Process And Tung Tree

I see any proposition advanced in the glaze of a heated moment as a pinch of prodigal air. Because if you encounter an orchard in the middle of a fog, you need a way to talk to it. A lute, or a mantra. We must build an algebra of fingers based on the temperature of the sun. And if there’s a bandage on someone’s knee, we can determine the general attitude of the hotel staff. It is a matter of vital importance to peel it, examine it, and light it up. Which reminds me: the Chilean fire tree by the Methodist church on West Garfield is beginning to bloom. Intensity in a tree is a wonderful thing to behold. Strength is a noble quality, though it is sometimes gnarled and tough with contradictions. Sometimes, indeed—in response to some word that burst forth from God—there would come, in a harsh tone, an insolent retort that shocked everyone. This is why animals avoid the language arts. Those who indulge in its arsenal of elixirs and incantations are called poets, and the lives they lead are wildly impractical, and nastier than antifreeze.

The meaning of this is still in process. I don’t know why this is happening. I’ll have to wait for the meaning of this to help explain why anything is being written. Until then, let’s keep kneading the dough and heating the oven with trepidation. It was my original intent to undermine capitalism and replace it with buffalo. Get naked, and return to our Edenic state. Explore new perceptions, the spiral part of the inner ear, and the history of dice. Wait a minute. I think I heard a door open. I think it’s here now. The meaning. The meaning I’m writing this. It had something to do with transport, both in a literal and a transcendent sense, and why I’m here posing such questions. If I can find the answer to that then I’ll know what this is about. But I’ve already forgotten what it was that brought me here. I know. Imagine The Origin of the World by Gustave Courbet. That’s what brought me here, 78 years ago. And I’ve been trying to get back ever since.

I hate to say it, but I think I’m headed in the wrong direction. I see lights ahead, and delicacies and buccaneers. I see Eros in the gold camps and Kavijihvagravasini at all the open mikes. Kavigihvagravasini. Pronounced kah-vee-jih-vuh-gruh-vaa-see-nee. A Hindi word meaning “one who dwells on the tongue of poets.” And that would be Goddess Saraswati. Once again, I have to ask myself, how did I end up here? Mensuration and poetry are falling in love. That would be one reason. Another has to do with capacitance, the ability to store electrical energy, and feed it to an appendage of hungry words. There is sometimes a protuberance from a bone for the attachment of character, which is a distinctive combination of traits, or velvetleaf blueberries. And this gestalt needs constant feeding, or it turns highly unstable and desires food it cannot eat, which makes the appetite stronger and the resistance weaker. And ends up in a bar in downtown Milwaukee gobbling up cashews and listening to the ghost of T.S. Eliot read The Wasteland.

Milwaukee is derived from Algonquin and means gathering place by the waters. The present is composed of the past and is therefore Lethe, doing its utmost to forget while simultaneously lathering it with jojoba and coconut. The effort to forget is the best way to insure that the past has a foundation. Forgetting requires oblivion, not photo albums. In this paper, I urge a scent to grab itself and rise to the ceiling like incense. Because you can talk to odor. It has ears, and smells like dragon’s blood. Come forward, and sing. We celebrate your elegance. We who haunt every word. We who seek solace in stopgaps. In stout nomenclatures and hydrogen jukebox snow. Little Richard. Lucille. The gentle equivocation of a gracious credibility. Independence elevates us, even when the elegies turn dark, and surrounds our raft with eddies of perfect cleavage.

We stitch a puddle, then take a whirlwind tour of the algebra of the situation. You know: the shape of the sandwich, the bristles of the scrub brush, the insects crawling up your back. I’ve been here all day trying to mingle with the locals without drawing too much attention to myself. It’s hard to do if you’re the one putting words together, and making them spin around in people’s minds. The wind sculpted sandstone of places like Utah fascinates me. It represents a level of creative energy that inhabits the zone of the uncontrollable. It’s what I’m after. What I want in my bag of tricks. A gasoline I dry with a phantom towel as I try to manage my escape from control. Let’s hang around and see if any joy comes to visit us. I can feel it in the wind: cold palms and icy fingers. We’re nearing the end now. We’re getting closer. We’ll be getting an answer soon. Will it be the triumph of evil? Will it be the winter of grace? Will the sky crack open revealing all of eternity? I think it’ll be whatever the universe coughs up. They say the beginning of the end is the end of the beginning beginning again. And again and again. I’m not here to argue. Or prophesy. I just had to get it out. Everything. Except my tattoo of mystic wind.