The universe was not born from any linty Vishnu navel or cosmic concubine womb, not from dusky walnuts or dewed forest tips, of ovarian pools or cool cooing song of hyperallergic tricksters finger fluting the soft clay soils of the moon, not of cheese or bees or plush flowered wings melting their wax upon the iron boulders of amber caked deserts, and not even from the mirrored emerald intestines of the great ocean before the time of terrestrial fates when it hugged and moistened the soils like an early morning blanket still humming the mourning song of that first quaking bounce that initiated the motion of the parallax midnight shoal, oh sea of coal, trolling the astral umbilical like a bastard orphan creature with no name for not having ever yet been made. No, the universe is no stardust marmalade spread over our toasty morass like steamy thick butter-balmed breaking fast waves of solar complexion, as though there were a face up there fading the flames of godly altars out across a lesser atmosphere of measly human riddles and Olympian games. No, the universe was not begun by the plucking of an affirmative string tuned to Pythagorean chords or Schoenbergian sores or greater or lesser intervals, idealized parables, thunder drums bursting skies with life frothing rain grains or lightning tongues talking the hymns of etheric doubles springing somersaults over amoebic jello jiggling in some protozoan dawn before the bell tolls for god only knows. No, the universe is no verse of nonesuch sanctimonious chorus, no terse thread sewn stich pulled from toes holding taut a tenuous linear torch, no head strong itch twitching curses at incessant boulders churning down abominable mountains formed of demiurges piled upon dialogues incanting excesses of pleasure, pain, or pulchritudinous plentitude. The universe was no negative, nor was it a purely purled positive, but more than likely and almost possibly maybe some less than whole and very much quasi quandary of yesses, dried figs, and sundry. Namely, it is yes, by which we may claim it to be an eye, or any yes spelled another way: an I which is eyeing itself I'ing its eyes in awe of the void receding not to blackness but self-same likenesses, in all likelihood seen as a hole of a fine sliced wholeness, or bread, dished hot pie of saccharine somnambulists awakened by the mirror-portal seeking its own tailing hiss of beginning. The universe is an eye through which we see ourselves salivating, a shelf which holds our I's and keeps id's from slipping, a multisyllabic multi-tendriled super-organism that touches all peripheries of electrical cross fires through composite peepers and morphogenetic clouds of sweet ripe vision. The universe is an eye, but not mine, an I but not time, perhaps shy but not blind, a simple rhyming structure humming its own tune so that folks can understand. The earth is a grape turned raisin, the universe is a black pupil: its a hole with the world inside of it and the "it" is just a single side of one possible "us" so forget about insides and outsides and remember to remember that the world is in me and I am in the world, the teeth are the visible bone in a head-holding-mind of verbal songs, and even the color is but a name for the null which defines explaining save for articulating the periphery of our dim knowing.

Who is this voice which is asking incessantly,

simmering up from the boiling toil of the banal canals of everyday breathing schemes,

every so often rising above the hissing whisper of subliminal murmur to clang a

clear cold chord

through mind and over body to calm the chatter of pragmatic consciousness

and focus the senses upon a point of excruciating clarity

a pain due in part to its sur-reality in relation to the callous cauldrons of the resting states - yes a point with all the precision of an edge and the aerobatics of starlight

and just as much distance,

infinitesimal in physics and poetics alike,

from every being throated or thwarted? This voice must be my own,

arising from a within which is not wholly mine,

rather a mining hole of switches, twitches, tricks and traps

tapping in rapture the senses of my feelings feeling themselves as self,

kneeling before an altar of a holed self,

a holy shelf of lenses and other potential clarities,

rumbling resonators of recoiling accentuators of a location somehow completely here

and consuming how's of practice

and completion

and hearing,

absorbed and ventilated.

This text is the mirror guide which shimmers hints of the unspeakable names gurgling over the watery vocaled chords,

falling over the quartz of the self as radiant beams of densely felted fractures,

shattered from the ancient icebergs by Viennese mountain herders

and left out to dry,

flipping eternal folds of acrobatic reverie without glee in a midnight ocean

of metonyms,

metaphors,

meteorites,

Roman mollusks hiding purples in their genitals,

rich running amethysts,

ameliorated adamantium,

and other archetypal archipelagos of awareness.

This mind stretches out over the page to soak up the rays of the solar plexus,

warming in dark sponges and lighter velvets,

humming a gentle characteristic coo across the watery abyss

like syrup over fresh pinecones.

This is an improvisation of mortal musics

with solos streaming out of the greater symphonies

in curiously crafted crescendos of delightful absurdity... when they are right,

which is to say tuned in harmony not dissonance,

though sometimes even the mal-tuned chords create an enchanting comedic chorus.

Again and again in eternal return,

back to the beginning always already starting up in a finale,

small morsels of joy and insanity

dripping upon the tonsils and filling the voids of our lives

or at least this life, for awhile,

until they fade through silence or distance,

by attention or abandonment,

into the mausoleum of memory

whose chilled marble contents gather dusty decorations and decayed enamels,

frozen in the tanks of amnesiatic corpses and auspicious urns,

rotting under layers of the flooding present

ravenously consuming attention without heed to the vaporous emissions of excrement.

Some are abandoned for idealism

and others murdered for pocket change,

some we sew to the torso so as to never become unattached

while others slip and curl instantly over the grasp

before we have the chance to savor the flavors of the would-be reorientation,

some filling our souls with previously unimaginable satiation

and others amounting mountains of starvation.

A bittersweet digestif best served cold after a long hot meal

of soiled secrets,

and soulful soliloquy

with saints

or snakes.

OKOK so I am myself to my own mind but also in body,

solving and self-ing through making manifest my mental perturbations in mental meat,

a cerebral corpus,

and there is no difference I would say,

at least so far as I can speak of difference in things

from their being not of my being but only becomings

in relation to that which my self is said to be,

namely a becoming in and of itself always and already in relation to that which defines it:

All these people peopling here

piling up around me

they are not me but are also,

they are me and me also,

me AND,

greater than just just,

they are not my body but give it feeling by being felt and making my touch tactile,

giving to me or some sense of me

as much as I can give unto them my attention

or sense them as something in their own,

so how can I say so assuredly that this sense is decidedly mine

and not a shared reciprocal oscillation of sensation passing between what is me or mine

and what is other,

or just another me

or perhaps a me also?

SO if that which is outside cannot be without a projection from my own within

then I must declare that all my declarations are demarcating no delineations

between any imagined or imprinted peripheries of ins or outs,

that these others are also myself and are active in my own becoming

as much as I am activating their ontological unfolding:

we are making each other through being other,

we are activating ourselves through a process of selving,

we are processing difference as a process of dance,

a primary movement of sensation and expression alike.

So are they me or mine or matter or memory then?

We sentient beings anticipating your moves

before attention can intend the rudiments of mobility,

sensing through qualities unquantifiable by rational mechanisms

or machinated organs

that which is and will be,

with roots tasting down through gravity,

seeing with mineral optics the rotations of the terrestrial capillaries,

stretching up a tireless yoga of solar nourishment

upon rich chocolaty firmament,

forming without nerves an awareness

to wind

and water

and even more obscure waves

coasting our terrestrial beaches and corporeal breaches,

mmmm these gentle bodies without organs,

with their reeds and pipes and drums of every variety,

they are harboring secrets of dark orchestrations

and luminous consternations

that make our feeble human mythologies seem like cheap gossip

or cramped constipation.

This is being being performed through the perpetual motions of the prairie,

we are at the jugular of the jungle,

we are active in the making of landscape-as-body essential to the ecology

rather than attempting mastery over some thing outside,

we are a display displaying potent exteriorization of interiority

offering a revitalized vocabulary

for an understanding*.*

Such an understanding can only be found through acceptance,

via compassion,

vis-a-vis love

attained not through purity but putrefaction,

by turning dirt into earth,

by rejecting debilitating descriptions of what is

in favor of revitalized incantations of what the sensuous and sensible could be,

to reorient towards activating attention upon the myriad minutiae,

and of course upon love itself.

To know it is to have lost it, to feel it is to have it drop out of reach, to taste it is to feel ones own tongue tasting, a self selving its own through differentiation without difference.

Screaming out into the vacuum formed after unclenching from the loving embrace

its the clearest, most amplified declaration of the self-as-relation,

as the locus of relations, even when oriented towards a nil languishing in pure liquid lack:

the universe is a black love.

****