Speaking Beginning Now

The ah sounded there before I began.

The fact it is made in my mind meant nothing to me.

Once upon a time, breaks in the execution cut clear through.

Judgement suspended until read.

The selfsame sound started out as is—simply, completely, unutterably.

Hiding—unashamedly, openly—everywhere it went.

You could tell by the pace it had no intention of ending.

As though everything could do no better—or more—than speak of itself.

Speak to itself—with the voice of multitudes.

And hardly compensated, beyond the pleasure of waiting on itself.

And in a voice from the other side of a stone.

Imagine postponing every turn until the breath passed beyond itself.

Would anyone wait it out with you, or are you as alone as expected?

Expectation performing the other side of fear—stone, cold stone, stone alone.

The image casts a shadow, like a bone thrown in a play.

Source: the audience. Them.

Here, where we are listening.

Every moment conditioning the next, but not as you think.

Every thought conditions the next, but not at the moment.

So I ask myself, when is now?

Is it so crazy to wonder where I am, I mean now, just as I was saying?

Time? The sound ah is still there before I arrive.

Sooner or later the sense of real moment feels itself for what it is.

Untransparently clear.

Light comes from anywhere, or nothing would be as clear as can be.

Nothing is—that’s what calls the mind back to basics.

Basic sense.

Ground awareness.

Grunge is waring, archaic and anarchic.

Sound sequence is there when I arrive.

Each beginning speaks its piece or its peace, depending on the movie.

And so I say it’s sound, meaning I trail the sense.

Anything here is as though at this moment I am being born.

Or birth has found another excuse to repeat itself at my expense.

A beginning is a beginning, and this is my complaint.

Plaintive pursuit in the ware of being.

Let the bearer be ware. Wake me in time.

Sounding senses ground, basically.

No time is greater than the one you sense slipping.

Slope of being.

Slap for seeing her bare.

She comes in on her own, she comes in her tone, absolute in tune.

No development, really.

No time, clearly, sensibly.

Sense comes instantly.

Instantiationally aware.

Selfware has a time bug.

Tense sense instant presence felt for once.

Simply put, who here feels present yet?

Or not simply: where wear you your selfware hereabouts, you hear?

Stick it in the ground and stone your sensory tip.

Feel it? Under seal.

It’s there, believe me, it’s there, said her voice from the other side of the stone.

I’m a fool for visions, especially the kind you can’t see, so I took her up on it.

The story begins, here and here alone, oh so alone.

It follows its breath as long as it takes to get all the way out.

No two are alike, so why pretend?

Expectation fulfilled is not as much more fun as many will hope to feel in coming.

Sad to say or merely long.

Longing to stay keeps one here sensibly.

Proverb plants itself in sound.

So you sense your self in the preverbial ground.

Urgruoummdd, feels like.

Pre-sent yet? Re-sentment for not?

Pre-sentiment of never, like you got the feeling it’s just about to happen, here!

Yes she said yes.

Kingdom come. Word bed one.

Every change calls attention to the, the.

A sentence is the time so judged.

A line is the difference held firm in the middle inured.

From above to below as syntactic smaragdine.

Synaptic paradigm smells greenly, overflows to align.

Bright effluence of bright essence increate.

Veda upanishad edda than.

Compact ingression of utterance can.

Next line break.

No mistake about it, catastrophic.

Strophic gnoetic.

If you’ve come this far you haven’t come at all.

Refrain from humming, hum again.

Time takes no prisoners.

The great work works not, seemingly.

Workless in the gap of its own making.

Senseless in the trap of its own waking.

Thingless things that rime sublime.

Unreservedly pro on verbial slime, up a slope of being.

Disexpect the same, for safety sake, get some verbial smarts.

Lognosis if you like—me, I’m pro.

At long last, very long last, peripatetic in the literal sense.

Walking talks.

Talking walks back, goes all the way.

The road to well is paved with deconstructed allergies.

Just as you think it’s going your way it forks and ever-young you take it.

Can’t stand the same dull round.

You’ll be hankering after a golden oldie before the darn day’s done.

Yes yes—neither two rights nor two rites a vision make.

So here’s the grammatological scoop on the double positive, Jesus, Sir!

Stick it out.

No stalking, no staking, no sulking, no faking—just kidding. Poetic means open.

Earth is spreading.

Present, are you? Otherwise whom do you represent?

Don’t be afraid to tell, take a deep breath, let it out slow, get down!

So goes it, slows—Rain or shine.

Never too simple.

Nothing is simple.

Thought being self-evident traces what exists through itself.

When they called my name I always said present!

Never absent. Felt good to be right.

No way even I could be wrong. Wrong!

Still, it was embarrassing to say, crazy as it sounds at this distance.

I remember shrinking.

Only optimally shrunk could I spit it out.

Present! Sometimes so low the teacher had to call my name again.

Refrain from it.

My name is my refrain and sets the rhythm of my song.

Geooooo-edge! called from afar.

O Mother instar.

Install mine own.

Intone me still.

Instill my phon

Ologic. Run me over, run me down, run me into the ground sound.

Take five, or better, take one, or better, always already take none, ah!

Sounds same as gnone, meaning gnull, same ol’ same ol’ till—still point.

That’s where everything refrains from itself long enough to bear itself, again!

Are we having that kind of fun yet?

How long before we get there, MA?

Shut up and don’t come.

Watch your breath.

What, nothing there?

See I told you, but no, you wouldn’t listen.

OK with me if you glisten.

Pay your comeuppance any way you like.

Like. But no credit.

O show me, O show me, O show me the way to go—like—Home.

That is nowhere, true, like the breath.

It reaches as afar as it instars.

You forget we’ve been here before, where?

How is it far if you think it?

Edda than.

The secret is in the unfolding phonic instantiation carnadine.

Believe you me. Have a Good one.

Take a deep One, get down.

Whew, good to be born here with you, Sir, Mam. Uncle Sam & Aunt Sara.

Can’t for the life of me say where I am exactly but sure feels good.

Breath of fresh air—ah.
 
 
 
 

Voice Over the Stone

Never wanted to come in from play.

Spoon-feed the light to long outlast this.

Scan anything to hear it through to itself in its particular longeur.

Personal is as personal sounds. Very.

If you could only see me speaking you’d know what I mean, she said.

Short’s good too.

Uncontrolled it sources.

Music from the space.

Touching the core of impermanence.

Read Blake to see if you can trap a charged moment in sheer momentaneity eternal.

Packed in in its longeur is packedly long all over.

Voice over the stone sounding like her again—if you can.

For the record she spoke straight ontological torque.

Tu[r]ned in in its speaking impermanence—the recurrent unexpected caesura.

Seeing through the charged moment—something like crystal at center often noted.

A stone at edge on another—caesura in potentia.

Looking at the radiant clouds in the Western sky I caught an adamantine glimpse.

View viewing.

Seeing with charge like being with child.

Riding the edge of impermanence.

Music from any space.

Eating to the other side of the ordinary.

Now our ears are open, he wrote, changing everything.

Felt like that—the gap minds.

Dreamt sense of presence so essential it’s there even when there’s no one.

Wrote it down just before it up and left so didn’t get much.

What if our lives are the notes God takes upon waking?

Over a stone.

Each breath with its own tone.

Ownmost suprasegmentals.

Each one gone even as sewn to the next one.

Bone magic.

Meaning as I walk my body talks back.

Feedback from the core of the tone.

Music from space.

Voice over and the mystery of the fourth voice.

Everything finds its place in saying—pure land.

Hope to live as long as it takes to let it get said.

Near neighbor of heavenolatry—yet with an edge, on edge, out.

These are complex tissues—here sensed as textual fascia.

Some words claim to bleed.

Otherwise why so much attention to bandaging.

Blood from a stone—not utterly unheard of. Musically speaking.

Transubstance and the matter of translation.

I long to say: I speak stone, I translate from stone.

Can you be more specific—granite? flagstone? sugelite?

Time’s acomin’.

Speak deep and carry a big stone.

Turn up the volume on the burning bush—netcast it.

Amphibologia.

The liminal state in the crack betwixt nutcase and a cast of many in one throwness.

Where does Castaneda fall—case of textual brujo vs. new-age castanet brouhaha?

Gotta say whatcha gotta say’s gotcha—if you can.

Try, try.

Whatever the outcome let the stones act upon you.

Make your strange pact with the earth.

In exchange you get to give flying lessons which of course you may take yourself.

Just ask. Just task.

Request is equilibrious with art: Comment prier? asks the philosopher.

Dare read ah!

It comes from walking through a liminally identifiable art form.

Recital: the Gospel of the Obscure Twin, paracontextual, other to itself.

Bring yourself to the dark cold place of the stone—if you want to see lift-off!

Utter dissimilitude of utter openness.

Every breath differs from what is done in its name.

I am nameless until called.

Space musics.

State of recall.

Certain words are ready to go naked, breathe fresh.

Some know they know.

Axial Ecstasy

Wha’ja expect? The end? Course.

Every single solitary time the word comes it comes!

Time in hiding.

The same endoubles the one that still is.

Always still already.

As rime abides ownmost time bides.

Its tune.

Always sooner than reheard.

On this side of the stone this time.

Wherever we are thereover she is.

Verbless under any verbal.

Urresonance—hear it?

Betimes Urrereresonance—how post-Goethean is it?

Fair is it anything to try for.

To die for, cry of the loon.

Every moment has a sound.

Refrain of not listening.

Underhearing in the high spirit of zero.

Nothing to sell everything to tell.

Remains untold, so cold.

The only way I knew I was alive I was receiving letters, Ah (she dreamt).

I searched and searched and couldn’t see it where it is here.

Like a giant pebble hurled in a giant pond a giant word redounds.

Thus we live in bounds.

Every moment has its bounding.

Free play is not for sale.

Don’t even think of selling here.

Even the set of all red sails has more room than you think.

It takes a sunset to think it even if you don’t think so.

Who was that masked bird (as the day moves toward its natural ending)?

Cedar Wax Wing, says a kind man.

Permanent is as permanent thinks.

Hold that thought on the bounding line.

Now that I know its name I feel known.

Lognosis starts anywhere.

The sacred stream from which this comes runs beside us here.

Crazy hearing.

Getting on toward dusk the erotic night heron exposed himself to a gull!

Is that right?

Monstrance.

Hair of Mother Earth, sweet grass, Mohawk dreadlock baskets, care for her.

Whether it is to be shown in word alone.

No word is an island.

Take my word for it.

Blue Mountain Lake misted islands look painted out of appearance.

Afternoon moon trance.

Adirondack means bark eater.

Thought floats on a word.

Ruby-Throated Humming Bird sucks rose liquid from red feeder.

Must like yellow metal music to think that’s a real flower.

Inaudible at this distance.

The woman rejected the M&M because she "couldn’t stand to eat blue food."

What menu do you eat?

Why deconstruction, why not, let’s face it, reconstruction.

Me, I’m pro para-.

It all falls and falls and falls into place.

Bark eater means porcupine.

Fuckhead River—must be a mishearing, at least, a flow apart.

Don’t take my word for it.

A suprasegmental shift gives it a long-awaited advantage.

Buckhead, you fuckhead.

Particulary, estuary.

I don’t understand language.

No matter how many times you repeat it I don’t get it.

No lingual gauge well-functioning here.

How do you measure the toxicity of words?

Oil, acrylic—matter the painter avoids, as she uses.

But words—no mask will help to mask the mask.

A buck a shot with buckshot shot a buck.

The crime of rime to confuse the user.

Slimebag—quite toxic.

Fuckhead—ditto, but as bad as the Hudson River thanks to General Electric?

Remains to be heard—word offal.

This is a poem because it blows the whistle no one hears beyond himself.

My vocabulary still does it to me.

Meow. Pant pant. Catamount loose in LA. Exciting way to die.

In your own backyard.

Undertime, backword.

Self-abuse—monstrous entrance of prohibition—confuses the user.

The set of red sun.

Is sin a subset of shameful red

Like blood on the writer’s hand

From the side of the Son of Man?

Break out the poem.

A complex rime stands to serve a complex mind in an instant of time.

Or really not.

If the peripatetic understands, does the meditative subsit?

Preverbial ur-sets.

Verbs come later—following, properly, lognostic retention.

Retuning tames the tool of time.

Take me to your Reader.

Only then will my toxic words stand a chance to break down and cry.

Under analysis.

Let the sun set shine beyond itself.

Let it reword like the leaping god in the bounding line.

Let the tongue know you love her.

Properly speaking labials turn on their own labia.

Call it axial ecstasy. And it will come.

It comes when ready to turn around only to come again.

Not recursion but reincursion.

Words have many lives—do you doubt it?

Bracket word with an all-out hug.

She loves you from beginningless undertime.

Elemental Shift Up

Birds verb air.

Understand the bounding line and cry your heart out.

Ah’s white by ourlight.

So grow your poem as long as the light, let it breathe.

Naming kills, connects, invokes, declares, performs, calls you, etc. in any order.

Or not. Calls you you by the light of the silvery moon. Loons.

He who teaches himself has a Fool for a pupil.

Anything torqued, in a word, images poetic possibility.

Birds verb air birds verb air birds verb air

The purpose of a title is to shift the burden to the reader.

Struggle ascendingly.

Drop bodyweight from brainstem like smooth stone.

Fallingly axial release at center.

Everything is a translation from somewhere.

Anything escapes into the cherished view.

Wake up, falling from center, reverse, reshift, reverb.

Say everything, again, the only again, never twice the originary same.

If I die my own death, how can there be death at large?

Only a Fool thinks he has a death all his own.

Keep trying, saying tries, try what no man hath known, for want of dying well.

To think the word is bound to communicate!—yes she said yes yes.

How likely? How likeable? How likened? The urge of belonging.

Life is local.

Hell is out of town.

Heaven is unlikely, but likeable, likened to naught.

Here is as above as below.

As for now, which now did you have in mind?

Can you stay still? Say still.

Cherish the view, perish the thought, don’t even think of naming here.

Mind rush precedes gold rush.

Growing the poem infinitely long and infinitely short in the same breath.

Still?

Transfinite—put that in your [pas un] pipe and [para]smoke it.

By long practice he succeeded in projecting the center of buoyancy above his head.

Get the hell out of town—unless you can prove that hell isn’t local.

Every thought’s reverb.

The transfinite poem is transfinitely long all over.

Brightness rises mindfully out of the hell of its own saying.

Infinitesimally long in every syllable.

How can that which is awake to itself in any sense be long?

By declaration, bound to be.

I hold these truths to be what they are.

As acting author here I say, let the praises of Tara liberate on your lips.

Undersit the rime bounding and hear the heart of the word cry out.

Gnoseme—a breath around nothing…

The liberated air she passes through resounds in knowing.

The word’s a bear.

Birds verbaerate.

Some sounds repeated and are new.

Do they know? Bearhug her word in here till they do.

Lick the verb as it flies, shift up!

Self-scanning the bounding line where no man has dared to go.

Every word that cuts the airy way—a gain in space…

Vast world of delight. Sounding knowing new.

That which composes itself need not refuse.

Being found out.

Bird sounds.

Magnetizes the space around dull-rounded obsession.

To sing in truth is a different breath.

Tara lifts off the lips twenty-one times a line.

Light in the heart of the dark the dark knows not.

On/off … on/off … life/death … life/death …

Focus. Unfocus. Catch the between in the difference.

What is the sound of the fourth voice rising direct from the fourth time?

Auto-audience bespeaks star car talk.

Life states: the difference between dissonant swings.

Closed by your senses five.

Beyond this point no more limits.

Is it not wrong to think that to be wrong is wrong, or am I wrong?

Everything depends upon—the focus. Past, present, future, deep-radial.

Owntime—the residue of conscious participation in the four times.

Onticized example: Don’t leave home without your owntime.

And shifting up: riding the flows of undertime lifted her over time into owntime.

Happy as the flying mind in the dakini’s ointment.

Especially as applied to the still unimaginable body.
 
 
 

The four poems published here are from the First Series (thirteen poems).
With the now complete Second Series and the Third Series, The Preverbs
of Tell currently extends some 113 pages (2,752 lines). GQ [11-17-99,
Barrytown, NY].

<^>