Monday, February 25, 2008


Ascribing verticality – deep levels –
to the thing provisionally seems
to bring a ring of truth: surely what’s
“beneath” contains whatever
ruthlessly obeys the deepest
law: the source of all that delicately
evanescent ardor of our being which

propels us through the maw of
everyday: its seat must lie in
strata deep below, unseen but felt,
enlivened by the heat of something
like an existential lava – here,
down here, is our imagined genesis.
But I don’t know: there are no leveled

paradigms for me today. Today
I climb up from a dream of Mexico,
and find my edges just as spread
out, full of complicated surface
as the flattest two-dimensioned
intricately decorated plan of every
bit of that land’s brilliant mix

of votive brightness, force, intricacy
with which my dream began:
a flat-mapped reverie of silver baubles
mashed to star-shaped delicate
geometries: a fractal landscape
of Milagros* that encodes in it the whole:
every bit of it’s on top: there is no

lurking inner cavern for a demon
or a soul. What you see is all you get.
Let’s forget to think in tiers – trade
them for this freshly flattened field
self-evidently here – displaying
everything at once: revealed, unshod.
Surface of the skin of God.



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