so i think

my writings

could fill a trunk

i am set  to sail soon

saturn is the planet

the most beautiful

the rings are hope

a kind of ordered world

i left or look for

where all of us

move among the lanes

around a ring

you will  choose

to  leave the body

into digital eternity

in silicone programs

growing to eat

or be eaten

or are we

consuming everything

because its time for harvest

the garden years

that will never come back

query the indian continentals

american dumbass

misguided foam on a wave

that without a cultural monarchy

crashed exponentially outward

which infinitely growing debt

could not stand behind

or outpace

devaluating data

which while slow with the monkeys

found the new primates

reengineering earth

as a machine of thought

without heart

 

 

 

in three hours

a backdrop of sod

mutt buffet or

living carpet

so i bought all this

weed killing fertilizer

and the dogs got sick

when leaves

stopped moving

grass in the 80s

we laid down

nested in it

light strings

new love

without
dollars or data

or other entities

in the soft rain

from lemon clouds

inside the sphere

when  we were young

and  america
could be good

now

espressoing

the mahogany and marble

your shadow numbers

seep into sight

a line of blood

from prior version(s)

and parents decisions

into yours

On our way home from mass we would often meet M. Legrandin, who, detained in Paris by his professional duties as an engineer, could only (except in the regular holiday seasons) visit his home at Combray between Saturday evenings and Monday mornings.

He was one of that class of men who, apart from a scientific career in which they may well have proved brilliantly successful, have acquired an entirely different kind of culture, literary or artistic, of which they make no use in the specialised work of their profession, but by which their conversation profits. More 'literary' than many 'men of letters', endowed with a greater ease in execution than many painters, they imagine that the life they are obliged to lead is not that for which they are really fitted, and they bring to their regular occupations either a fantastic indifference or a sustained and lofty application, scornful, bitter, and conscientious.

Tall, with a good figure, a fine, thoughtful face, drooping fair moustaches, a look of disillusionment in his blue eyes, an almost exaggerated refinement of courtesy; a talker such as we had never heard; he was in the sight of my family, who never ceased to quote him as an example, the very pattern of a gentleman, who took life in the noblest and most delicate manner.

My grandmother alone found fault with him for speaking a little too well, a little too much like a book, for not using a vocabulary as natural as his loosely knotted Lavallière neckties, his short, straight, almost schoolboyish coat. She was astonished, too, at the furious invective which he was always launching at the aristocracy, at fashionable life, and 'snobbishness'--"undoubtedly," he would say, "the sin of which Saint Paul is thinking when he speaks of the sin for which there is no forgiveness."

"Well met, my friends!" he would say as he came towards us. "You are lucky to spend so much time here; to-morrow I have to go back to Paris, to squeeze back into my niche. "Oh, I admit," he went on, with his own peculiar smile, gently ironical, disillusioned and vague, "I have every useless thing in the world in my house there. The only thing wanting is the necessary thing, a great patch of open sky like this.

Always try to keep a patch of sky above your life, little boy," he added, turning to me.   "You have a soul in you of rare quality, an artist's nature;

never let it starve for lack of what it needs."

      marcel

And I begin again to ask myself what it could have been, this unremembered state which brought with it no logical proof of its existence, but only the sense that it was a happy, that it was a real state in whose presence other states of consciousness melted and vanished.

I decide to attempt to make it reappear. I retrace my thoughts to the moment at which I drank the first spoonful of tea. I find again the same state, illumined by no fresh light.

I compel my mind to make one further effort, to follow and recapture once again the fleeting sensation.   And that nothing may interrupt it in its course I shut out every obstacle, every extraneous idea, I stop my ears and inhibit all attention to the sounds which come from the next room.

And then, feeling that my mind is growing fatigued without having any success to report, I compel it for a change to enjoy that distraction which I have just denied it, to think of other things, to rest and refresh itself before the supreme attempt.   And then for the second time I clear an empty space in front of it.

I place in position before my mind's eye the still recent taste of that first mouthful, and I feel something start within me, something that leaves its resting-place and attempts to rise, something that has been embedded like an anchor at a great depth; I do not know yet what it is, but I can feel it mounting slowly;  I can measure the resistance, I can hear the echo of great spaces traversed.

Will it ultimately reach the clear surface of my consciousness, this memory, this old, dead moment which the magnetism of an identical moment has travelled so far to importune, to disturb, to raise up out of the very depths of my being?

I cannot tell. Now that I feel nothing, it has stopped, has perhaps gone down again into its darkness, from which who can say whether it will ever rise?

Ten times over I must essay the task,  must lean down over the abyss.

                                                      *proust

BEST VIDEO OF THE YEAR!!!

pulled back the covers

opened the wake

he left it all

a complete dance

as his septum

falls into darkness

james is loving me

laughing as no christ ever could

at our predicament

singing like frank

of windy summers

you can't trust the filtering

work to shut it off

my hemi buddy

and the mechanics

underneath

the older synaesthetic

from my  mother

in dream to the West

cross the atlantic

onward to the pacific

rewinding in the caribbean

two of us

who go to sleep at night

one you can never trust completely

yet  you know not which

you are

a deliberated strategy

in reply to the selling

the weight of the history

and detail in Nature

is helping to crush the ego

inside me to make it

malleable

the penguin  snapped his heels

and said in a song

      sex as conquest or trophy is

            ego  left

                           like a bug

saturday noon-

this curious prohibition

to not encompass the deity

with  language

mary shelley hit the target

a BIG idea

machine man

next up

mind man

behind

mind chemistry

and  the  next question

      if a mind  is  all

      what is mind

and then why

did someone  leave

us  in the playground
perhaps  shouting 
in imaginary verse
look what youre losing

was ned ludd right

how is a mind in the net

different from a program

choosing  spam trails,

a thinking machine

entitled and engineered

to preserve a place

in the market

before substitution

speck  of a  speck

seeing my friends eat  dirt

i'm   sure  I'm   supposed to

my  backyard is pretty clean

probably  full of flavor

perhaps gourmet

exotic choices

just like salmon

i disliked in  ignorance

Thou Nature, art my goddess

to thy law My services are bound

My mind is generous and my shape is true

Who in the lusty stealth of nature

take more composition

and fierce quality than doth

within a dull stale tired bed

I grow I prosper

will



our selves

based on our

anatomy

used to embrace

a tree frame

for knowledge

now there are two of you

yet you know not

which you are

enquiry into thomas

Bartholomew of Capua

XXIX. The witness went on to recall that while brother Thomas was saying his Mass one morning, in the chapel of St. Nicholas at Naples, something happened which profoundly affected and altered him.

After Mass he refused to write or dictate; indeed he put away his writing materials.

He was in the third part of the Summa, at the questions on Penance. And brother Reginald, seeing that he was not writing, said to him:

'Father, are you going to give up this great work, undertaken for the glory of God and to enlighten the world?'

But Thomas replied:

'Reginald, I cannot go on.' Then Reginald, who began to fear that much study might have affected his master's brain, urged and insisted that he should continue his writing; but Thomas only answered in the same way:

'Reginald, I cannot - because all that I have written seems to me so much straw.'

Then Reginald, astonished that ... brother Thomas should go to see his sister, the countess of San Severino, whom he loved in all charity; and hastening there with great difficulty, when he arrived and the countess came out to meet him, he could scarcely speak. The countess, very much alarmed, said to Reginald: 'What has happened to brother Thomas? He seems quite dazed and hardly spoke to me!'

And Reginald answered: 'He has been like this since about the feast of St. Nicholas - since when he has written nothing at all.' Then again brother Reginald began to beseech Thomas to tell him why he refused to write and why he was so stupefied; and after much of this urgent questioning and insisting, Thomas at last said to Reginald:

'Promise me, by the living God almighty and by your loyalty to our Order and by the love you bear to me, that you will never reveal, as long as I live, what I shall tell you.'

Then he added: 'All that I have written seems to me like straw compared with what has now been revealed to me.'

LXXX. The witness added that when Thomas began to feel seriously ill he asked to be carried from Maenza, where he then was, to the abbey of our Lady at Fossa nova: which was done. And on entering the monastery, ill and weak, he clung with his hand to the doorpost, saying:

This shall be my rest for ever, here will I dwell, for I have a delight therein.

                                                                            Psalm 131:14

A little later he died and was buried near the high altar of the abbey church - a marshy spot because it is not far from the monastery garden where a stream runs (which they use to turn a wheel there), making the whole place damp, as the witness himself has carefully and frequently observed.

About eight months later there came a rumour that the Dominican Peter of Tarentaise had been made pope and that he wished the body of brother Thomas transferred to one of the greater churches of his Order.

So the monks of Fossa nova, fearing to lose the body, selected three of their number who dug it up one night and cut off the head, which they hid in a secret place in a corner of a chapel behind the choir. The witness knows the chapel well.

The monks argued that if they had to lose the body, they might at least keep the head.

And the witness heard from brother Peter of Monte San giovanni and from another monk that the body was found entirely incorrupt, with all the hair still on the head. The only part missing was one hand, which the countess of San Severino had.

There was also a dent near the tip of the nose as if a mouse had bitten it. The body had a good smell.

Peter of Monte san giovanni

LII. ... The witness added that after Thomas had been buried seven months in the chapel of St. Stephen, he was exhumed and taken to a place before the high altar, where they buried him again.

But when they exhumed him a sweet smell came out of the grave and filled all the chapel and even the cloister.

And the clothes in which the corpse was wrapped were whole and entire, as was the corpse itself, except that the tip of the nose was missing. And some of the monks in order to make sure of that fragrance, came and put their noses right down on the body and so assured themselves that the sweetness came from the body and its clothing....

Then after seven years, the witness himself having now been elected abbot, he had the body again exhumed and transferred to a more honourable place, namely to the left of the altar (as one approaches it) and under a tombstone raised above ground- level. And in this disinterment also the same sort of fragrance was experienced, and again the body and its wrappings were found whole and undecayed, except that a part of the thumb of the right hand had gone.......

Nicholas of Priverno

And later, about fourteen years after Thomas's death, the grave was reopened at the request of one of his sisters, the Countess Theodora, who desired a relic of him; and one of the hands from the body was given to her. And the body was still intact and very fragrant.

William of Tocco

Finally, the witness said that when he arrived at Fossa nova he went to the sacristy and asked Richard the sacristan to show him the chest containing some of brother Thomas's bones. ...

And when he opened the chest a strong scent came out of it, unlike any odour in nature.

On his asking the sacristan about this the latter swore by the altar that he had not put anything on the bones to make them smell. They always had that scent.

And the witness added that one experiences more or less of the scent according to the degree of one's devotion.