S/2017 J 6

black train racing eastward
powered by the latest synthesizer
speed and heat
chip black paint away
revealing silver beneath
illusion's psoriatic skin

androids pounded electric spikes
building these rails
and trades extended
even as these selfsame androids
compounded a leisure of synthetic opiates

chromatic knowledge base alters

electric age with an endless flicker of digits
groundwork was laid at the mid-century laboratory
when not all research was in thrall
to commercial applications

cyclical cry from an involuntary apostate
who recognizes the ongoing oscillations
of the mystic who disbelieved
statements disproving his existence

polished icons
even when worshippers have not been captured
by the closed-circuit television cameras
of the zeitgeist's diseased
and bloated main office

the grim quotidian
was never aware of neo-Platonic remnants
and the growing ranks
who polish their surfaces
until what lies on the other side
is visible in a glass
with no obvious power source
					

Mountain Guitar

Mountain guitar with
                   wild thyme
a good start augmented by
                   abstract forces
in violet like shifting
                   cloud patterns

Victims of a clanging litany
until exterior logics blossom
rules abandoned and a
                   reprogramming of the very grammar

This is not Greco-Roman stuff but
every myth comes tumbling back
someone early sweeps with a tattered broom

Outlines go wonky—vibrating iron
the structured appearance of ages passing
count on the fingers
                   invent new numbers
					

[Non-Euclidean Shapes]

picture tides and
crowded landscapes
of isolation

the flag of the desultory
conquerors has fallen

insects of chance and
empty space eat away
at the remaining fibers

the unnamed portion of the night
invites all manner of phenomena

discarded objects are mapping
a surface where no surface was before

moving across a stable crust
seeking airy corridors—
we gamble on another
elusive structure
						

[Positive-Negative Primate]

a fissured blackness is expanding
the fissures are delicate and
appear white against
the black background

they two will expand
grains of rice in a heap

the misgivings of
a comically named monarch
may be driving this farce

a boulevard of dead trees
is a deserted street at midnight

appropriated concepts
tick their half-lives
into repetitive digressions

uniformed primates troubleshoot
these myriad devices—
who devises alternatives?
						

[Blue Hubris]

this black fire
travels up the spine—
pain is a lush
tropical plant in bloom

some await the vectors
of colorless storms or
crawl across shifting
indigo surfaces

the tragedy of human ingenuity
reprogrammed the oscillations—
another worn out mechanism
from another era rusts harmlessly
						

[Memory Implant]

dubbed reflections disintegrate
into white particles—
now will peripheral
movement be prohibited

nylon banners burned
by a dying sun unravel
leaving behind a
substitute memory

implanted urges subvert
performance in another dimension
for all but short bursts though
some adepts work toward
a mastery that remains unspoken

synthetic quadrupeds are
draining the color away—
their rechargeable snarls
are meant to keep us
from kicking them
						

[Broken Monitor]

this vision underneath—
as a tree might be reflected
on the surface of a lake

lost or undiscovered
a misspelled goddess
wandering her densely
wooded fastness
amidst rolling hills

this is nature stuff
not pixels or raster
or even chemical creams

some bodies may only
be glimpsed for an instant

a static storm or
digital tempest
blows in—blinding

try not to see through
but watch the images
dancing across its surface
					

[grand cabinet of inquisition]

electromagnetic fields and
a kind of ghost rattling
plastic rings and beads—
poorly worded questions
make of suspense
a salty amuse bouche

listen only to textured voices
they mutter old manuscripts

stealing the names of birds
does not enable you to fly

medical oddities and
creatures from mythology—
someone has raided
the old reliquary

where have the sacred
fragments been taken?
					

[pregnant forgeries]

boundaries are transgressed
as fine rain
alters the atmosphere

the counterfeits
have been accumulating
and in this changed air
they are easy to spot

predictable sounds
shall now be nameless
then an embarrassment
of nomenclature

everything amounts to
sifting through debris

a shard of broken mirror
will turn up
radioactive refugees
left out in the rain

repeated phrases change meaning
this is their raison d'être
					

[179]

insistence is not repetition
some say the buried King
is the best fertilizer
the proximity and
persistence of small butterflies
is a mathematical proof
from a circle comes
an untitled sound
to utter its name
is a sweet-sounding curse
absolute sizes and differences
are not limitations
some extermination is afoot
to return to the beginning
is to recognize that
some realities are
more real than others
					

[180]

in the madhouse
the inmates are cataloging
new hieroglyphs on
tiny scraps of paper
and tracing in the leavings
on dinner plates mandalas
that the dishwashing machine
will eradicate with
its efficient chemical stream
the richness of their utterances
to one another are derided
by the doctors as glossolalia
sirens scream in southern smoke—
another human construct
burned to fine ash
					

[181]

not every detail is witchcraft
but the line between
the natural and the synthetic
cannot exist
did travelers from
distant star systems
inadvertently bring
the very spores that
destroyed their
home planets and
did those spores
evolve into us?
a heavy washed-out
blue cloud vision
at least in the beginning
consider a token given
by a mysterious stranger
say a ring placed upon
the middle finger of
the left hand
its marks are clear but
deciphering them
is the work of
more than one lifetime
					

[182]

Vignette … a broken mirror on an empty street … just legible in its remnants is the gnomic
utterance ‘OBJECTS ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR’
					

[183]

numbers adding up to 9 or 10
a common occurrence
the sound of the wind
and a hand copying out
the Greek alphabet
moving quickly at an angle
like slicing through time—
like some kind of return
once a cedar cylinder gave way
to transparent plastic in
Sputnik colors—
what comes after styli?
shifting electrons?
the death of bird song?
or the continuation of
its mechanical reproduction?
					

[184]

experiments go awry
blinding flashes streak
across the empty sky
turning chaos
into anarchy
sudden smell of fear
in these days will
capitalism's final flunkies
try to find their way
backstage?
gouty feet shod in
the skins of species
now extinct
under unknown aurorae
gold-leaf pattern embossed
on an old book
detailing rituals
outlining transformations
					

[185]

changing average temperatures
and the malicious
promise of authority
replaying a sequence of
stylized poses—
analyzing them
frame by frame
strategic placement
of redundant drives
and logarithmic growth
in computations per second
no more discernable gaps
but still this inexplicable
queasiness as if
my central processor
has no other way
to process this data
					

[186]

certain energies cannot
be mechanically produced—
a rhythmic sound
like a heartbeat
pulses metallically—
distant sound of gold
and a preponderance
of round forms
this growing sickness
is immune to modern treatments
the dull ache—the sense of weight
precursors of transformation
					

[187]

sounds from a scratchy recording
of some hymns to Orpheus
coming from the weedy lot
behind the gas station
amidst cans and wrappers and
losing lottery tickets
beady eyes examine pages
torn from pornographic magazines
yesterday the sound of Venus
(a round sound)
was a necessary distraction
Aquarian drawings announce
another numbered sequence
they are dead-eyed
these operators of machinery
in distant harbors
horns sound—
there gulls surely circle
looking for crumbs
here bent minds
animate worn photos
while the message fails to come
					

[188]

disarticulated scripture
this temporal prophecy
a casette starting and
stopping chopping
words into meaningless
(or meaningful) tones
for the fresco depicting
the creation on the ceiling
has fallen in and
its sticky plaster-dust
has coated the capstan rollers
why keep pressing ‘play’?
a hunk of unhewn stone
from out of nowhere
sits upon the ground
with a silent baritone gravitas
the charismatics have fallen
into their own traps but
the doors to the anchorites'
cells are opening
					

[mod clock breakdown]

line of gasses forming
in the sky—
another dog-phenomenon
without a name

the shape of spilled fluid
is one transformation
awaiting phase change
or insectile greed

broken clock
is the name
of my familiar

what was thought
high incantation
turned out to be
a drunk slurring
the periodic table

the organ's mod rhythms
are as outdated
as a tin-foil miniskirt

faster than cancer
every sky ends
with nameless colors
					

[quotidian crash]

utilitarian fantasies
toss a few dozen
flying machines
into the air and
wait for them
to come down

take these new pills
and calm down

the sketchbooks
are scattered

black roots decaying
but the ancient cities
could be rebuilt with
access to the right
heavy metals

the name of some
local deity
is hissed like a curse

the control module
has been jammed
by fragments
					

Thebe

interstellar space

these were messages
from the real
and “we”
heard them

David-Bowie knife
slicing the hi-tek
silky thermoplastic veil

pass through to
another illusion
78-rpm crackle
calling from
yet another dystopia

relentless disinformation

“I have to give you
the message in code”
says another liar

listen enraptured
with ethyl alcohol
Arab invention—
Al-kuhl
immediately proscribed

microchip Korans
(may peace be upon them)
and beyond
control mechanisms
desultory dervishes
					

Callisto

black oxygen
megalopolis

smog dream
with dreamy
muted sirens
dopplering across the surface of
obedient brains

trained in the minutia
of this administered
nocturnal emission

energies collected and
fed into the machine

hear its pneumatic respiration
and long to merge with
its electronic perfection

cybernetic psychosis
washes clean as
bloodless lambs
grow into sheep

mutton mutation
in rewritten code

a day for an execution
hum along
					

[11]

Memory anterior to motion triggered like rheumatism and rain. Midwestern walking in a university town. Thrift-store raincoat. Tattered black boots. A requiem on cassette. Indulgence in tangential thinking. Exploring near logic in non sequiturs. Visible breath traces reminders of something ineffable. Pencil sturdy enough to sketch temporal cusp in soft lead on slick paper. Disregarded or forgotten technologies return. There was a time for over-sized clothing. Steady rain and gradual accretion. Attraction to strange cities on cloudy days. Even behind windows ultraviolet reflections.
					

[12]

Pizzicato beginnings and the sinister squeak of strings sounding like birds of prey engaged in an exercise of cooperation. A cinematic swell shifts the senses from audio to video. What good is an eye for detail? To notice the turtleneck is stretched out and a hole is forming in the knee of the left denim trouser leg. Movement of the air is slight but measurable. Numbered movements too sounding similar like repetition. Superimposition in sequence. Flipbook. Illusion of forward motion.
					

[13]

Save the rapid low notes and lectures on genetics. Chalk letters and numbers traced on metal surfaces. Sound of laughter and a television smashing onto pavement. The white noise of distant traffic is punctuated by machine voices. In the midrange names sound as violent as ever. Announcements sound like lists of random items. Short message beamed from who knows where. Indecipherable.
					

[1]

sequential fantasy bends
sheets of light
into cylinders­­—
veins
arteries
capillaries

the waxing and waning
of pressure felt
like forces imposed

mercury rises
in a chamber—
in the background
the hum of equanimity

questions about the number
of the world's corners and
whether they can be folded

this is jumbled like
voices in a diner or
voices on a train

you can listen
any way you want

you can listen
to any part
or none

feel the cool air
smell the wood smoke
or the burning leaves

a pattern of vibration
grows in complexity
ruin's spectral beauty
shows through new stone
					

[2]

continuation of a sort not
idle fantasies of inverting
a dominant paradigm

what's the point of
watching a hawk circle
in a blue sky?
who assigns names
and numbers to
colors and how
are they used?

behind cold glass
a lemon tree
heaves with fruit

certain types of
damage admit of
no repair—
some people
tear down monuments
others erect them

most pass by them
obliviously playing
the games of a child

decline
acceleration

but for me
a hunger for
sharp clean lines
etched in cool air
					

[3]

cold gasoline permeates
this background pigmentation
causing colors to thin and smear

a wrecked antenna sits forgotten
atop an old building collecting
broken signals from places
that no longer exist

a whine of motors turning
hums in the background

what mischief comes form
the backward gesticulations
of malevolent gnomes?

some of the pavement
is cracked and buckling
ages of fallings leaves
are rotting into a new surface
smooth and quiet with
a smell outlasting
competing forces

from a surfeit of signs
select a random stroke
to start

wandering through a
forest of plaster birds
someone trimmed back
the wild bamboo

the cuttings on the ground
have faded to silver
on the same ground
a small twig the
shape of a wishbone—
like the radical for ‘man’
and I think of roots
ginger
turmeric
even yam—
pigments growing
underneath

the topography above
breaks itself down
into lines and angles

everything composed
of strokes—
best where fewest
					

[4]

not a cycle with
repetition and
incremental variation
though it could be

change the base of
a number system
then wait and see

some areas sprout
less statuary and
fewer flags

a sudden freeze—
everything changes

does excessive use
of conjunctions
presuppose tragic
reliance upon causality?

Now a northern lake
would be frozen stiff
like Thoreau's sheets
in winter

fallen things again and
again suggest radicals
suggest ideograms

in the soil at the foot
of a short old stone wall
they say are coins
of great antiquity
					

[5]

cold constriction and
blinding light
let the frozen inkpot
have the eloquence of
a well-aimed projectile

the milkweed has died
and with it
a certain dream

the river birch's
river-dream
echoes the transistor's
desire to be bound to
the thin surface of
a microchip

the spiral is tightening
imperceptibly
colors blur
against the sky
where the edges dissolve—
a different kind of thought

OK it can't be done
in language
does a squirrel think
while gnawing a pumpkin?

It is not restructuring
random frequencies
random can be
experienced as
random

Not everyone knows cold
who knows cold
as an Inuit?
or a Southern Baptist
on a train to Churchill?

Try to walk in the park—
weekend numbers
pinned to chests
chalk lines guiding
rapid movement

Radio speakers
bleeding into my
Schoenberg—
should have taken
allergy pill after all

Then shifting wind
then smell of wood smoke
carpet of gingko leaves

It's all just a catalog
Ongoing
					

[12]

Lone flower persisting
in knife-blade air
voice of a prophet
mumbles through a gag

Now chemical color
courses through
unseen arteries

The chin of
hell's hound
has healed and
the walls of his
enclosure are low

Fruit withers
on darkened vines
streets too are dark
shadow selves
shoot the lights out
one by one

Where there are fields
gray acid soil

Fold Pavlov's handkerchief
and scan the sky—
storm clouds not
easily mistaken for mercy
					

[13]

Novices extract mineral
deposits from rocks
beneath the surface

Words too heavy
like stones— as if
speakers and listeners
were ancillary to
their weight

Abandoned vehicles and
one kind of quiet
these could be recurring
phenomena

Compact textures generate
accidental symmetry

The body's sudden
epiphanies are
slow to arrive

Sight and sound
altered sequentially

A bent figure
counts and catalogs
words
					

[14]

Expecting different transmissions
seeing instead with a slight blur
cold smudges force the
recognition of a withered vine

Citizens wash dirt from
the surfaces of coins

Silver sentries use
delicate tendrils—
though they don't
bind ankles
they do contain
listening devices

What if fat white legs
were stacked fuel
for some new race

Dream's inverted ziggurat
stands empty—
in forgotten corners
what clues remain?
					

[15]

Fallen poplar leaves
are desiccated rodents
populating the ground

Wooden slats
rot and crumble

Everywhere the same
or similar props
seek rearrangement

Someone preaches
through an
amplifying cone
or offers for sale
more—
more of something
more of everything
more of nothing

Open the gates and shout
ignore if you can that
the moon is melting

A piece of curled bark
contains the marks
that will generate
a new alphabet

Start with one letter
then a sequence
to disturb the reverie of
second childhood
					

[16]

So this starts
this is four parts
or a start would
be a single part
say part one

Could be music
could be an object
(segmented)

There are six pigeons
on a slanted roof
four of them
are grouped
close together

Perpendicular lines
form quadrants

Signs shift
imperceptibly
to the left—
for some a method
for some a technique
contemplation of
a common object

Polished surfaces
just conceal
the dream
of an
ordinary human

This is not a dream
about vertical motion
this is not
the end of a part
					

[6]

Uppercase letters interspersed
with numbers and
lowercase letters

Phantom titles
that strand in for
nonexistent works

Growing burden of conversation
deadens in the end
everything

Chemical process corrodes
a shape restructuring
an aggregate surface

Soundtrack existing
independently of
spooling visual imagery

Holes bored precisely
into materials will
serve some purpose

Bouncing back
and forth
between channels

The punctuated sonic
anagram is a sphere
of black excrement

Altered sounds in shifting zones
of climate—strips of tape are
swept from the editing room floor
					

[7]

Ethereal music inaugurates
the exploration of
unreal spaces

No. This was planned
a solitary woman
arranged for strings

Chance would be
some revenant with
an unpronounceable name

A door painted the same color
as a trash bin posits
the equivalence …

Equivalence of
going in or going out
and the futility of either

First the smell of perfume
in empty streets—sound of
a laser beam powering down

The disappearing of
blue light after
the smell of burning skin

Hypersensitivity to cold fluency
gray truants wait
for nacreous globes
					

[8]

Time structures burn from
underground vaults
buried under temples

Invisible space
between color shift
is peopled by electricity

What if one
shade of blue
existed for one decade only?

Recapture shapes that only
appear identical—time has
altered them in un-seeable ways

Write quickly—
take dictation form
chromium lips

With vacuum tube
cantata wake
to other places
					

[9]

Select instruments to begin;
debate the relevance of titles
harmonic distortion through
	excessive interpretation

Pulse of information
transmitted beneath
antiquated technologies

There is repetition of
	symmetrical ritual
scattered parts or
	interlocking fragments
build a new type of edifice

Subatomic topography
reinvent misunderstood
	sonic imagery
newly forbidden words
sung slightly out of tune
					

[10]

Recurring name is two birds
	then three
drifting down into
upper Egypt

Genetic transcendence as
the timeless mixtape
spools on

Wet yellow grass and
	a river drum
tearing newsprint
	into strips
rearrange facts
	into truth

Decaying leaves and black soil
alluvial silt—one part
	of an ongoing song
fleeting images recaptured
	from dreams
					

[11]

Dropped image in dead grass
a prime number of percussionists
accompanies machine-generated
	birdsong

Composition from prepared dictionary
or words altered—augmented by
the square roots of irrational sounds

That would be one way
North-Woman with
wood and wine

With a special apparatus
	we antiquate ourselves
and in so doing
become new

What lies in wait
behind the decorative
	parapet?
reminder of rotting wood
					

[12]

Don costume and scrape
late bows across strings
sound's wet blur transforms
	delineation into suggestion

The surface is scrubbed clean and
rolls of outdated film will reveal
	a series of hints about
what lies beneath the surface

The prevarication of a set of
	numbers spoken emphatically
is a strategy of one competing
	school of geometers
they are easily disabled by
	unexpected angles
					

[13]

Dys-regulation is supplanted by
self-replicating patterns—
a kaleidoscope of clarinets
	or so to speak

Someone or something changed
a name altering our
basic understanding
	or rendering it invalid

Deracinated
units of information
are now free
to combine promiscuously

Slight loop then
remap points
and curved lines

This territory
is always new
no maps of it
are accurate

A yellow study persists
then passing obliquely
	through mental constructs—
the brushing aside of
	a beaded curtain
					

[14]

Pattern of arrows
contemplate shape and texture
	of letters
rather than read sequences
	as words

Denotation and
	signification
dead placards and posters
might generate
	new life

What rough mystic
carved topiaries
in remote terrain?

Hunger for knobs
	and toggle switches
everything grows fuzzy
during instants when
the static pattern
asserts itself

A new title flashes
	on the screen
moving away is
arcing toward

Discreetly rest at
	the center
of a hidden palindrome
mantra sound repeating
					

[15]

Propelled toward socially
antiquated architecture
manufactures
the sense of purpose

This in relative silence
	but the voices return
that vibrato just concealing
the ability to hold a pure note

These are problem areas
like abdominal fat or
the inability to string together
	subject verb object

What can't be strung together
can always be strung up
enjoy the pastoral beauty of
a gantlet of guillotines

The weeks-worth of news
is now just decomposing
	cylinders
on a brown lawn

Even the sun
in time
goes silent
					

[1]

Answer as kinetic structure
presupposing then formulating
the question

Abstract structure and
relative position as
a form of meditation

Late summer air's
nostalgic feeling
like a sound
pulling me
into myself

Anger too
penetrates the diaphragm
like a bifurcated sycamore
					

[2]

Discrete piece of
Information discarded
bamboo disks
tumbling in sequence

Patience is one dog
on the other
side of the fence

From a dilapidated shack
another transmission
or alien vines on
a brick wall flowering
with impossible beauty
in colors that cannot exist
					

[3]

Dense fruit falls—
still the citizens
perfect their containers

Through roots and systems
slowly now into
decomposing labyrinth

Solution?
	Synthesis?
Symbiosis?

The man in the hat
waits in the shade
he overhears the
secret transmission
					

[4]

Even before the music
you start to think about
this thing's limitations

Formal patterns, speakers,
and personas—
just bags of refuse
in the gutter

Strange percussion
and movement toward
—the nature of time—

In this light
every vehicle
looks like a hearse

Mentally sitting cross-legged
a cognitive posture of squatting
nope, no good

Things will
unfold differently

I think of desiccated seed pods
I think of bag worms

Hanging things

Equally spaced wooden slats
of a bench worn smooth

Freshly painted surfaces too
vibrate with menace

The disparate details
were the parts of
a new kind of
timepiece—
broken or yet
to be assembled
					

[5]

It's the low register
suggestion of something
subterranean
then repeated
with subtle variation

A new species indulges
in blanket renunciations

A phantom scent—
some kind of decay
to the left

Habit etches into
the surface
patterns of
imposed distance

The right hand
is not empty

At first surfaces
appear exotic
but even through
the soles of
these shoes
uneven terrain
transmits messages

This is elongation
rancid lanolin spells
the final pastoral
					

[6]

Fading catalog
with perhaps
the rhythm of
a heart beating:
primrose
wild thyme
scraggly hibiscus

Maps and
transparent confinement
layered traces in
pervasive wet grass

Timing on a different
larger scale—
the temptation
of repetition
forms a
familiar shape—
it is round but
not quite flush
with the surface

Close to the roadway
is confusion
but there are details—
tropical minutiae
in other contexts
					

[7]

On the clean
latticework of locomotion
unsought intensity
at the edges

Unreality burns

Small flowers persist
no one notices
the narrow trunk
of the young sycamore
at the periphery

The foundation
turns out to be hollow
and everywhere
the smell of humans
gives pause

The layer of macadam
wears away in places
the latticework
is still there

A wallpaper of dead vines
will not conceal the mystery
of the old cedar

In places
rebar shows through

Poor vision
traces dark shapes
they might conjure
birdcalls or
the laughter of children

Bodies in motion
bodies at rest
an in-between zone

Firs and magnolias
the painful return
of circulation

Nameless grove—
site once of rituals

Evidence like
green paint

The sudden return of
an overgrown path
					

[8]

Perception of time
will alter itself
of necessity
as the inflexible
will be edited out of
time's sequence

Dirt and dust
accumulate on
surfaces of
varying topography

Fantastic shifts
along the axis

Fluid textures and
the crumbling remains
of some coliseum
now a public toilet

A soiled paper boat
bespeaks the
ritual offering—
ants in ketchup
remind us of
where we stand
with the gods

There are different
types of memory

Some details may
only be viewed
through a prism

A carved miniature
left behind might
be a reminder
					

A prelude for solid objects before the tempo is cranked down low. Rapid movement past a miniature greenhouse. Expanded shorthand traces notes like faded graffiti. This frost a reminder that resists interpretation. The leaves of one oak are dried blood begging the question of the wound's antiquity. There is a strange symmetry that at first appears to be its opposite. After any silence sirens become unbearable. Somehow return to slow beginnings. Not even joined these points of connection. Close enough for electrical impulses to jump between them.
					

22.05

dark reflections calm
amidst sharp angles

numbers and names
assigned to straight lines

hidden in an optical fold
is a blue conveyance

a reminder of
other directions
a remainder of
other orientations

smell of gasoline floods
this chipped-paint landscape

two new poles
have been erected—
are these to do with
some ritual
some mystery?

or are they part of
the scaffolding of commerce?

on the calligrapher's finger
an ink smudge—any shape
might suggest signification

the paranoiac raves
in a matrix of
invented categories

the filmstrip has
been run too
many times

reality is now
faded and scratched
					

13.06

a third coast opens up
in the middle of dry land

percussion of chthonic mallets
mingles elemental forces

the earth's dull monarchy
gives way to an anarchy
of brilliant light and water

both contain charged particles
whose energies pulse
through bathers' bodies

electric skin and shifting curves
meld into a new landscape
where all the senses are
merged into one super faculty

rows and columns collapse
into a single cell

the hammer blow of
instantaneous knowledge falls
					

13.08

floating in the earth's diseased embryo
the illusionary ground shifts
but we walk

the molars of false reality
grind truth into a fine dust
and the digestive juices of
rationality transform beauty
into clear odorless excrement
					

19.04

letters and numbers converge
then dissolve into pure sound

suddenly visible in the pavement
a repeated pattern of circles

late sounds come to us
approaching dissonance beautifully

eyes burn and water—
the airborne miasma

each cold breath a knife blade
and here a crystal jar of

cobalt ink lying at the edge
of the pavement

did it fall from the poor
calligrapher's worn pocket?

will he now trace letters in sand
or on the surface of moving water?

litter thickens and loud
voices speak of commerce

insistent percussion sends
ripples through the sky

fragments leavings detritus
					

19.05

vision of subsequent and antecedent layers
is sometimes accounted madness
hearing sounds that exist beyond
the confines of time cannot be tolerated

there is permanence and there is
the mutability of the superficial
the pavement is wet but
the warmth of the sun will dry it

colors are approaching their
actual hues once again
blue teachings crackle
in the still air

along the path lays
a rusted flute
pick it up
					

19.06

figures in a circle—animals
remade by strange mutation

first simple sounds
tapping on heat-fused glass
blowing through a
corroded cylinder

winding up a music box
found amongst the carcasses

a tape found in the ruins—
play it forwards
play it backwards
perhaps a sequence will emerge

the circle will start to spin
and the monsters that comprise it
will rotate in the opposite direction
movement within movement

colored fragments of parchment
blow in the wind
					

19.07

strange mathematics in
what appears to be a
northern village

structures are painted
in bright primary colors
the birds too have been
painted—the crow's
bitter caw is now
a rich white sound

in the landscape
green's sweetness
is leaving

now paths are streaked
with sour yellow
and salty red

somewhere a voice
counts to five

somewhere mallets
strike metal wires

this path south
is downhill

refuse increases
along the descent

seeking only addition
someone is immune
to the magic of subtraction

plus's cross is just the
intersection of two
perpendicular minuses
					

19.08

the warm air is sour
competing frequencies
charge the ambient air

fresh tree stumps dot
the former landscape

walking on bleached bones
walking on shells
walking on fragments

lead paint chips
frame broken windows

corroded fan blades
turn slowly

security cameras'
forlorn wires dangle

no spells
no sacraments
no algorithms

stocky humanoids
scale crumbling ruins

they feed on the
flesh of the weaker ones
					

what story is told
in an unknown language?

song of wide open spaces

there would be bright sun
and wide blue sky
but somewhere a
stone tunnel leading
into darkness

the underground flowers
bloom in muted tones
cool respite from the
painful blue of an
infinite sky
					

would we hear with kepler
the music of the spheres
if the myriad voices in
pointless yammering
could be silenced?

what is the color of
each sound?
and are these colors
fixed or shifting?

and even if the colors
themselves are fixed
the eyes are not

rod to cone
cone to rod

blue intensifying and
the discovery of
a new red now

what if these notes
functioned on a 
cellular level
within each body?

to feel each sound
to be each sound
vibrating at
identical frequencies

attenuation
	dissipation
		recombination
					

organic sounds come from the north
what was called a diversion
was the calling

through submission to external
forces comes power

wisdom-lined faces
from iceland
	from finland
		from norway

aquavit-clear eyes
portals to inner notes
sounds heard only once
but remembered always

					

elongation and color saturation
bodies move as if they were human

music in the middle distance and
dark spheres orbiting

what might they portend?

return ticket and
dragonfly's faded body
pressed together
into the pavement

vision of the earth—
a scorched black ball

					

04.19

the city's supernatural ideal
has been degraded
now the denizens ply
their bestial ways

and savagery concentrates
gross physical vectors criss-
cross and enweb the city
					

Read the interview here.

02.25

the beggars from porlock
will try to derail your thoughts
‘excuse me!’ they'll shout
over and over again
just when you thought
you might be on to something

they're looking for
metaphysical spare change

don't try to get back on track
that train has gone—
ferrying the dead-eyed hordes
across rivers

acheron
cocytus
lethe
phlegethon
styx

back to their suburbs
					

02.26

the powers that sustain
are the powers that destroy

for the moment
i hold them
in perfect equipoise
					

02.23

the gates seem forbidding
but stout souls will enter
at first the music from
within will sound dark
if not discordant

change your ears

simplicity contains within it
the root of all complexity

abandon serial fantasies
repetition doesn't exist

there is a sound
imperceptible to dull ears
the crowds will laugh and jeer
when you start to dance

pity those who will
never hear the music
					

02.24

nature is not a uniform
shade of green and
old walt never measured
the handkerchief of the lord

abide with me in contradiction

i'll grow so vast
all opposites will
be contained within me
nations and churches
will cease to exist

everything decays in time
what rich black
compost it all makes
					

02.21

memory is fragmentary
there is nothing to be
assembled or reassembled

beware the cyclical
fallacy as well as
totality's siren song

can a solitary particle
admit of possession
even while aggregates
shift and morph
relentlessly into
brightly colored patterns?

seductive ... but in the end—
if there is such a thing—
merely hypnotic or
narcotic
perhaps even
arteriosclerotic
					

02.22

escape as a concept
is pure distraction

effective movement
towards any cardinal point
must be predicated upon some
subtle interior transformation

even from the standpoint
of a supposed objective observer
situated let's say in such a way
as to observe without
influencing the observation

even such an observer
could track no movement
that wasn't insincere

the language of exteriority and
directionlessness will
forever mark
our circumambulations
					

02.19

sounds announcing royalty
degenerate into sonic flatulence
diminished expectations and
a metaphysical toothache
set the stage for what is to come

men continue to blow their horns but
the hibiscus is already withering

ascend the mountain path
the air is thin but
so are the crowds

neither the destination
nor the pace is important
just keep moving

when the dirge sounds
back in the distance
just keep laughing
					

02.20

there is no passage
not of time
nor through space
we cover what
should be uncovered
unearth what belongs
beneath the surface

dubious structures
erected at night—
neither scale them
nor work your way
painstakingly
around them

pass through them
as if they are not there

they are not
					

02.17

gradually the strings
come together
forming a tight web
vertigo descends
all is confusion

structure will dry up
the desiccated turnip
of spatial order will
wither completely

flatulent geometers
reel helplessly around
some non-euclidean space
clutching their distended bellies

three primary colors will merge
and from what once
was thought sterile
one slender shoot
will emerge
					

02.18

eccentric symbols
scrawled hurriedly—
some slender alien
evidence will be left behind

there is a plotless story
that need not be told

follow the spiraling digressions
resistance is expected and
factored into the flow's
nefarious pattern

doing nothing at all
is the radical gesture
against which
there is no defense
					

11.16

categories collapse
in upon themselves
strange instruments
reshape the
structure of space

random interpretations
of irregularity
will hold meaning if
one seeks it

vague constructions
are part of the additive art
but who shaves away
superfluous matter?
					

11.17

one night in spring
jupiter appeared as
three arced bands
with a hollow center

this was a circle
broken in three places—
each equidistant
from the other

observers cried out
‘what can this mean?’

and i heard a voice
and the voice said
‘black water’
and the rains came

what is tritium and
what is deuterium?
what is plutonium?

traces of dense silvery terror
can always be augmented by
dark ingenuity

the voices said
‘what white fire
could nullify
this water?’
					

11.18

dense lacunae

forces press in
from all sides
compressing
this void but
intensifying the
potency of
its energies

a walker may
access these energies
she may pass
through the void
absorbing energies
and transforming them
into pure color and
shifting shapes

particles and waves
might pierce the
opalescent skin of
this infinite emptiness
made small

they too will be transformed
nothing may pass through
without being altered—
a part of itself absorbed and
purified by the emptiness
					

11.19

the sound of flux
rejects fixed forms
and dead ends

words produce words
whose patterns are
ever shifting

dull minds cannot
fathom our mystic
consubstantiality
with the elements

this is the sound of
everything merging
					

11.20

textures disturbed by
an elemental imbalance

once again the ink runs

could these letters be
frozen into some
semblance of meaning?

slow motion smears and
smudges mock by
almost meaning

droplets of liquid
adhere to almost
every surface and
things have slowed
almost to a halt

scan the horizons
for incremental movement
for some sign of life
					

06.13

noncommittal cosmic gestures add up
not in the sense of make sense
they don't

meaningless accumulation
like all accumulation
manufactured necessity deceives

the shrug of equanimity says
das ist mir egal
a seductive voice repeats
spazieren
	spazieren
		spazieren
					

06.14

painfully beautiful surfaces
insistent sounds and tachycardia
then release

subtle expressions of
deflated desire
this is the metaphysical
detumescence

what grim realities reside
beneath the gaudy surface?
					

06.15

air oppresses and
elemental imbalances
suggest the presence
of a threshold

passing through or
across or over
or beyond

the cold prickle
of intense heat
prepares the body
for strange rituals

the room that's not a room
holds pain pleasure madness
in equal measure
					

06.16

unexpected lines of resistance open
dead silence between vocal explosions
inspires moderate dread

path worn almost to nonexistence
leads to a sign reading
chamber number two

the number two implies
the existence of other chambers
does the french chambre
offer a place of rest?
or six loaded chambers
poised against time's temple?

or the other roulette?
red or black?
odd or even?
			yes
					

06.17

unexpected lines of resistance open
uncategorizable sounds and
unrecognizable shapes
foster labored breathing

there must be one point
on one line in one plane
about which we can
know one thing

or one note in one sequence—
could its true tone be heard
by ears in this shadow realm?

there must be a light somewhere
and an object for us
to reside within this shadow
					

06.20

the spherical form requires no
apparatus of walking
said timaeus

such a form is limited
to circular movements
with no deviation permitted

this was thought to be perfection
the walker embodies
the imperfect

there are no perfect shapes
the surface of the sphere is rough
and irregular when viewed up close

only when kept at a great distance
can this orb exist
					

09.08

ancient prohibitions are
no longer spoken
but their unspoken proscriptions
remain in place

ungoverned motion
leaves tracks that form
metaphysical arabesques

if each step is associated with
a musical note and a specific hue
what then?

music and movement
are not predictable
laws are not immutable
they strangle a single
moment in time and space

the ancient city returns in flashes
its lawgivers and men of science
have perished
					

wormwood

it was the hour for bitter
pleasures
weeping we drank deeply
awaiting what must come next
lamenting our usual lack of
agency
and then one of us
i forget who
asked the question
dissimulation
or transmigration?
				  
				  patrick hurley
				  july 19, 2016

					

underneath the pavement . . .
               more pavement

follow the fat trail
of garbage juice
from the alley to
the street
fading gradually
as rusted metallic
slugs carry away
from the city
the toxic surfeit
of capitalism

				  patrick hurley
				  May 2, 2016
					

the poet is large
and wears a look of easy prosperity
he is expansive
I don't think he can be a single poet
an accretion
or amalgamation
his appetites are immense
he is huge
a daunting presence
like one of those contemporary visual artists
Schnabel or Weiwei
are such men
I wonder
immune to chronic dyspepsia?
					

02.04

there is no port of entry
what atlas charts these
saturnine territories?

ingress is a dangerous fiction
radioactive particles
are ubiquitous

toxic energies fix our hopes
but only choice computes
					

02.05

these voices are not french
and this is no paradise

try for a somber tone but
mandatory laugh tracks
will make mock

uneasiness like incessant
drumming on the hollow
reeds of deconstruction

experience shears off
limbs at oblique angles

there is something in the east
but its name is unpronounceable
					

02.06

gross appetites
do not always mislead
learn each name
only to forget it

sounds strike from odd angles 
reminding the incredulous that
life might be after all one
long allergic reaction
					

02.07

dark coincidence
under overcast skies
metaphysics and meteorology
will collide

utter meaningless
enjoys unspeakable density
					

02.08

malevolent gestures dissipate as
reason lurches towards
its final resting place

the once nourishing loaves of
conventional wisdom are
ergot-laden slices of
spasmodic madness

voices raised in prayer
spark now in the 
animal heart only terror
					

The backlit bottles form an altar
And they bathe you in their holy glow.
I think about
All those temples murdered by time
Or just the victims of attrition
With its clinical sound.
Still
I will never know what it was like
To sit and stare into that mystical light
Sounds of the B3
Air dense with smoke like incense
Every sense raw and ready in the midst of
Such stimulus
I hear the names:
Sazerac
Ideal Lounge
Club Lido
Roxy Lounge
Saddle Club
Beacon
Red Lion
Panama Club
Stevie's Latin Village
Like an incantation
Soft words muttered in the darkness
To keep me safe from harm,
Purblind in the early morning hours.
Is it matins or lauds?
Only the names remain
Like ghosts
And the spirit imperishable
Though those churches may have fallen.