Born: November 18, 1933
(80 years ago today)
I am following her to the wavering moon
But I am coming to the moon,
and she will be there in a musical night,
in a night of burning laughter
burning like a road of my brain
pouring its arm into the lunar lake.
. . . I set free the dawn of your desires
The mermaids have come to the desert
they are setting up a boudoir next to the camel
who lies at their feet of roses
A wall of alabaster is drawn over our heads
by four rainbow men
whose naked figures give off a light
that slowly wriggles upon the sands
I am touched by the marvelous
as the mermaids’ nimble fingers
go through my hair
that has come down forever from my head
to cover my body
the savage fruit of lunacy
Behold the boudoir is flying away
and I am holding onto the leg of the lovely one
called beneath the sea
She is turning
with the charm of a bird
into two giant lips
and I am now falling into the goblet of suicide
She is the angelic doll turned black
she is the child of broken elevators
she is the curtain of holes
that you never want to throw away
she is the first woman and first man
and I am lost in the search to have her
|“the curtain of holes you never want to throw away”|
It’s summer’s moment in autumn’s hour.
I walk over a carpet of leaves
Fallen on a hill overlooking the city
Watching the clouded moon cut
Like a white diamond
across the sky.
The godly animals, roused from sleep
— Flying serpents and the many eyed of the ancients—
Come out to mate on the lawns of heaven
All about me a fierce fireworks of desire.
I would be no more sentient than this bird above me
Its breast against a receding wind
That is time broken by the beasts of heaven.
|“on a hill overlooking the city”|
Quickly and quickly, and faster, faster . . .
In another time, I was making blueprints for the Eternal, but the work was interrupted by some ogre who jumped out from behind a slab of magenta sky, and I was mesmerized on the spot between the poison I was wiping from my lips and the face behind the face I saw looking at me from the sky I was using as a mirror.
Anyway, I broke the spell. But another wave of invented emotions sank and another light fell on the crest of the wave: escape was a door I kept shutting all around me and on those who were carving me, symbolically they said, for the first course at the restaurant for the initiates of the lake of love— which is to say, sperm ran high that year, breaking over the brains of those who know how to conduct themselves properly in this world: which is to say, life goes on gathering wool for the mothers of all the daughters whose tongues spit live lobsters and whose insatiable desire for some seasalt paradise makes thunder break in my skull: which is to say, very simply and without metaphor, that my brain was oppressing me.
“—And that is not the most of it—”
|“escape was a door I kept shutting all around me . . . .”|
. . . his Eye magnetic to the moon,
his Eye magnetic to the moon.
He is not easily enticed to manifestation,
But stony silence, petrified moments
— a transfiguration— will bring him out
focused on the screen where all transfigured bodies are.
You must be humble to his fangs
that paw the moonball dissolving in the space
from the corner of your eye:
He’ll trick you otherwise
— into daylight, where you meet his double while running.
Tell Him I have eyes only for Heaven
as I look to you
of the heavenly court
|Jay DeFeo, The Eyes|
. . . . Sail of dust wind
venetian mountain sequence
zeroguns silence the street
mute traffics— desperate surrealism
backfire from motorcycles
waves over empty roof tops
Where am I? you answer
the question where am I?
who’s here? who wants Veracruz?
what is New York? who is San Francisco?
where are you?
what to do go where how?
Motorcycles of atonal venetian blind dust of wind roof top!
The night is a space of white marble
RED DAWN clouds coming up! the heavens proclaim you, Absolute God
I claim the glory, in you, of singing to you this morning
For I am coming out of myself and Go to you, Lord of the Morning Light
For what’s a singer worth if he can’t talk to you, My God of Light?
Here’s the worshiping Eye of my soul stinging the heavens
[ . . . ]
Here’s my chant to you, Morning of Mornings, God of gods, light of light
It’s one of those days when the moon jumps
out if its skin and the walls of the sky
crash down with a thud . . .
the planetary aspects are so bad if
anyone at all is not a Taoist — Be Still
& Act Not — an age of karma is set going so that
all future cranes & paradise birds
over bleed on the crests of all the seas
of our world, to the degree that on
Another One of These Days the air itself
shall strike down the citizens like a plague!
Or, My Personal Minute Reading On the Calendar of Emblems Proclaimed From the Principality of Weir Which is Constantly SomeWhereElse Therefor Unreachable by Machines & Beyond Any Psycho-Physical Analysis, and Conjuncts Only Relatively With the Phantomatic Distortions & Material Encumbrances Socially Projected by Over Proliferating Mobocracies, Murderous & Degenerate Sciences, Retrograde Religions & Politics At This Time Increasingly Oppressive & Horent Perpetuating Their Arbitrary Prerogatives Out of Certain Atavisms of Thought & Operation — Steeped in Integral Errors — Known to Corrupt and Destroy Our Humanity.
DO A KUNDALINI SOMERSAULT!
|“DO A KUNDALINI SOMERSAULT!”|
I touch you with my eyes when you lie under spiders of silk
I touch you with my one hundred headed giraffes too secret to be seen
the rods & cones the morning covets awaken you
with my touch of tobacco eyes
and you rise from the snail’s bed of tubular hair
I touch you with the breath of jet planes
and they are gone elsewhere to you too
|“giraffes too secret to be seen”|
the men are going home to work
on sleeping horses
and automobiles come alive
and return to the factories
wearing lingerie and makeup
Steering wheels chrome fenders and gears
leer at the computers
in the outer offices
and the engines—ah those seductive engines—
get into black boots and thrash the clouds
rushing through gargantuan windows the pistons are eating
with anthropoid teeth.
. . . the flute of leaves
tangled at the mutating crater I call my muse
what I give you with my eye of solitudinous matter
you return with your left hand of laughter
as it gathers ocular pitches
scattered by black needles
over the storm of wooden eggs
There is no rule here,
No seasons and no misery;
There are only our desires
Revealed in the mist.
|brain waves - awake and in sleep|
The boat tilts on your image on the waves between a fire of foam and the flower of moon rays, these the flags of your dreaming lips. I’m watching Venus on the ogred sky and a continent in cocoons.
The whisper of the inter-voice to wrap you in the mantle of marvelous power, with the secret protection of the forest that falls asleep in fire whose ores become transmined only for love—all your steps will lead to the inner sanctum none but you behold, your shadow putting on the body of metaphoric light.
Prince Liberty . . .
Closed eyelids through the eternity behind us
This vast ring of the rising crystal
To swim into manta rays
Mentation of the vowel
To the sonatal leap
Hidden on the verge of the verbal jungle
Quaintly with a diffidence of speed
Retreats back into its hollow
With the serenity of goats copulating in a volcano of street corners
Curves of thought turn over the silver avalanche dreamt from the ocean’s brain
Black suns that rivet space
Immediate coherence in a waterfall of echoes
To stick out your zodiac of the earth on fire
Paranormal windmills gallop the skyway
Your head steaming the space between a fallout of engines and florid beaks
sudden death for a whole continent of forest here & everywhere
sparrows strangled in midair with the last condors
situate Acid Rain and the Green House Effect
plague-lined trees oil-slick birds
There’s little time left for geographic enclaves to form Aquarian islands
If (as Hegel proved) poetry is a rare assemblage
a Watts Tower transmuting junk
how over-quantified to vanishing the prosaic
How do I feel? rotten, misnamed ‘hysterical’ who calls freely for the Annulment of
as if technē were the issue and
not a cosmic catastrophe
[ . . .]
Now there’s mostly monolithic media noise
on the inner cliff a shadowy figure who announces
the Admonition, again
but certainly some attempt at statement, flying wild to the polis, is proportional to
our destruction as a species
When does the winged bridge appear on this terrified earth?
the slash of cosmic jokery
on that chain of Ohlone mountains
shafts of light on a bobcat
through the thick madrones
first seen emblems that cupped my nine years
the great booming voice of nature
in the red bark’s sloping labyrinth
who called my name
these lights never die whose embers glow wilder
than wilderness at the beginning of words
to catch the ring of stars
elastic time in the gape of memory
visionary recitals in the exultant spring oblivious to the sea
|“through the thick madrones” [ . . . ] “in the red bark’s sloping labyrinth”|
|“Shasta great Shasta / Lemurian dream island . . .”|
Fog be-numbed and stoned
on a cul-de-sac corner
enveloped by grey moist density
to myself invisible
on that edge of
poised trance, hour
lasting a lifetime
caught again as
arrowed gift from
the next moment: those moving
points of ductile thought.
|“Fog be-numbed and stoned|
[ . . .]
on that edge of / poised trance . . .”