limits of perception

electricsheep


the war on consciousness
is waged with
light-beams &
laser-waves &
frequencies &
polymodal geometries &
sciences &
codes &
affects &
technologies –
as if
brainflesh
were meant to try
invention to capacity
full throttle
like da vinci or archimedes
battling space-invaders
or mind-invaders
or governments
or hostile forces,
to conjure a new
touch & go hypnosis
through the veil,
spinning zombies
in the dark,
nudging sluggish hands and feet,
right up to here & now
& how
eyes
control flow
or fingers reach
toward species
in neighboring dimensions
to test
their
limits of perception.

 

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Nolo Recordari

nihilists


I’ve seen so many throw life overboard
like dead weight from the storm-tossed ship
of selective memory.

Twenty leagues to port,
where inventory is destined
for permanent storage
on the pages of world history,
so many become cowards.

One or two drunken nights
where some minuscule miscalculation
swells to a social maelstrom 
are understandable.

Regret is a function of risk.

But I’ve seen great minds
lay waste to years
before they happen,
day by day
chanting nolo recordari
as they route the precious cargo
of the present
straight into the abyss
of intentional forgetting.

No law prohibits this.

Only ancient sages
whisper eternal return,
reminding us
to make a masterpiece of existence,
to test how ephemeral decisions 
become final judgments, 
and to treat personal conscience 
like an indelible record 
none can escape.

This kind of accounting
makes every choice responsible
to heirs,
to forebears,
and to the marvelous spark
that animates us all.

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ode to raison d’être as actually lived

alethiometer-metatron


elusive self-abstraction,
amateur scientists
claim to observe you
in others. 

they say
you settle
between senses
of purpose & accomplishment;
vision & reality;
drive & history…

…some mashup of
self-concept, forecasting, & social fit—
imagined or feared
as flow.

you spread like a sedative
among tribes,
& parade naked around
the cul-de-sacs of the ego,
masquerading as a platonic ideal
everyone is supposed to have,
even though no one pretends to feel your ethereal embrace,
except in
extreme moments of milestone neophilia.

it doesn’t matter
if you are sought
in

family or friends,
progeny or sex,
career or craft.

jester & guide,
your strange metamorphoses
beckon.

your résumé:

melody of life’s master category,
mystical wind-chime of change,
community stethoscope,

compass for
the hero’s journey.

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ode to you

flammarion-whitman

 

you,
lion-hearted pronoun of intimate address –
always speaking to, never about –
universal in your power to refer,
only ever sharpened to a particular point
by contexts & conversations,
closed or open
to whatever degree
by distance, direction, eye contact,
or any number of factors,
always altered by my reaction.
here & there,
now & then,
i’m you.

everywhere i’m not i, not me, not myself –
i’m you:  constantly addressed
by the world;
by hummingbirds ceaselessly sipping nectar,
heedless of my sluggish, blood-coursing limbs & trunk
(except when they’re not);
by young persian women in short skirts & smooth legs at cafés
(except when i’m not);
by all the weight & all the levity
of dancing pantheons
of beauty & truth
& mathematical perfection
& desire
& every conscious thought i’ll ever have.

i’m constantly addressed as you,
by you,
my universe.

to every corner of my mind & life,
i’m your you.
you’re mine.

whatever i call i is made of
you… you… you…
…in endless succession –
all my ideas of reference,
however poignant or misguided.

call it a ruse of grammar.
call it what you will.

infinite address,
singular addressee,
with only hermes in between
to shuffle forward a message
to whatever fleeting i
holds forth its eager fingers.

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