Friday, January 26, 2018

Restive Septets Ponder Consciousness

Alter consciousness? Don’t falter at that altar:
absolutely! yes!  What is consciousness but
alteration? Affixing sense to fix this existential
mess? What else is success? It moves, ergo it is.
Not to prove intention, sentience, teleological
truth or solemn thought. It’s an onslaught, whose
glamour can’t be caught by grammar, though
it can disturb, reverberate like verbs, though
not like love: smellier verbs like fertilize – though
not to realize the grandeur of creation – but
to carry out a mission of predation – sate
its hunger for more toward and untoward
impulses to lick and chew and macerate into
a gluey stew that it can use to fertilize itself.
Catastrophe of any kind is also tasty, as it roughs
up all it belts, eviscerates and tosses into salad –
cowardice is more than valid as an acrid salad
sauce, dissolving off the flaccid fat of lust. Filter
all the middle distances we gaze into by reflex
through a fog into a drink to bring us to a brink
that consciousness can’t yet suss out: doubtless
why it thirsts for it so badly that it’s often all it
thinks about. Alteration undermines the status quo,
though isn’t it the status quo? Not to say it tediously
turns in on itself reiterating surface play. Solipsism
lacks allure: no traction strong enough to make
us cease, be still and stay. What are sense
and nonsense, anyway? A collective of infinitives!
To move, ingest, egest, to jest! – to blink at more
and more – test this festive alphabetic travesty –
assess its restive squiggles in the sand like these –
imagining they’re royal sonnets to show off like
precious bling, conjured by divinities expensively.
But every god is a static thing, and every king
is a pea. Consciousness has majesty.


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