Gnostalgia for the Present
for MTC Cronin
A Note on the Co-performative Work
Gnostalgia for the Present is the 17th series in the ongoing collaboration between my poems in the singular genre preverbs and Susan Quasha’s photographic work. In our basic practice she chooses a photo, more or less daily, with no discussion. It may have been made at any previous point in time or the same day. Then, usually at night, when I tend to do this work, I open the photograph for the first time on one screen while I do the final poiesis on another. This is the charged matrix of my working here in lines/preverbs written either in variable relation to the presence of the image, or else taken under its attractive force from a current or previous notebook. There are no rules about how much preverbs respond directly or indirectly to the images, or how much her subsequent images respond to preverbs. Preverb & image stand in undefined but strong and complex co-performative relation to each other, while retaining an essential independence. Their connective energy is dialogical and intimate and resonates further in our life at large, preparing the way for the next work, with no end in sight.
Gnostalgia for the Present was completed April 11, 2022 in Barrytown, Hudson River Valley, formerly the sacred homeland of the Munsee and Muhheaconneok (Mohican) people.
1 the radical ordinary just saying
All words have their eggcorns to save the mind from itself.
The Pre-Pre-Socratic Sayings of Ontononymous the Particular
What’s to know and it looks to be here.
A bird in the hand is not even close to a bush.
The center never ceases to fold.
A new discovery widens the sense of absence.
My brain got off the leash and ran me ragged in the name of birth.
There’s no accounting for sadness with no end nor the following joy.
I walk through the syntax as climbing stairs, gets me up.
My life or this situation for which there is no easy way out.
Not knowing who I am my prejudice leaks away.
The healing stance is close up now.
My picturing takes a shot at your imaging.
There are no rules for a higher magic.
Language doesn’t take at face value.
It only looks like the one thing it isn’t.
The score is to follow.
An eye in a bubble follows you where it goes.
Let me slip into my other subcutaneous body sailing on ballooning currents.
The rest is lucid being.
2 bird in the eye view
Life is always just getting to know itself.
Form making answers impulses as only now.
Registration is just outside time and passing.
Seeing believing gets physical fear first.
I’m the subject losing track tracking itself then suddenly coming into view.
You’re my proof.
Beauty releases you from what you thought possible necessarily.
The next line can’t help trying to get to know the lines previous and following. Help.
Figuring it mobilizes belief over the edge sustainably aloft.
A life is one vast inside at large.
Its making’s what can’t stop talking about you as if itself and vice versa.
The page suddenly bursts into laughter.
The thinking feels itself coming on and then the freeze frame.
Getting the picture enters you into diversity eternity.
Magic is the inflection it’s so.
The realization you recognize in another is realized in the recognition.
You get eyed.
Every moment makes a truth inaccessible to reason.
There are no rules in the long run and always coming up short.
The center unfolds and there is sentence.
It forgets in you where it began or even if it did.
3 pleasures of the mesh
Time! Stand still while I look.
I wouldn’t miss this moment for anything.
Checking in on the intensive middle dwelling.
It hasn’t thought me yet.
The daimon promises me the most not yet thought said ever.
An immense world of delight closes in for the bounding.
Seeing is knowing what sees when.
The show is seeing not done but accessed.
It’s a rough dance on the time bomb and no time to refine.
Eternity stalks me in the thicket of a new thinking.
The center will unfold.
Nature does action sculpture and a life work for the taking.
It’s hearing the calling you weren’t hearing and the freeze tells potential waking.
The middle of the voice is balancing,
The look is in the eye taking in.
You can’t quite figure it and can’t not.
It’s an object if cathecting to think seeing.
The light reflects on.
The flesh is on.
4 earth mouther
The biggest space is inside outside.
Picasso slept here in the wake.
Any line is radial according to its curvature with desire.
Ultimate pleasure is point taken heartily.
Any true thing proves all philosophies are true in their lineage.
Everything I read and do is in this book in undertime.
Poietic growth is middle voice where all directions are forward right here and back.
I’m thinking plant thinking fungus spreading rumors of literal revelation and timely.
Forget it. Start over. This can’t not be happening.
My myth is there are secret treasures for the long reader.
Symbionts unite, you have nothing to lose but your sessility.
If you didn’t know verse two-ways at once you do now as a default present reverses.
The evident map is the ghost of litmus past back happening.
Raw form has room for everything you could wish for.
The rhythm is the work you do doing you over.
I’m feeling mycelium in my syntax with swarm.
Alchemy of the syllable spreads true fake news.
Growth in plants, fungi and poems is two-ways at once if you count down in.
Earth culture, says it.
5 conjuring awareness
I’m cold planted on this spot and feel like hardening off to get woody.
Feeling like a plant living and dying at the same time.
I never tire of watching my fingers think for me.
It follows writing’s riding dreaming a paradise and all its hells.
A bare thing lets you focus so far in a reversal precedes you.
Its secret is for you if you’re already on the inside.
Running on naked instantiates an other world underfoot.
I could never admit everything I say, proves poiesis.
It proves poiesis to prove poiesis proves nothing.
An indicated spot is a trigger.
A thing believed infects at a given angle and inflects at another.
A credible reality has built-in letters of the law.
Here is where every moment is now or never.
History is I got off on the wrong foot young, stayed pre.
Pre is the terror before the verb.
The game never reaches a conclusion up to ending the fear of before.
Spot on saying lifts its skirt to let you in the other side.
An obscure sweep wipes away all the shoulds you could ever not bear.
It brings the world to its feet bottom down and all eyes out.
6 cross voice
Swallow to know it’s now and it’s not dreaming.
The anything scape is a memory of events beyond me just like land.
Check out the entry point where you can’t specify the medium.
To know the thing translate it into itself yourself.
Just to think it releases tension into intention.
In the middle voice everything speaks at once and more is heard across.
The art is miming the plant collaborating with its dying parts.
The poem plants itself by life death hybridization.
The singularity of ongoing death underwrites a further living you could say.
Dead wood’s a memory bank like this further display you can’t tell what.
It images filling in the blank it widens.
Its mirror writing infects at a given angle so it reflects further.
Illness motivates out of its need for space.
Poiesis motivates out of must be said.
What floats signals.
A book is a hub with a bank in a big talk fest.
The field talks as netted.
Open middle is open ended in all directions.
It radiates the way out.
7 angle of deliverance
Welcome aboard my slow life on rapid transit coming into place as we speak.
Person is polyphonous.
Perspective is a merry-go-round one level down.
It opens where you can’t specify the medium.
It’s made-up on top of not.
Networks are contagious.
If the vehicle doesn’t get to the alternate level the nowhere it’s going isn’t elective.
Line matches image with spontaneous overflow back in without going over.
It changes tense in you.
The plant looks stuck in place to the slow eye then moves on close up.
Poem sees middle voice and all directions forward at once.
It makes that others make with.
Suffering context overlay daze it turns me to beauty dangling to say with.
It does you over by a flow in place.
Now recording in flesh upon contact.
Poem realizing poet in the reading coming on.
Everything comes up against the illusion fact in your face like it is.
It brings you to your feat.
You get the scale without the tale in defeat.
8 shallows humor
I thought it was the ledge I was at then the movie begins out from under me.
Desire has no bound beyond its narrow exit.
The goal easy to forget is poetry not memorable.
Contradictory emotions rip through and track.
It takes a humor to know you given the flow and body.
Forbidden desire stays where it is.
It’s hard to believe there’s not a thought behind this.
The empty is not believable.
It can only be saying everything and meaning it all at once.
Note the exploitation of the previously excluded middles turning vocal.
Live and spurn with karma suture.
Saying so self humors.
If I live a life of Jesus one day and Buddha the next what am I now and why this?
It turns out it shows favorite ontology’s a color of being skin deeper.
It forgets it started the sentence in the first place as a condition of being itself.
The fact is it’s at ease referring to itself in the moment it vanishes.
It seems a thinking now occurring that all thought passes through still unthought.
It’s what it means to picture itself being in pictures.
This line of thought is going nowhere with delight.
9 gnostalgia for the present
I write the date to touch time then tear myself away.
It’s just getting started in eternity.
These events refuse to not happen.
You get a taste for the unyielding.
Time asserts itself with authority before fading.
Saying this is a meaningless statement is strangely meaningful.
Self-confirming thinking has no outside.
It comes too fast to know if it’s right or care.
Nerves are narrative enough for a say.
I have time on my shoulders timed in feet.
Inspiration crowns the occasion in plumage passing fast.
I’m measured in tongues just affirming.
Starting to appreciate the thick storied sediment building up around our lives.
Judgment is disconnect.
Don’t bother looking for a non-promiscuous word when truth stops holding back.
You dance wild in the mirror never facing.
Words are never alone but forever lonely.
If this were a self I still couldn’t meet myself.
Journeying this surface longs to return to more than language.
10 thinking it had no eyes when too many to see
a book has its own time
in which times find their timing
Ontononymous
Mimesis takes under advisement composition by way of decomposition.
It’s discovering a space inside a space to surrender inside outside.
Ah to characterize without trivializing.
Focusing in on without daunting full field effect.
If visual before word sounding to itself the alien captures its image.
Now for something far less profoundly exciting, just saying.
We have to consider all opt-ins so to say.
Make my day configuratively speaking.
No substitute for a lifetime discovering you’re not just making shit up.
Writing to touch the world full flesh cuts a path through it, cuts in.
I stumble words to fit.
Already can sing’s unsung.
Careful to step over the words.
Knowing more than language is more language.
For me it’s so much just saying.
I get its shimmer mimesis suspensus. Gut level.
It’s lowering my voice to hear in it.
Its true timing marks you its own.
11 indirect flight
RIP! That’s a sound in more than one life.
Bright things put a squeeze on an instant of time.
On the go, on the fly, on the sly the devil’s in the flare.
It’s not an it but it has itness.
If you hold it it’s a position.
There is no first distinction or else only first and firsts.
I mean where do you put your foot down and not change the sense of ground.
Seeing it gets past its own dynamic. Or so I’m reading it.
The fact of continuing is never not at issue.
The wonder is it takes us on.
Falling over itself the thought images itself this line.
The body is writing on the mind as we speak.
The devil of a thing flies in your face.
It takes a body to know it.
Matter orders accordingly.
Accordingly the line getting its wiggle is its secret passion full flare.
Knowing it shows it knowing it.
How can you not take it in taking you in.
12 surface runs deep
the so-called poem is a
variegated extension of the
middle of the line
Ontononymous
Once again we find ourselves beginning in the middle still coming.
The more particulate the more scale non-orients.
The urge to mix metaphors embraces alien diversity now homing.
The child is mother of the woman given placenta mediating.
Embracing language its body presses back.
Caught not reading—or thinking—yet bathing in the spaces around words.
Remember I mean this meaning it does the meaning.
Noticing it washes amidst for rhythm.
The wonder is it’s said to be afloat.
The words show painterly even in their darkly held.
You’ll find your subtle body wedged between the tightly holding favoreds.
You’ll know it’s an assumed identity when you forget to be it.
Live order secretly studies its matter for new ideas.
In heat the cool water makes love to the throat.
Reverse song is still song.
It puts you in the place of ready to begin.
Line of vision relies on an unreadable hiatus in meaning.
Holding you at a distance still intimate occults our mediation floating on.
13 divine is not for punishing
All day long it is I disturbing space.
Thoughts breathe. Need space.
Sensation appreciates first distincting.
The edge creates choice at a remove then blurs.
To know it no need to show it to go it.
My edge gives me a start.
Dawning is my limit gone over on me.
A picture has pull past self knowing.
Middle choice is emergence looking for a voice.
Here we begin without originating like seed.
What if ego is just an idea made up by ego.
My line replenishes itself by distancing from me, differencing us.
I’m on edge finds poiesis with no promise of completion.
Find me not the poet of preverbs but the magus able to summon that poet.
You can be muse yourself if well amused while still bemused.
She’ll say your poem is still shooting off her mouth.
Imaging network is the unseen holding.
Now has never been more anonymous.
The sense is self knowing’s everywhere to be found.
14 placenta envy
a picture is what is never before seen
Ontononymous
I was dreaming inside a lingual spa and this is what it saw.
Seeing same gives bearing.
The world comes into focus at its edge your bright.
There are no past lives however many there are not the one.
Beauty makes the scar more vivid.
Speaking memory is greatest fictive.
It can take your brother’s dying to become his keeper.
It’s your face in the loud allowed.
A call to alarms.
It’s your teacher if it recognizes you for what you aren’t.
Air knows hanging and you in it visible.
Color trues name resistant.
The matter of scale is brightness on the level embraced.
Not matters because you make it matter but it matters in you.
Feel the thought to hear its music.
It fleshes over.
Birth others with startle.
Loser’s keepers.
15 a call to swarms
If you notice the rose says,
Ecstasy doesn’t exclude enjoying pleasure.
Ontononymous
So good! It compulses me.
This is how life goes past splitting seconds with trails of bewonderment.
It states its point not to be limited by your limits.
I pluralize by force of entanglement.
Pronominal accuracy is aggressive.
What you can see is already in you and willing.
The path the thought takes keeps the vibe pressing flesh.
Being born is self knowing other in itself.
The end is what part of you thinks will never come.
Knows?
Discontinuity makes for singular continuity.
Ontononymous
This is the rhythm of life cutting in and out on a troubled line.
Think synchronous element to element co-transmission.
I swear I’m hearing African polyrhythms in my left leg just left of the shin.
Actual person is incomparable.
Here we get the kind of reassurance that destabilizes in equal proportion.
Reinhabit those half-lived lives while the twine still divines.
You end hating ending no end.
16 ancient yesterday
ghostwriting the listener’s music [1]
Maryanne Amacher
I know I’m here but how long can this last.
Holding it in the round inbound secures the memorable reaction.
When I don’t know what I’m seeing I don’t know what I’m doing here.
It remembers time before its time.
We keep thinking the definitive understanding will be joining us by dinnertime.
Mind not enjoying being told what’s good for it wants being discovered.
Stunning is knowing you read the world less than the least of yourself.
Self can’t stop disappointing itself.
Some things let you hear their being stamped into themselves at first sight.
Self can’t help redefining itself in others.
When I see I’m writing this I feel naked.
Here is where it’s hard to get all the way.
Mandala is image with persistent mysteries still reflecting its emergence.
Sudden exclamations such as these point every thought word in surround.
It puts you on the defensive until the nothing to defend is vivid.
Further identity is a reach into differing.
It sees the light around the tunnel in anything.
[1] The phenomenon of otoacoustic ear tones where the listener’s physical response to a sound produces its own sound in the ear.
17 vulvic signing
Who can account for what the gut thinks is real?
Just saying ancient yesterday made being present with the work feel ages behind.
Body knows what it wants and mind still’s limping behind.
It knows desire at the origin creating force of everything.
There are levels of depth.
Will turns orientation.
I discover friendship in the body without ever meeting in the flesh.
She’s saying your enlightenment never goes away just because you’re out of touch.
Its poiesis arouses our lingual tangency at a distance.
It signs a timing necessary to say anything true to itself.
The act of writing knows itself alien to all authorization.
Exciting.
It gets being fully said.
Fully cutting through shows though taking forever.
That no universe can deny your claim on yourself writes in stone.
You always knew there was person inside talking you in.
The center of gravity is both as given in.
Close up ambiguates between.
Nothing protects deep down but itself.
18 self filling hole
that nothing was there and so exciting to be
is what is called magic since Babel
Ontononymous
Hearing with ear in heart of darkness is coming to light as we speak.
Mind rolls up in a turning thought.
This turn greaters its line of coherent disappearing.
We’re doing what the place calls for.
Likewise self self-obcesses.
Verb enlarges by implicit movement in your best standstill noun.
The fact that I can say this means one’s dogma is further limited.
In the dream I’m coming into play in the poems being read after my death.
In the image a black hole is the back of your head.
What’s a photo finish in a line fighting for meaning before the end at the end.
Lo! language Freudian-slipping by secret deceptions built in duplicitous grammar.
And not, and not not, and around, people will say.
Poiesis is knowing when something is fully said and not and both and neither.
Ghostwriting the reader’s imaging is optional.
Not sure I’m appearing as myself today feeling on edge.
Value leads to confusion of ends.
Close up never forgets rolling over.
One world or another’s rising over my edge.
19 the light in the middle of the tunnel
WARNING:
text operates in multiple ontological frames
The outlook is particularly universal from where we’re standing in awed confusion.
Everything knowable intends to be.
How is anything not the whole opportunity?
Spiritual tenor takes into account the humidity of a humor.
A mandalic function is to torture orthodoxy until the scare is over.
Meanwhile it’s refracting the uninterpretable sounds brightening among the living.
We’re left seeing the light’s hardcore incommensurable with our construals.
Any mode of mind might light up a possible yoga.
Self same mystery indicates the mystery of self same.
A rush in the line can flush it out.
This is the view from this magnetic field pulling at this reading.
A visible flow has a mind in tow.
It lets me listen by indirection.
It puts you in your place if you say so yourself.
In a flash there’s no here here.
Realization is on its own.
By the end of this swirl it looks to be dawning.
The eyes at the end of our funnel are substantially open and just in time.
20 tangent lingualities
It doesn’t do two
Longchenpa
I just felt another time flash through to flesh me out.
It shows the integrity of even this moment torted or distorted.
My level of vulnerable mediation just got skin deeper.
An image striking gets a jump on the next line.
Can’t deny I’m enjoying the pleasures of nihilism and eternalism at once.
After a death half hope is someone pops out and shouts Cut!
Imagining all over the magic of reentering one’s poems being read after one dies.
In a moment I’ll chicken out on thinking the ultimate.
Mind shoots out on a shooting thought.
Alien verbal tendencies rouse.
So the saying goes with no lasting translation.
What’s so striking is you pluralize at your edge of coherence.
You never stop streaming under the reading.
Stalked by your meditation.
Talked to the end of speaking.
The thought has been building up for days and its centuries of striking intentions.
Proof of no time.
It gets me out of my way in time.
21 brain surfaces
skin is wrap-
around edge.
Ontononymous
I feel out of touch today with all the goings on in the mind & then they’re hands-on.
Full disclosure not-planning my story-divergent autobiography.
Being here gives us sister music and entities at play.
Poiesis herds freerunning neurodiverging strays into verbal resurfacing.
Writing is talking to itself in all its diversity.
And now for the syntax of no not contemplating.
You never get to the bottom of your own music.
If you could know it you’d row it away.
I resist it until it surrenders me.
The story’s everything that’s there and not there.
The words come in feet and then and there lines.
Walk the word until it gives up meaning.
Any one line of implicate teaching tells all.
Think way out and do the turnabout.
No thing told is for yourself and self alone.
Skin knows what brain can’t yet accept.
This is where I begin and end at large.
22 leaving verbs
Beauty’s on its way out in a thing transpiring by eye.
I never really understand what I mean by understanding.
It helps me out without a doubt or a shout.
I’m penning this on me to paper.
What constitutes the field of the page I’m reading or the writing it I’m doing?
Completeness is further emergence while complete by nature.
Note the inner current in the lines of definition.
My skin runs deep.
Mind sails out on a sailing thought.
The swerve defines the inner verve.
Happy find happy mind.
The wonder is how the words are taking.
Color changes like half arranging a rhyme for orange.
It ghostwrites a reader seeing.
It’s thinking the train not taken and the strangers on it.
Here we sound just outside our comfort tone.
Think lines of time to sustain by rime.
My helping verbs are willing with helping hands.
I hear the sound of a line like an oncoming mind with inner surround.
Imagine how the verb feels leaving to feel better.
It grows full emptying.
23 elbow room in mind
Hi, it’s Schrödinger’s brat:
the cat’s out of the bag
and not the cat you think
It’s time to tone down life calling for a remake.
No matter what it’s here doing what comes with a tune still to hear.
It’s still a symbol when it disappears a world just to be seen.
Saying it summons it seeing it or not.
My attachment knows too many dirty dance steps for me to let go all out.
Appropriate poiesis cross visualizes for thinking ventilation.
A thing in its place however estranged knows absolute timing.
It jolts to jump tracks.
Words do what people do knowing not what they do.
I’m catching these words dreaming of further reference.
I fall on both sides of my divide splitting my core imago.
It’s also symbolic when the surface bleeds indefinite but sexy referents.
Can’t shake that old metaphysics of escaping metaphysics.
So poiesis finds its way where I dare not go without it.
Seeing by indirection teaches listening indirectly.
The event at hand is not yet in hand while ready to hand itself over.
The we of being here speaks its many voices by turns.
It marks its time space.
24 further over in
the thinking that demonizes those who demonize oneself
lets demons reign
Ontonymous
If you’re not afraid of dying what’s it all about?
The unable to say it powers this moment in view of near primordial sludge.
The desperation to locate approval outside the moment keeps the moment to itself.
When the time comes you get off the life ride and find your jell-o elsewhere.
At the moment I’m feeling the stretch of an arm as I speak.
I’m lifting word weights to get into the shape.
There are some things which to say courts semantic deviance.
How much energy is rising from the page as we pass through trippingly.
To picture this sentence is to configure a form of life. [Witty Stone]
The eyes have it when you’re only half seeing what it means.
I’m practicing existing in a new way today but can’t tell how.
Things seen are my flash cards to learn alien idiolects.
And over here are my cliff notes before deep falling.
On the way on in you can’t even understand the question let alone an answer.
Is not the daimonial image a preemptory strike at the heart of time?
Each one has its voices.
Cognitive plucking pulls it out of its own ground.
Relating out of bounds hits brain freeze electric while getting down in.
25 gesturing below the threshold
by beauty you know
eternity breathes
Ontononymous
Despite appearances I’m not feeling very simultaneous in the present.
This must be a sudden scenic route in reflection.
Surrender! You’re at the selective bottom du jour.
Continuity isn’t past the thinking.
The time is upon us and it’s us under.
The line is not a line.
The manyness of our temporal retention’s singular now.
Verbs are becoming possessive like young lovers.
Clearly there are lives choosing to bespeak themselves however unclear to a viewer.
Lasting living’s signaling at the interstices of the not yet.
Future is the unreleased.
Free to be as is is its nature.
Under threshold flags the current to further signal.
No rounding off the feeling.
No eroding the edges so needed.
Feeling doesn’t feel like fitting your terms.
Unicorns have no interest in existing above the line.
There’s no time off for behavior.
26 liminal hymnal
You begin the sentence not knowing
when or where you will put the book down—
down to chance?—
let alone reopening book or mind.
Ontononymous
I keep not saying right it’s a singularity and it’s urgent.
Taking heed of it textures the love-bed text.
Every request sets off its vibe in body mind retuning.
Anything vivid enough requests.
Poiesis is languaging giving the go-ahead of unknown directions.
Picking up the signal takes division of flavor.
My eyes are shapeshifting again on behalf of a magical world.
My octagon teacher bubbles up on this surface retention.
Renewal glows on in the shadowing.
There are moments when you know beyond doubt the world’s playing with you.
Planet Earth makes up words by the nano and still plays second fiddle to images.
Mystifying mystery mistakes itself while spreading estranged light.
The shock of decognition haunts.
Who said life happens by desire and flourishes by love? Who didn’t?
Fingertip essence feels its way.
We’ve made contact! Contact is made.
Here enjoying the perplexity of complexity. Wish you are here.
The lens focuses on handing over this hymn book for ecstatic foreplay (cut).
27 scratching the back of the sky
Call the picture by name,
pick up only the first sound
and discard the picture from your mind.
Orly Goldwasser on how hieroglyphs cut into a wall
were transformed by Sinai miners into a letter
You can never stop spotting the origin of speaking.
You are held by what is holding and holding forth and fast.
You’re here if you’re ready and not not.
Abandon all scope ye who linger here.
The matrix is where you come and go inevitably at the crossing over and out.
No worry mind twists but no breaking.
You can’t half see number wiggles.
Middle age, middle class and other middles without much middle.
Number wiggles on your wafts.
The image is a stepping tone.
The name invites you in only to hold you out—now back in/out.
Time is primary disappointment accordingly.
I scratch the back of the page just to say on the face of it.
Some writing tickles the page some say abuses.
I’m being somebody by moments and flicker effect.
Here knowing here.
The present is not a formulation but it knows formulation freely.
Zero point does not preclude momentum au contraire.
Just here scratching the bottom of my heart for the letter of its law.
28 network selves
like and unlike like alike
Ontononymous
This moment has mixed motives.
The fall falls further in each fortunate dislocation.
The field doesn’t see itself but in the mirage of self.
What’s mind like with no likeness?
Wafting saves by minimally holding clear.
Stop designing liberation and no hesitation.
It confuses in the fly time.
In visibility the thing is against the light.
Earth is where there’s nowhere to hide.
Stop listening to what you hear I heard her think.
My mood is in the way.
The whys have it.
Stubborn delusion feeds on itself before your scary eyes.
Few say so yourself.
Time gets pushy at the crux.
It takes a willing unliving to ride it out to further outside, outride.
Momentum in situ.
No now not now.
29 chronodivergence
The shadows are eating the colors again.
They teach the evermore of unlearning.
Identity’s a time-based art.
The poem gets ahead of me so I’m trailing already in its future presence.
Never giving up on not giving in to giving up before the line says uncle.
The thought you hold can hold you where you are.
The line feels me along this thickening ongoing presence.
It holds the way what you hold holds you.
A line gets good when you’re dying to say it again.
It’s a way of not being up for dying today.
What’s the matter with not giving up on matter?
Being thrown away still gathers in array.
Born again’s good for dying again while not quite all the way. Just enough.
Don’t settle before it’s time because it won’t.
Do I sense wailing in my intervals?
Mirroring I am seen me otherwise.
Likeness rushes back.
Inscriptured remains.
If you know it it belongs to you and from.
All time is lost time where no time is lost.
30 the gift to be multiple
Does the sentence know who’s heading it?
This page’s inner tree is dying to teach you face first.
Rhetoric is saying anything you already know how to say.
I’ve never seen this line before.
Sinistrorse! Whip it up inside whirling left from center!
I’m just cracking truths.
Writing is soul saving just saying.
Insanity is resisting the given.
And I alone have returned alone to tell you what I can’t.
I’ve had a million thoughts since I last thought this.
I write lines I don’t know that in the future save me.
No single word is translatable.
I won’t say that it is but it’s never not.
I keep living for all eternity between the lines.
Fear strikes at the heart of understanding only to meet its match.
I don’t know my mood so why should you.
Identity is never not in question.
We’re waiting to be convinced and it happens anyway.
The mind never comes to rest in time.
The daimon is not in the details but the surfacing rough.
31 glossodivergence
the Bhakti is in the text
betaking yourself to read it
Ontononymous
I’m writing into the past as we speak, hello, anyone there?
Language must be in surround given the timely bounding.
Speaking truly takes me by surprise which by now should be no surprise.
It’s a fit. A work in transgression.
Oh one day to know what it means to get off it and on with it.
There’s only the past present to speak of.
It can’t help pointing out that as I move forward it’s past making.
I’m dying in the mind reflecting it’s end no end.
No denying I’m pulling myself up by my flipflop strapping meanings.
It traps through the mind like a scrying trapeze.
This news comes to us from the other side of the page.
And heavy breathing between the lines.
The words like cats you’re never sure they love you coming to feed.
Writing in the present thinking it in the future.
Poiesis is declaring so.
Invariably the grammar is scale variable.
There is unspeakable beauty believe you me.
Only the indefinable humor gets through.
I’m practicing what I breach.
32 bhakti on the go
a principle isn’t mood driven—
that’s a principle, and moody
Ontononymous
I write to learn to see what’s before me.
One thing is not leading to another.
The danger of entering another’s world’s the feelings take you in and leave you out.
These perseverations are distributed particulately wide beyond association.
Living is nevertheless.
Let’s be in touch through it all is the cry of the field.
The poem lives in the background of seeing.
No I don’t want to come in from play.
There’s only listening high and low.
The experiment includes living it through.
The aim corrects for non-plausible deniability.
There are things that show true only when it’s funny.
There’s an oracle every minute, then gibberish, then the ride home.
Noise feeds its faith.
Everything leads to its other.
Importance can’t help corrupting value.
We’re cutting down on meaning for its long-range health.
The balls in the air amplify the ground.
No telling if it was said back when but no doubt it’s saying so now.
33 the poetics of pata-empiricism
It’s too late to look good and too early not to try.
Here I am drunk again with clarity.
Great minds think unlike.
This language will reform or get out of town.
I can’t stop crying over spilt life.
One size splits all.
Enlightenment doesn’t conflict and is never separate from confliction.
Glossodivergence runs in the blood.
I dreamt I met Buddha and killed him and that’s how I knew dreams are real.
Just saying, justice foretold.
I’m learning to shoot from the blip.
It’s down to us to perform diversity in the species and this is act zero.
Beauty is truth and truth beauty and never the twain shall meet.
Poiesis is a watchdog for history from the outside.
Mine to only do’r say don’t know why there’s no time left in the sky homey weather.
Not all song helps.
How to let the balls keep you in the air.
Praise the idiolectual for being’s a great opportunity not knowing what.
A matrix is no contest.
34 gnostalgia for the presence
Today is what yesterday failed to get across.
Just because it speaks to you doesn’t mean you know who it is. Or what.
No need to jump to seclusions.
Looking the tree in the eyes you see we’re the little people in the mirror.
Body talks non-stop.
Not only no contest a matrix is no context.
There’s no standard for perfection by definition.
The show will fail to start by the end of this line.
Every moment’s justifying and justifying not justifying.
My thinking poles apart is learning enjoying the tension giving birth.
Hearing it gets to the root of having said it.
The best referent is elsewhere.
The subject is in the focus.
Eyelids hide havens not to mention heavens.
The line grabs hold and pushes me away.
I am being given if I may say so life into death into life without distinction.
Incarnation presenting point of contact’s a relative necessity.
We need to stick together by learning to read otherwise.
Only scry over spilt milk.
The show starts now knowing it’s starting.
