andromeda eyes, and suddenly you’re like,
shit shit shit! I’m not nearly Perseus!
I only just started getting into yoga and running on the treadmill.
The Kraken or some more modern monster – like virulent self-pity and doubt – is going to
tear this lover to shreds.
Fuck.
But then you think, well, I guess somebody else must be Perseus.
After all, aren’t depths of hearts supposed to match up between star-crossed iPod listeners?
Like, such great heights – a mountain and the moon – or
two deep cavernous souls – one that leads to a warm, crystalline reservoir and another that leads to the sewers of Hong Kong -
how are we ever going to understand each other?
And then, if you’re like me, you just go, oh well…
But not completely. No, no,
imaginative curiosity remains…

Look…

Moon.

I know Earth is probably your dad, and you’re probably my mom.
And everything else is me and God.
But I want to walk on you. I just want to hop and play all over you.
I know you’re probably mostly dead, all craterous and enslaved to gravity.
Still I want to hover so and descend in a dusted cavity.
Froomph.

Listen, Moon,
This cannot happen too soon.
At high noon I’m dreaming of you.
I’m not in love – I’m just American.
The human mind is troubled, which of course you didn’t know, but it is.
It’s all spread thin like the universe, atrophying.
Laughing, laughing, laughter means raftered ceilings.
My mind is troubled too of course but I’m not yet past your healing,
Om shanti disaster dealings, alone wanting after stealing stone, daunting masters reeling thrones haunting His last home feeling.

Moon…
Moon don’t speak!
Don’t you say a word.

This is a life force

A ripe course for a tight horse.

This ain’t a fuckin’ syllogism,

You’re sucking vanilla jism

I’m on about what I can’t be wrong about.

Fuck realism, idealism, material imperialism.

This is a life force prism. Like daoism.

The tao isn’t proud business, it’s a loud sickness,

now finished within us like the British quit us, (resentful!)

it takes a war to begin us together as winners. (so eventful!)

Remember Joan Rivers, dismembered lone sinners, surrendered dinners

administered for weathered killers?

Do you want to kill somebody?

I just want to spill some loving.

That is, until I want to kill somebody

or at least thrill somebody.

Fill somebody with some loving

fuzzy fun, getting scuzzy, son,

’til it feels like we won.

Highs get low, the moon gets sun, the son gets some.

It all comes undone.

Then my life force has begun.

my dick feels

forgiveness coming on;

if you feel ashamed

you should come into this song.

magic steals

what’s in your soul that’s wrong;

if you feel ashamed

just come into this song.

When the future’s just an idea

and you’ve got bad luck

and the past is all around you,

then you know you’re fucked.

I bet black holes suck

into God’s stomach.

Welcome, welcome, masturbation nations, to my imagination, another validation station from a humble mother’s creation. Don’t be hateful, let’s be playful, standing at the gates of friendship dancing in and out, never knowing when to begin or end this stance that’s full of doubt. Landing that hate-to-pretend shit, chancing sinful clouds grounded to clever whatevers ever flowing bends that tend to rescind or send missed answers all about never lending tender ends to pouty cowards who clout your proud powers for hours just to give you mine, me yours, and them ours. Don’t break up, kiss and make up this fantasy of love. Can’t you see above managing a bluff? Your panacea’s not enough to stand in the sea of tough love. Tough luck, mister trillion bucks, a fistful of Sicilian wives cuckolded your lives ‘n’ tucked ‘em into the blacks of God’s dilated eyes beholding lies insisting you exist. Didn’t we miss this shit when it twisted priests’ listless lips into our sleepless trysts? I think therefore I’m pissed. Can you join me in anointing noisy annoying toys with a spermy ointment, call it a Wormy Appointment, same as fucking, but I coined it. In the connection of loins I detect some enjoyment, pity the celibate brothers in deployment, wait, no I don’t. It’s all just a way to pass the time, my wit’s fall must today amass massive rhyming enzymes that chime with lemons and limes like slimy red war crimes. Denim dimes fill your failed heart with a whale tart and you’re still thinking how do I start? Jesus. Rene Descartes pleases a play-day twat; who threw the first stone? You do the worst stoned impression of mirth’s lone concession to the church’s tones meshing with worthless phone messages. Please hang up and buy forgotten friends. I mean try your call again when dying malls blend into the crying stalled ends of adolescent men suspended in breezy upended dreams, depending on teams to please sexy teases, ten years away from paying skeezy fees to ladies named Theresa. Mona Lisa moaning beneath a phony creeper playing follow the leader. Didn’t see me featured; I’m busy standing at the gates of friendship dancing in and out, never knowing when to pretend this stance is full of doubt. How about now? How about how, mister horny well endowed, dick like a trout? You can fuck a wide open cow mouth. I’m out.

In a Good Mood

What I see what I hear

individuates me my dear

reminds me of that healthy fear

makes me pull my power so, so near.

In a Bad Mood

What I see what I hear

means nothing

taunts my purposelessness

fuck rhyming.

In Wisdom

(knows better than to desire

transcends success and failure good and evil

doesn’t need to create or destroy

i don’t want to be wise

not really…)