Huginn and Muninn: a digital gothic (part 4- bone)

Huginn and Muninn: a digital gothic (part 4- bone)

Part 4: Bone. [Playlist: Akira Kiteshi, Ulysses]

 

don’t trip on dying in your dream:

first stop the grave, then                                    travel!

staved on tree roots marionetted through eye sockets
you’re a prize carried on cypress knees             a  relay baton

handed from root system to root system
no eyelids now so no looking away!                              what you did               who you were

how you spent your time
slough into        a gloriously rotten skin sail
luffing with soil              until you unfurl

into beam reach

let the grubs get fat
let the beetles strip those bones

let rains lick with gravelly tongues
until      stubborn scab               loose tooth
(what you once called life)

            is scratched      shivered           yanked
loose        from the final stringy thread:

bump and grind with boulders
shake those processes and condyles
rub epiphyses with other posthumous tourists

sand yourself glassy
with shale and pumice and schist

unhinge your mandible and stuff that skull
with bone clatter and pebble storms
the stony language of former civilizations

each with their form of permanence
each with their unslakeable thirst

now that the head is not the headspace
now that the visions are not delimited on axes
nor navigable by cardinal directions

and you’ve self-effaced to a cloud-like probability
locked into standing wave
a danse macabre
a memento mori

it’s time to flex your phantom limbs
your plum pudding probability
your atmosphere of decay

let the juice spray out of your nose holes
and spoke out along the continuum
of smaller and smaller and larger and larger

til the memory is clean and squeaky
the pieces primed for reassembly

you have worlds to end         worlds to mend
the now the then the soon to be

read part 5

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A CONVERSATION WITH TUPELO HASSMAN: girlchild and the city with the most trailers in the world

A CONVERSATION WITH TUPELO HASSMAN: girlchild and the city with the most trailers in the world

Check out my interview with Tupelo Hassman about her new book, girlchild, being released today from Farrar, Straus and Giroux!

Huginn and Muninn: a digital gothic (part 3- gate crashing)

Huginn and Muninn: a digital gothic (part 3- gate crashing)

On her eyelashes the fog brings you trembling mercury…”
-The Fog,
Carlos V. Suárez

Part 3: Gate Crashing:[Playlist: ibenji: Seems]

 

it all starts with an itch               that inward look:
then a twist and counter

the speed of oscillation varies with distance from the center of the creature but
the body already knows how to get to other worlds

close your eyes if you must        but trust
the break          follow the wobble                     it’s a flywheel in your pocket

timing the path of intersection with the already turning
to converge and merge and                               merry-go-flung

the motion always invisible at onset                    but you feel it coming
deep inside an internal tissue

a supermassive formation collapsing into a relativistic star
please               don’t stop                     cracking the excitable cells in the dragon’s tail

until the spike train rolls
with great speed and oscillating friction

from the mouths of voltage-gated channels
and you erupt across the threshold of the rapidly expanding pattern:

                       

I can’t tell you, dear sorcerer, what your path to the gates will look like:
all internal language is a secret working             

but hang tight in that crawlspace
the worst of the ride is reaching cruising speed

and I can send some guides:

            (in the mean time)

enter scarab glittering
on iridescent wings, towing

by fine filaments grasped in hindmost legs
an intricately woven cobweb banner that reads

up and down one column at a time
as well as across, from left to right:

“contrasting” viewpoints on your journey divide prominent philosophers:

Sir Isaac Newton’s view is a time to give                     and a time to dance as other “times” persist,
this view becomes a time to mourn                              effectively killing time at the time of death
and a time to die
  is part of the fundamental                embrace like frames of a film strip, a spread structure of time to plant  time to uproot                        across neither future event nor plucked thing
what is planted:
a dimension in which events             sewn then grown  (non-discrete, Immeasurable) occur as objects in a sequence a birth                         a container one could step in or out of but
a silence kept    a together lost     a wasted                   search, give up, tear apart, kill, weep, love, hate laugh (that’s Leibniz, Kant) the transport                       time itself an idea certainly but not a thing
a fundamental structure                                                     travel-able as thought

(and on a second banner, clinging to the first
via some dust bunnies and a chain of bluish laundry lint:)

                        Travel:

to go from one place to another, as on a trip; journey;
to go from place to place as a salesperson or agent;
to be transmitted, as light or sound; move or pass;
to advance or proceed;
to go about in the company of a particular group; associate: (travels in wealthy circles);
to move along a course, as in a groove;
to admit of being transported without loss of quality (some wines travel poorly);
Informal:
to move swiftly;
Basketball:
to walk or run illegally while holding the ball;

the second “l” in the word ball is festooned with busily stitching spiders,
as the passage of time cannot be directly perceived as it happens

but must be re-membered to exist
unendingly given arms   and legs
and breathed:

(from trembling drops
spun into vibrating strings)

whose loose ends                                 are lashed and threaded
spliced into the meanwhile by your guides

who have arrived
traveling on the fingertips of the fog

the ravens of Point Conception and Point Reyes:

one has wings contrapted of hollow reeds
lashed to his body by a harness of syntonic commas
every wingbeat a major or minor                       every dive a glissando
subtle shifts in his primary flight feathers give rise to the dissonance of angels
the melodies of monsters

blind, he glides along the chain link fence of         now
dragging his wingtips against the diamonded stutter
knowing where he is by the tone of his harmonics

and by the heat signature of his partner:

        she is a blue-black fire
urgent and reckless  and easily distracted
condensing the immediate in her hot smell
of dirty underfeathers and contagious desires

   made visible as the virga her wingtips cast:                  black beams slicing triangular seams of      now bounded by darkness

but admitting a light that illuminates

points further on:

you are a shadow strung between these shadows
cast through fog  (the fog of which you’re made,
the fine-flung particles on which you’re hung)

a medium through which you will learn to gate crash
to give in to scatter

to understand that piano notes unfurling from the banks of folds and whorls
the waifish threnody of thin and distant notes

can open in a vast and clammy throat from which no lighthouse lamp or lens or flame
can cast a plumb line

only a flux         a flex    a blur of synthesis of sense
the tap of one feather against the next

and against nearby wingtips
will unlock the braille of entrance
from the sea smoke:

(in this instance)

 the Iron Horse

 rears clear of the haar and fret gripped thick amid her ribs
(those harpstrings the dream houses pluck on nightly flights)

the blood orange foramen of her double spine:
windows squaring this world with the next

her vermillion scapula and hip caught mid-gallop
the movement of her form so slow as to appear a solid

rostrum thrust forward and tail to ground
her belly stretches taut to guard

cargo ships climbing down the ocean’s edge
tugboats and sabots yaw around her fetlocks

forged of ashes         she waits of course to rise from ashes
staring down into her mare’s nest

past the surface shadow
across which hot life skims into and out of living commerce
to the bluer pulse that breathes below                the echo current of what was and still is

a tide of tall ships          spilling their bones at the hem of california’s skirts        hemorrhaging their riches
of flea-bitten, half-starved hopes

dispersed and drifting in and out through their mistresses’ unlaced eyelets
the silky clacking of all that’s left of this influx                 currents      tides

a sea change of ash pearls collecting in the divots and channels

beneath waves of intolerable golden itches swathed
in layer upon layer of alternating hopes and madnesses

hard little nuggets lodged in the surrounding softness
dug free and sluiced                  measured in dust on scales

cast into ornaments and promise rings now clattering loose         on the bare knuckles
of the not-so-long dead                         in long forgotten graves

beneath the golf course             the library                     the museum
hugging the plumbing                    sailing slow in vessels rarefied by rotting

what remains after flesh and bone and memory have long since dispersed?
a sussurence that lures the jumpers

the risk to all who perform this alchemy:            a mercury         a gorgeous poison
slipping perpetually

back and forth between home and Land’s End: a transistor
the precious metal points of  contact through which pass
travelers                       worldly and otherwise

                                                                        drawn irresistibly to edges

whether by expansion or collapse
big bang or whimper or barbaric yawp              whether by dream or death

it’s all the same unmapped certainty
so you can bunker down and be taken by force

                                                or follow the ravens
who stretch their black fingertips to build up drag and static
then clasp their wings tight to slip the quicksilver light

and dive beak first into the dirt

read part 4

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