[GRAND!] And The Liberator was upon him! And with a great swell his throat opened, and The Obscure was swept into the briny maw. There were dead fishes all around such that he called out, “There are dead fishes all around!” and was not heard but by the sloshing wine deep in the belly, always aging in its wine-ish.
And the wine drank The Obscure and was pleased in the way it blushes, and yet The Obscure devoured the conflict of his journey as if it were his own god. The Liberator was upon him with names like Denny, Dennis, Denise, Deon, and Asia Minor. So sparse it was difficult. Darkness was not in settling but was settled, and for this The Obscure pleaded, “let it.”
“Do your ritual!” The Liberator boomed, “for it was just that I thirsted, and the storm was so great. Do it. Do your ritual. I didn’t mean it.”
“But I weep.”
“Don’t pull that shit on me, you always weep.”
“No, I am always weeping. Fetch my kindling that your blowhole might lead us to pasture.”
And The Liberator did fetch the kindling. Where his fetching was feminine, sailors chantied and pined. Where it was not, they swore; they roughhoused and sickened; they shot the moonlit curves into murk and fathoms. Stories arose in his blubber; in the wounds filling, never full; into his clean wounds; out of his clean wounds in white pieces and wine, into obscurity.
Dionysus had accidentally eaten Heroclitus.
Dionysus was upon him.
You are everything I ever wanted.
No more defined than…
Every whale is driven to pasture
With a blow.
Every war mostly stems from
How to say…
A problem with language.
Every bed has with it
Making it hard to sleep.
Is this your fish?
I found it choked to death in my hands.
Here are five words to do with the Wild West:
I can’t remember the other three.
(I’m sorry; it was an Occident).
I found these two and a half things of interest
In its belly:
A diving mask
A viking hat
Unrestrained aesthetics of force
A list consisting of a diving mask, a viking hat and unrestrained aesthetics of force
A kind of posture
I don’t know if you know this,
But Rush did a song about it.
Stephen Sondheim knows your pain. He knows.
He can bring your dead writer friend back.
This is all true.
Every time you spontaneously combust
It’s a surprise.
In the model there are thermoplastics
Enzymes competing for your attention
For your impression upon others who blog
Let’s hope that nasty case of antiquity doesn’t flare up
There will necessarily be parts missing
In the model there is a large feline
There is also an aspect of devastating melancholy
One is only slightly bigger than the other
My, this is decadent!
In the whale it stands to reason that
Imaginary numbers are real
I am so afraid of being afraid
That even the richest coffee in the world,
Crafted by Colombian artisans,
Can’t bring me back.
Scientists call this
“poems written on the day of the reading.”
Whenever an individual forms an asymmetrical
Friendship bracelet, there will necessarily be
Other ideas toward the world, like friendship pants,
Friendship tankini suits with friendship soft cups,
Friendship traditional Mayan garb,
Friendship fanny packs.
One project is to weave a full friendship wardrobe
For no one in particular.
Another is to weave a friendship gun.
A third is to weave a letter of apology
For the time it takes to weave the letter of apology.
So rare, this common channel,
Reach down to touch the manta ray,
Reach in to tailor your ambiguity—
Your true capacity for parsing revelation,
Textures underfoot, but not big from little
The chaff from the grain.
If you’ll pardon me, I’m inside a cardboard box.
Naïvete! Bacchanalia! panta rhei!
He of the loud shout, testicles!—
Read on to conform your blood-curdling joy,
To run screaming through the honeysuckle,
To use a word like “terror.”
Do you have it yet?
This bar ate that Greek.
That Turk, with his hands clenched.
For the sake of argument, let’s pretend
I was killed by a hunting rifle seventeen times.
Bridged the gap with the body;
Bridged the bridges with more bridges.
Let’s pretend this bar is a bathtub
And we’re all going down in flames.
It’s reassuring to be together in a time like this.
At least we have our horn of plenty
Shrouded in antiquity,
A properly executed soldier
Murdered by animal husbandry
Grandiosity always in flux:
This is all true.
Every time I count to infinity
My patriotism knows no bounds.
Every time my family eats a guinea pig
I feel compelled to tell my own personal story.
Every time I lose the ability to speak
I think of you in that tiny black dress, and your adage
Of questionable authenticity. It went:
“Lo, observe, mixed pies! I’m inclined to recall the travels
of your middle eyes and say, Alleluja!”
Laws of position are futile against
It is never the same man;
Here is what he hears:
“There is no there-there there.”
No absolute; no co-
Whale contains wine containing many.
Whale contains rough construction.
Whale contains vestigial philosophy,
Things in their there-ness.
God contains restrictive priming,
Now contains penetration;
God contains the Greek, his hands clenched.
God more real than reminder;
More like this than locale;
More a locus of let go the let go;
Fetch my kindling.
Whale, God, Liberator.
Greek, Turk, Obscure.
Struck down at the zenith
Of their affair.
What to do with all of this plurality?
Their steady weather to part the seas apart,
To parse the chaff and grain.
In dreaming, it’s almost as if what never happened
Will never happen.
During the day, equal dread of living and dying.
I wake to sleep and collaborate in dreaming.
I have searched myself and can sit with confidence
On your carpet; lo, I could recline!
If The Obscure made a mix CD, people might think
He was being aloof.
O, the houses this sight has seen.
O, the scene of this house against that sea.
“The time is the present;
The place is ancient Greece.”
The why is desperation and bending back;
The day is a game and a sieve
Cobbled ashore with small corrections
For the thing itself to crumble through—
A sieve patched with sand.
Everything flows and turns;
Terns rake the sea for whales;
Abiding only with the gale.
In the fake fireplace
It smells like fake fire;
We step in to stoke the damp laundry.
In stealing the mule
The myth is sterile—
[fast/monotone, like a car commercial]: Their processions and their phallic hymns would be disgraceful exhibitions were it not that they are done in honor of Dionysus. But Dionysus, in whose honor they rave and hold revels, is the same as Hades.
And The Obscure was intoxicated, going mad from wine, and The Liberator still around him buoyed toward lifelessness. And with the force from the heavens a great gust rose the sea, and Heraclitus was afraid.
[drunk] “Hey, wake up, you goddamn whale! What—where…” [spill drink] “ahh, shit…my kindling…fuck…”
The Liberator was nearing death from his wounds but was awakened with the heaving ocean and The Obscure stumbling about.
“Your…ritual…do your ritual…”
And Dionysus rolled into the swell, his immense ribcage creaking open to make room.