Circles

So the sun turns
And spins: circularity
Is a facet of everyday
Life. Don't you see
How sound also
Rings around gongs,
And penetrates into
The vortex of our ears?
These vacuums swell
When rain in its alacrity
Engulfs the rhythm of lakes,
Transforming solid water
Into curves. Our existence
Also runs in circles --
Thought perceives ideas
In the clarion tenor
Of a ring, joined in itself
And the thing it conceives;
Faith is a circle, and time,
First herald of all ripe plums.

Dioxophy

If you hurl it away and say
'Things exist,' proclaiming loudly
And in the daylight, it is true
The world will continue to turn,
And the intercessions of twilight
Keep spinning, drenching the peaks
Of the night, whose serenity
Glazes the swamps and pastures alike.

But why? Is there any reason
To ask the question at all? Will reason
Run me less than passion, meaning
Blind circumstance and whatever I think?

As much as I would like to conceive
Of a harmless space, a perisphere of peace
About the eddies of material
Being, still these changing currents
Are the rip-tides within as well as without.

There is no logic abstracted from logic:
The ground soaks up the storm,
And the storm soaks up the ground; far from the earth,
The best bet is to lash the sails to the deck,
To take quick action, and quick thought:
The unity of a man is as his being does.

Let Be Be Finale of Seem

If you want to take a grasp, do it in such a way
That the language precedes the rationale,
Stems from it, forms and informs it.

If only everything grew in our mind: rage,
That our plans don't allow the shapes of things,
That language itself shatters,

As if there were some ultra-visible force
Pushing away everything we can't see,
Until only the impingements of voices and color,
And the bodies of accidents were left. Yes,

We want everything to be intentional,
And every intention our intention;
We want the world to hang from the string
Of a necessary tension. Small men,

Who don't know the order of things, posit God,
Last arbiter of reason. Small men,
Who know nothing, are stringing themselves
Into frustrated little bits, glaring everywhere,
Trying to get their say. Love is supposed to help this.

But how seductive, to render everything
Into the hurricanes of our unquenched being:
Things are riled up on the inside, and it is curious
If the sun never gets in the way.

Circumlocutions

Say the mind is a ring, and twirl three times;
Now twirl in the circle of your twirls, but cross-wise, so
Perpendicular twirls slant-wise ring
Around themselves. All of these twirls, in the axes of their crossing,
Have their own particular meaning, particular beings –
Each is endowed by principles of motion, principles of semblance
Seeming through and up the whole. In the interaction of these parts –
Of swirls and rip-tides, whorl-pools, slides
The priority of life, the truly spinning tongue.

IV (WIP, R2)

O matrona dona, traversez le corps: the travesty of the body
Was in mind, in the bells, already floating
Up so many streams of Labrador red, the ravished head
Of Eurydice’s muse. Ephebe, Galatean, celestial
Admiral, tell us your name: the wind
Held that, and capered by caravels, the branches knew it
But could not say. In the forest, cool, were the pillars
Of bees, and more than bees: the beginning of song,
Past capes and admirals, sailed on the savage
Of Evergreen reds, meridians where the latitudes talk. Desirous capes,

Straits, we beg sagittiferous wind, we beg clouds, we beg storms –
Gales; nightingale moons, something swoons
In the unfolding air, gravity’s crystals half there,
Half obscure in the arc of the twilight.
If the storm-shafts penetrate our ships, we beg a sinking,
Sloping into the salt, a tilting, these gravitations of
Celestial will. Everything is made, Muse:
The cloaks are wearing twilight, your significant gifts are descending,
The sky is slopping and slavering on the prow:
So we ask foaming will, Muse, foaming good will.

IV (WIP)

O matrona dona, traversez le corps: the travesty of the body
Was in mind, in the bells, already floating
Up so many streams of Labrador red, the ravished head
Of Eurydice’s muse. Ephebe, Galatean, celestial
Admiral, tell us your name: the wind
Held that, and capered by caravels, the branches knew it
But could not say. In the forest, cool, were the pillars
Of bees, and more than bees: the beginning of song,
Past capes and admirals, sailed on the savage
Of Evergreen reds, meridians where the latitudes talk: dire capes,
Grim straits, we beg sagittiferous wind, we beg clouds, and storms --
Gales; we beg nightingale moons and the crystals of twilight,
We beg something swoons the unfolding of air, half there,
Half obscure in the arc of the twilight.
If the storm-shafts penetrate our ships, we beg a sinking,
Sloping into the salt, a tilting, these gravitations of
Celestial will. Everything is made, Muse:
The cloaks are wearing twilight, your significant gifts are descending,
The sky is slopping and slavering on the prow:
We ask foam -- good will, Muse, foaming good will.

Posseder un corps: how the flame licks the questionable lips.
Posseder un corps: in swoops, in lashes, in tongues of flame.
Posseder un corps: I've said it thrice, and the sweet sucre.

Posseder la vérité au moyen d'un corps, dans un corps, entre un corps:
Enter and penetrate between the folding cover of ecstatic sheets,
Between and through, penetrating essences, entering the collimations
Of the secret âme. Âme secrete, chanson, colombon
Pourpre des pèlerinages: Dis-moi ce que tu sais, et où je vais; dites-moi
Le travail et le receuil, le seuil des secrets. Secreted collusions,
Feuilles par écueils, the questioning rituals of the unknown,
Bring me unquantifiable peregrinations, raw and mottled
Birds, bejeweling doves. and the secrets of those doves:
Take your flights through the upper air, and the lower air,
And glisten the ether. Ethers, fumes, transports, extases,
Et tous ces sons qui sont jamais dits, déjà et encore.

Predestination

I am rage, and good
At turning a blind finger to the sluices of the night.
How immense and unstoppable, the sluices of the night.
The tightness of her corpse
Twists like a wheel grinding on a concrete
Scream, howls and blood in the distance. This dark
Tapers like a carrion, a candle -- keep the candle --
Organs of decaying wax.

If I twist myself a monolith, who will be left?
Only the livid face of the night,
Only her slime-green, palpitating breath.
Still I will give my all to her:
Death, who loved me from birth --
Grim death, who sucks my fingers and my dreams.
I am the pleasure principle, revolting,
And I am diminishing into silence:
The marriage of silence is the key for blue souls.