'The Excruciating Evolution'

The Excruciating Evolution 19 Sept 2001 ......the vigil of a saint........ No one will sit and glory in the thought of their casket, 'cepting voodoo pilled dope   dogs lapping the wondrous putridity of the gutter seeking redemption. Jacobins roll   on the scene and claim rolled heads     purge it all, but if the reflection is taken up           the most messianic fit in the box.   Even Eli Casque,  Eli Casque, whose great grand son lives In a refrigerator carton under the bridge,   Had a better send off in his mind funneling Profits into the underground           to purge his soul for the packaging             of his clients before his trade boomed in the Civil War. Casque’s fathers followed the commanding   standard of the plague to make a nice fat purse, Lincoln made him a place, Eli feeling deeply the meat     he sported about as his coffin, in an oriental sense,         waited to slough it off to birth. Now these Western Climes seen as a tomb,     we maggots lost sight of the terms         Of the sarcophagus. Following the plague many a box-crafter   surfed the wave of death in austere times     swooping often past sunset should a prospect       elude his sentence, and when the pine was all milled the lucky ones who did not outlive   the craftsman often were interred in cedar. We plant a many in a war, In a hurry, but as war looms   On the horizon only the most circumspect     Build their own eternal home, Facing the reaper most foot drag. --------------------- If America wears this shoe, We maggots then must feast Sumptuously, dance with a Giddy reaper. Perfidious lesson? Legions of our ghosts can bear proof, As you work to secure your position. Feel the arctic breath of this spent simile   As already in the hall of settled history. As Caesar lead his gods from the heavens   We lead all this to past images in the stars. To old Hades and beyond with Lamia pronunciamentos,           cry the newly fletched,     We fly on as once you flew, Aping your custodian farces since Last the celestial train left the station, Feeling weighted by the hip pocket   So the alignment of those bodies shall Not crack our planet’s crust. Front and center proscenium, the boards Pliant like a diving board, his face is kohled with this war and tantric tantrums, Winging over the land mines if enraged, Tornadic, sickly, near unconquerable with The plucky cocksureness of youth. Countless nights his capital crimes grimed The walls of your room while you flipped           about on balled up              sheets scratching Phantom fleas, the mind’s rich soil unploughed,     imagined fantasies of his death merely his distance.   A full midnight To dawn of these wishes never comes           close to one pull of a trigger,               plunge of a blade.   The escape from his spectre was the only contrition,     the frail red wind of dawn puzzling, alluring,         faint as solar wind     on the most errant asteroid, or ideal mathematic solid you can not hold in your hand. The  futile kind acts of the noble Are the only true acts, We are changed with songs of steel, Hymns to bondage, and neglect. Let’s leave these truths sober And find the revolving disco festive lit Revolving on a spire, no grave pleasure In mocking the  fruitless ruling sports Of all buried kings, or refit their blameless Positions and perfumed swine. We pull the banner back to a glade And pad the grass near the pond In a Cretan new year’s bucolic eve, Breathing a moist clean sea air, We put on  coat after coat of visages         Of  failed ontogeny, as the soil grew thick from The cedar falls, olive falls,             this night’s raggy foliage,                 a glow of all our efforts. We dream past Cumbra Viega somehow   Lurking,  yet nourishing trees like these   Naked above the leaf fall, jagged Picasso   Branches jitter the moonlight like             Beethoven drove on past the rococo Flourishes to a new dream,       ...over to the Lit ways where windows frame the jig and froth of dizzied animals bogged   in their moments still momentum fearing   jettison from the rutted plays, An alien sense and thought enters Like trace poisons from the water system, The ill once thought to be the humdrum of The housekeeping grates the bone, The once new song now a prison. Sporting midday on the river’s bluff, Picnicking while the busy wonder             how they are half spent,               inhaling a newly concocted oxide    in the breeze,       lost serpentine dits,           and a belief in the               solidity of the sine. Myopically the haze is golden, yet below And through it jaggedly pokes the trestle   Of the childhood now rust furred, curled   Steel orange grates fallen through, Teetering between two major national Imperatives, destinies etched like           an old boxers face is etched by the glove. The new span that goes to this land Painted and busy receives the monition   Like the half-life of a continuous dream, Similar to a song parody on a new media Begging amnesiac bliss for the grossest errors.   The first bridge will be washed down           the flow and gone before we once again     Mount this bluff with the same vision, A new virtue of redone moral never             opening the parental tomes, abjuring The guiding sanctions of the fathers,     Chaining fate to the grub in the tree stump. Note the petrol trucks flying over the Concrete piers sliming the lane middles With their tears, blown tires and hitchhike Girls. Old Apollo run his race now and   the lunar silver irredesces still stratus     drowning out The Day’s tune. That musical air thumps dull though music Accepts a magic in a second then dies, The day run out like a drink from a watercan; Dwell on the thought of Sisyphus Dithering an escape plan during toil, Recall the eve when you first accepted Sin. Oximoronically an unhearable past     thunders co-conspirator with you in the Eighteen-wheeler crime, wheel on wheel,     Heat seeping from the terra-cotta way                 works a faint mirage with the moon, Too submissively, acceptingly, to ever         Rouge our cheeks with it all. Over that horizon, Hoover!       Over that Horizon, Jim Falls? Over that horizon, Grand Coulee. .........Interludium............. All the acre feet of potential   firmly felt in the mind, acre feet, kilowatt, leagues deep,     electric,         ...........a soft dream  fell into.....       Your freedom is preserved         descending each pearly tread in total balance             from within       with no chalcedony embrochettes to       deceive the eye on the chalcedony descent,           mother of pearl of aqua cast almost       misty recedes at your puffs of breath         eyes large wet searching their       outermost corners,         nostrils delight in the highest temple smell       incense spell,       and seeing all solid illumined         within externalities       feeling celestial and sexless angels appear,         but they are females of your species       they float to the embarcadaro standing         on the slightest of crafts in diaphanous robes -       You want to join them all but alight in one         diaphragm bark to quest for the waiting       demigod, or sought for illusory Goddess these         seaworthy maiden nymphs promise       just off shore, where the liquid luminescence           lights itself       with no umbra or chiaschuro penumbra         in a wakeless instant of distance       they take you and       ....She rises dripping of the aqualuminesence       dripping the aqualuminesence from her         like water, you are already wet expectant       drinking a deeper shade         of beauty, loins effulgent expectantly       along with the virginal guides of the craft,         and they and you nearly reach immortality       at Her sight - -and you faint into the virgin's arms.       They lay you on the shore,         on a marble floor       polished columns supporting only         the most diaphanous silky milk blue       wisps of fabric,       The sun seems a vague possibility as you       open your eyes to them         and the dawn....       Stroking the cropped Caesarian locks         tugging so softly the scalp.       Through their light robes       light as the wisps of the fabric on the columns         above, the small maidenly snowy breasts work         in a close unison with arm and shoulder.       You had a ride, you saw Aphrodite         arise and fall       and fell into their care in the temple,         and lived this day at their bidding...       Celestial odors of female - her annointed         spouse and,       their small weak and urging white hands         work you back to life,       They want you badly       and hum imperceptibly to a man         who has seen Love unmasked,         who must make the work       of Love for them so immortality in the human mind         perishes not       for them, or for you, as well, so       Love lives on - - and to conquer again the       imperishable bliss         the enrapturing longings         of the human soul,       so love can glow on       for us all         and fill us with awe filled         peace. ........the sweet dream ends as they often do         with a frightful confused panic as you wake.......      Some days were prophesied, seeming never       to come, then that day comes... dreaming         upon rising up from the bed   the waking dream of the unsuccessful,     the dream of those denied by the         exchequer, dreaming that recurrent   wakeful dream briefing with a vain       hope of a sunbeam.           Breaking from,           the slumber,         Breaking from the Slumber to              advocate, Vouchsafe you as the ape, Vouchsafe you the ape and child both           singing in the Ear of the pleasures of now,  and long gone           kin learned to swim the sea,           Lose hair and grow fins Feel the ribs now free from  the depths’ pressure,  but silent in knowing. Vouchsafe this feeling, knowing. Deos half-past voiced silver sanctious, Mercuric charcoal liquid speaks unworded, Canting the medium where dogfish alert in Prophetic monition to Toms and Hucks, Bucolically rapt 'tween soaring banks, Float  the water seemingly barkless, Wend with the flow  stupefied, sighting the Generator vents, rooks with no seeming End tailing gas, their watery ribbon bearing Earth to burn far from the spies on the video Spectrum dreaming successful ignorance. Your minds lost syllables revolving             midnight Cursives of worth each calm hour                 streamlined                                                                                              Like cetacean motion just below the moons Silver intrusion in the shallows of your               flight,                                                                                                        Ears ring from your dialogue, self justifiying Babble, a moving newness of idleness, Communication taboo, no dispatching you your devil friends to Olympify the hierarchy,                                                                                              mere aping  the kingly quiet of it’s creator. . Behold the quietus, quit vibrating the   Quartz in the timepiece,     strike a Diminished note, a grouping of aged vistas And clumbsy troughs in the waves of   Established cognition, hold a scepter and rise. Toasted beans and stunted corn dot     sun done fields as in a bizarre mirage,   the  townsfolk         stray glance past their images in the smoked     shop windows, by god,             they are still alive.                                                                                Bar-stools  enthrone slouch back  lushes         each their own encanted tone mixing   in the curls of navy blue smoke around     the warden's altar, epitomizing a parliament         like the swallows bag packed in autumn   circling a gleaned field, some pecked up     sunflowers seedless below, their own aviary   of whisky and foamy. ***************************** Wait..now..now awake!   Assured this is familiar earth, a sameness of soil.     I can see them  from the field drain lip   above the lens convex where it cropped as if a mounted sculpture above the hearth .    where the clock is expected. .   A pewter silverglow sceptre breaks a pane   to a land daylit to a tone of straw gold, strewn       with red maple falls, the fairer sex there   mimics a tongue of waterfalls and pools   where water was just caught, edenic.   By this season they have rethatched their     homes above in the baring branches    in the lower spreading of giant oak, the skyey surround at their feet strangely a too full navy on the marges,   protected by the height, excepting a fatal  misstep. Even as a total stranger they know you, they greet you with coy titters, young voiced.   .     Here there are only women and they   great all genders with an embrace as a custom,   customarily rubbing the floating ribs, unlocking their hugs you faintly reek redolent of clove   and frankincense and drink the water they captured from the barrel they keep from your cupped hands as do they, the excess wetting   their breasts under their robes, wetting your neck and chest. All their eyes are the same   almond black diamond sparkle around you     their eyes all sparkling the same height above the deck  all stand upon in the branches. . The welcome is that reserved a messiah,   and a kinship is seen through your round violet eyes at the incipient moment of vision....you have embraced, but are they   the assemblage of women plucked from the   spectrum of the past? ... Their skin color waxes from gold to alabaster faintly and continuously lit, as you can now see, from that horizon of navy not the glowing   overhead bright skyey where the helio once   was the focus, oddly a knowledge they never   feel the obsidian blink of cerebus enters your consciousness. . Your hostesses have shucked and ground the acorn to a flour in a perpetual faint breeze and   mixed it with a wheat from their field and ergot   from the ditch, all ground consistent for   this native bread of life all break, they sing in moderation a tune from a new erato, perhaps exiled from some bordello as the voices are full of allure and a feeling of the lessening   of the bodies pain yet without it's total absence,   the sound impossibly borne not in the air   but a spirit in your mind. The pain of existence merely tempered withal and the spine revolts nearly spasmodic like that of a child's held, enforced penitentially by the parent, with   a epiphany, a revelation of comforting restraint. A tiled maze of escape hatches, some laddered some stepped, lead for the atrium to the maze,   tiles bear mahjong tile pictograms and figures, first   impressing the beautiful anemone or dahlia mostly on the eye, but each is distinctly different ...... two pharoah moths pass in a straight  line the   way you mean to go up the staircase, they are most   definitely seen, but the eye cannot fix on them like   a meandering bumble bee,  feeling you climbed a flight of stairs, you look back for the women and see an infinity of tile staircase in faded persimmon   and lime custard, crooking the neck back up                you see they are not ahead either and  the ascent   goes on, the moths long gone, memory gone   you stand on a deckplate of tiles with no way   down. Your eyes remain wet and liquid, focused,  admiring the structure neither blinking or staring bathed in   yet apart from the tiles where there are places for   holy icons that are vacant, the pharaoh moths   appear again in a glint in the corner of your eye, flying out of a gold trimmed porthole down the way and following you look out at the bearing branches around, above,   and below gnarly barked onyx. . Looking out the navy horizon continues the ubiquitous illumination in it's palpable way from all about and the light is now known as the light at your back on the tiles, with your shadow unfound  you find the reception committee is gone. Filled with a fresh and never before experienced physical endurance, more rested than before   the climb,  you can remember everything   and the time you were a child and chased the     fleeing squidgin from the bush and chased it with     little inky Frisky your pup, you and the pup after that   fluttering mirage of a bird from hedge to hedge,   hallooing your baby-sitting uncle,  Frisky     barking the way in the afternoon October fog far from the port's foghorn klaxon. The squidgen was up bared elm while the red mist drove you on as a silent   foxhorn, free from pain and worry in the chase   as your movement from the sun buried your own shadow. You remember the sound of your breathe in your ear and the story book reading   before the chase, the frog on the lily pads,   each karoak rippling the story book pond to the egrets legs and  around the trunk of the downed tree on the shore. Other than hearing your own breath the intellect is vacant but not bored. . This reminds, clarifies, defines the paradox of the Elysian day, how is the pleasure scaled   against the sound of your painless thought less     breath in your ear?     The business that you had, if it was really     any business before, if it had a mission that was     worthy, seems to be a liberty to return to, a place     somewhere beneath the highly studied breath,     a freedom to return to regardless of the  pangs     and twitches and shadows, it is a womb or reality, a Pre-Diluvian sea, a zero-point blip in space most dense in answer, all pangs bites and twitches concentrated to the point, you long to return to the motivational ague.     Turning back, peering across the platform's tiles     another porthole is spied trimmed chrome     luminous to the point of being muddy bright     squashy feeling like a mouldering apple under the the tree, it's light smoke curled cloud churn yet usable for you to see a crooked shed roofed porch with a chewing tobacco lit sign in the front window, half pints and cans decorate the     gravel parking. for the cars, the ground hard     enough to bear the motorcycle stand, propping     them upright, leaning them as if making a turn     at speed. The bar's paint peels, one beams bends under the   porch roof defying a later crash of the dominoes, silver cone speakers  thump disc generated sonic   tease at the roof.   People come and go as if hunting Michealangelo's ghost for a scent of good   in the music's sound never heard in a cathedral, unshorn workmen shake hands or drop   an openhanded pound to the shoulder, feeling their last day had come sisters full   habited wayfare to the tavern, a most unheard of evangelizing as they know they will be   excommunicated for acting out of place. The sisters stare in icy eyes and promise   paradise. The odd pairings cast thick ink     shadows the light exhales on them. .   That which is jealous rages in your soul and inflames your inner perceptions, your sister will   not bring you the wanted salvation, light your way with love, there is no lens to bring her   eye upon you. We can ask who claims possession of that unnamed behind your eyes, that same which   wafts the camphor from the firs on a zephyr. How eagerly they claim their friends, Oh saint, and bring forth their scorn.     Shall we invent these shadows and right     off the world's inheritance, broadcast nettles     on glowing fields of grain in one flight,     and when done feel a score is settled? Yet find another than these two tasks, and in death find which souls basks?   It lies in that monster pride I sense which you chose to first cover with pretense,   torching your own house to forestall a lesson from me which did no damage at all.   When it began I saw your end in drunkenness of the red wine flow,   which way did my song make you tend, to wisdom and peace, or sorrow?    You cannot answer neither as you regard this weather.                        . Holy, propitious and procreative she rise from the soil of the oldest Pantheon in untold beauty and sweetness. Made from frosty victory,  the thin lips curl with enchantingly mystery as foreign as a vista yet to be seen. Her skin fresher in the dawn glows faint amber,  loose curls rain down adorned with buds of sun, an entombed glory forgot, new won. That endless train of  courtiers   some bendy as snakes, scream to be dubbed. I watched her birth  as long as Sodom   watched the flood, and, unqualified  hid from her view that she would kill my pride   as the guilty villain might hide from the night's revealing aurora.  Should she have a payable cost or worth   in any coin, she would be mine, and though only a cyclone procured would be worth enduring   'til the love is blued to a cosmic froth. As life is, it is a certain cruelty to suffer beatification's perfections, winning a pleased   countenance momentarily. To know the loss of that moment is coming is utmost sanity. The wall's thickness   is counted in hours down a highway, chasing the hart like a juvenile nimrod, she runs to an unknown nook, beating the finest snares.   Yet I find solace that I reek less ruin than some men, that base deceiver there   would melt the arctic caps to have her. "That's an angel," he says  squinting arduously he cannot see the rain.     "What will you try today?" he softly lisps as he departs on pigeon wings, feeling his words    as remorsefully as the bird regards its droppings. Each of the spoken concerns pounding the heart's   desire, and linger like a sin on a soul in the pits of hell.     I tried her on the day of her birth, more judge yet husband still, when     her beauty was the first sun disc  on any mortal eye, reflect-eating her rays, but he can scurry     wing singing more petty conquest, remorseful. He will feel he can pray for the reunion somewhere,   someday, carrying a lost treasure 'til     his stars wink brown rays and the earth is drowned. That's a lone wolf building a pack   of damned souls, that twisted ear hearing doom in dawn's song, but to temper his   ire with a sugary blindness for his throng positions his minions to find a fool to sport. He will name their fool "not you", fluffing   that reassuring dream pillow you rest your   head upon. It shall be believed that the goddess'   song is his song, and the throng will be pushed   though the revolving door worked like  the   sculptor slices off the clay, they move on the   trade current far from the frame of the shore   tricked into stillness, shamed into inaction under   futility's flag. It is not  perfidy if entempled logos   and all need agree. The pipers sing of holiday destinations of contentment for those of weighty purse. "There is warm sand on the marge of continent's crust and there the burden of necessity blunts the lifting crust, there the memory is foolish and details percolate through the beach. The watery horizon is smooth and whole, not the twisted noodles in the skull, and your vile hunt is over, this release savored perpetually." There is no need for lumpy cumulus process to be studied, the soul backwashes the mineral catchings by gravity and tide brings in no breakers to squeeze through the jagged rock. This miracle performed  the new nimrod accepts   a kinship with the prey, the plots unravel somehow   unstudied and seem less violent. Yet there is a   creak in the newly emptied head,   the lodestone nose, from the pull,   the pull that caused the rebirth, the pull   pulls on the sack of crud, truth on the palate. Now having danced the piper's tune it's back at a slothful pace, fallen arched,   like a boy dragging a book bag, hardly   a brave and noble warrior, or a king who had rounded the mountain crag,  it's back   to the office above the manufacturing floor   to observe the conveyor belts move the fabled     modern products, the sweet smelling aerosol body sprays, the false eyelashes, the glossy periodicals of fashion rumor and flash, the   balms of convenience and comfort all with   shyhigh markups, all the goods made to purify     ennoble and sanctify. Let us not digress from our pleasing Caliban   jerked from paradise, not quash the muse     out from him, let's not make our servant ill, let's fill him with our truly noble spells, the cut in   spiritual cycle already on the mend. ........need to rouse this to arms........ The vacation is over......   you have graduated from school       you have been run through boot         you have a part in a new theatre. We all know he is quite lame, accepting in a fashionable gymnasium, it is only there that any fashionable tasks be put on display, the only lessons taught those of the formalized dance. How is this grand manager to be impressed, plucked from the dream factory to learn a new trick? Maybe the towel has to be thrown in as an old theatre of action closes down. Our play we were forced to watch even as we acted it through hit the final squaking chord, awful beyond excuse. Sweating in the patched costumes only replacing the old pins scattered on the stage with the new,   the bleating in the pit urged us on from   emotional bailout to bailout,   the Caruso brothers bellowed hard, the fields were gleaned assiduously by some with honest hunger. We have not dreamt it yet a curtain falls. A deal was not sealed and the heartfelt affections were those of our kin watching us redfaced, yet clapping. The great speckled bird was to have flown with the patronising word, the joy was half-joy.     We have yet to view ourselves as we really are, not hearth warmed and frisky, but looking   over a frozen windswept cliff  before  a dark chasm, our minds are quieted to numbness by far off laughter. This moment is the first that we hear, as natural born great players not the tenor   of the device but a logos that pursues like a red-eyed black hound.     There is no natural wisdom only the wisdom I read from this ancient coin     and in the cry of the warty witch. A pregnant nothing remains for all the reconstruction   done with the bombs and whippings and snickering, yet only now it is   more felt than ever we seperated by our essential gulfs and contrived chasms of the proscenium window and looking glass,   awaiting a propitious sign that all our meanings are not a black and white film negative of the Judgement Throne’s visage of Mercy.     Among these bones and ruins it is where we can rejoice in the perfected mission that is not ours.   The inevitable concurrences stand out from the secular cloud as a righteous obligation, the voice speaks through the flower laden altar   unflinchingly delivering a bone deep pardon.   The future  welcomes us with the grand old prospect of benevolence wide and far, the working state the full bloom of charm,   the struck chord will be renewed harmony. Written October 20th, 2001 © on Oct 20 2001 01:16 PM PST   18 • 0 • 9