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SONNET #1 The simple truth is that I long to be
The man beyond the tools friends say I have.
Not that I would dispute the claims of ye
But rather should I cry or should I laugh?
The lines before the lauds from m'eyes seem far
Yet 'tween these lines and me, in truth, stirs peace
From moments abundant, cloth of the stars
That garden souls my blood and hers release.
Yes all of them and whom might yet become
Through making that rests far beyond our span:
From th'necessary being so fulsome,
Whose breathing animates my searching hand.
The question that returns throughout my days
Is if mine art is else besides the maze.







































































































































 
 
 
 
WHEN WE MAKE ART
we root mysterious earth—
signs intone invisible yet organic
stabbing that plows psychobiosexual
cultures cleared from the fertility—
moldy unless mothered through
water & disease & leprosy

like farmers wield tech
& breath to seed & destroy—
we improvise with the weather—
enlighting the canvas integral as psychic
acreage tromped by souls rains old worlds—
moist shots transplant selves grappling
for sheath & gestalt & sun

like midwives gather rituals
with death-fears tempting recoil—
windless, the moment fevers—we blot
fulsome confusion & all godly die alive by
midnight: charged, unillusioned, burning
whole by a pushless push & a cry
& everything is pregnant







































































































































 
 
 
 
  WITHIN
time music
is deep hum
rode open, ravished
as multiphony—a fabric
of tones concentric in orgasm
silent birds can sacrifice their wings
to whims of wind—-rather to live & to die
& to still again guide breath thru its ornament
like a corpse that howls thru its ambulance
an open throat, shaped as love shapes a
full-tenored embrace with nothing
discreet to remain, so expands
as bare sonority: what
in the kosmos
electric am
I not
?








































































































































 
 
 
 
GROK INTEGRAL
Allure of a shiny progenitor blurs play in common
beats.
If you job fully, meet ends with humble means, hold
a family house, touch unsurreal life, kneed sadhana, dig skindeep
magazines, kiss off pretense, breath a state of yo & vary the sundry
hip hap, you mist the authentic while his vapor bags ideate
fictions of human potential & damn folklore with
dams of salvation.
Integral is archetypal & not Hollywood. What is theory
but a goose to sing? Mines of image re-tap your digits. Just-intoned
vocals meat a lattice within. Whereas integral boxes beckon internal ? oiled
in ripped jeans, white-feathered boa, and samsara pecks. A mystery
& controversy swaddle its new age corpse. Rubber loves a
bumpy road & you burn the infernal score & must
let her rip the kosmos electric.
Perception tempers song: a frame of included worlds.
In canon: integral is a camera with wicked zoom lens; integral fuses
brand commodity; integral steams moral absolution; integral is shot-thru
scholar leit in rhythm of self speculation; integral gives God its head;
integral trips overspirited material; integral graphs the wacked
psycho of its primal heart; integral is a lie.
Pluralistic in polysemy, a hooked edge of recognition:
Folks chant thank you sir may I have another. Folks run knotted walks
swayed in any dimension available. Folks void in surmounted
preclusion. Folks sweat the lingo.
Integral noodles a worldview. Done & done. Il conto, per favore?
Each riff lasts hundreds or thousands of years in cleared inner acreage.
Theory abstracts intuition midwifed by generations & for fuck's sake not
in reverse. Integral maps molten tendency & popped long before
boomers decided in mass to shave heads, read Piaget &
understand the media.
Sleepovers spawned a newborn identity of consciousness
& found a zen while anon self tetragasm waned in multiple alchemy.
Jesus crossed signs for Shiva within Shakti as Buddha witnessed Muhammed
testify in panentheistic refrain. Our currents are electrowaves of one's
own—time to spark naked wetness, outward in harmonic bow
to whisper sweet nothings & spread ourselves
aglow.
Meantime, if before breakfast your brain groks a homeopathy
of breath-oriented silence & your body spins in humoured discipline
you, my friend, might just grok integral & marry the courage you crave
to radically imagine within masks a time-meet-timeless crown
of transparented tone in outrageous flow.
















































































































 
 
 
 
OH CHARLIE CHRISTIAN
Waiting for Benny          you whipped through
mischievous strokes          making electricity
impromptu & horn-like         in a hallowed-body weave
with stready strips         non-stolen riffs
cigar-box concoctions         of unbroken eighths.
Soft Blues in B         billiard harmony
Eternal sideman         Ha! ethereal genius
with unfulfilled hands         but fluid stick work
& stylin' Six Appeal         swinging baby,
spread your badness         over Goodman's bread.








































































































































 
 
 
 
DIVINE TONE


played


experience


seeps


sonority—


as ocean


rock—


sense,


impregnated.


midnight,


suspended.








































































































































 
 
 
 
WHY I BLOG
to discipline renewed art
rooted in theatre & moveable type &
bells & wwwhistles & aural-ocular technic
to humour laps & boxes & to improvise in
word & tone & image to evolve inclusive
phonetic alpharobotic consciousness
beyond its monoperspectivity
& portal electric through
collaborative personae
& intuition beneath
polysemy & to
entertain &
educate &
enlighten
we, the network







































































































































 
 
 
 
THE THEORY OF ART & MEDIA
Ye who grok implications of choices & new knowledge in the now have the
artist's breath of integral awareness primed to evoke suchness through media, the extensions of body & sense & personae rooted eternal in common acreage. As deep essence, the medium re-carves channels of perception in rhythmic fundamental, this magic veiled in perception of everyday varietal. The content in any event is but more media; an emptiness-embedded form stirs the open source mystery. Most choose to soak amidst rapture, sans the semiotics to unearth the river's banks. Yet stubborn like a heart: meaning is not content but organic relationship — the result of the user & the used married through memesis of sexuality & culture as the work objects + venue instigate & invite in radical re-creation of sign associations & archetypal symbols, a constellation of entertainment, education & enlightenment through emotional culmination, formal precision & imaginative fullness. All of art is a mighty flow between time to clarify origins & rebirth the human of life through its
outrageously masked ritual of earth & man & myth.



(after McLuhan and Paglia)







































































































































 
 
 
 
MAHOGANY DREADNOUGHT
Folk machine chronicles         fingerboarded fun
a tonewoody handmade         top-skin laminated
hollow-bodied box         of hexauricular harmony—
stubborn sea-tool         stabs digits that carve
syncopated sweatmarks         & scratches in plastic
to tastefully agitate         tonicized fine-grains—
a beat chord-maker         for a bodymind maestro