spiritual language poetry & writings

notes toward a cosmic folklore – XXIX



The sleep of reason, says Goya, produces monsters….In my cold

life (it begins) things fall apart, winter reveals the depths of

history, blocked and floundering where fathers and brothers

attempt to reconcile. In my cold life memories of growing up

are ridiculed by surfaces that evaporate like snow in the sun,

broken crystals of perfection. Convincing I am not, but the

pleasure of my company this time around draws on its fears,

its perfect understanding of more than just a cliché uniquely

its own, too charming to dismiss. I shy away from breakthroughs.

My subject matter is the brink, disaster my touchstone. Yes,

girls are the music of my life. I’m a slave to their repertory of

connotations. And what I have long since lost—openness,

curiosity, energy, innocence—I feign like a spirit diluting the

facts to suit his brilliant story, one with no latent ending but

a vampire’s mad-eyed gaze where the meanings of flowers

are flawed… Unfettered like bumps in the night, I would give

birth to a moral vision if I could overcome distinctions between

irrational horror and framed discourse. But I can’t. For every

blade (not leaf) of grass is an apocalyptic reminder with its

rigid structure, its pride of place, that you could look up the

meaning of everything and still you would never come fully

alive, embodied as you are in your pose, your instinct for

explication. Be fair, you say, never meaning it. Be accurate,

you say, nobody coming close to the spiritual nature of the

undertaking….That’s why I step sideways and swoon in the

Devil’s Garden. No boundaries participate here in saying

the world is.