Mulberries

https://youtu.be/Koe1gC2j1oU

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I’m not ironic, I’m American: meticulous, direct! Driven

to depict the private flickers of the blast of my Big Bang,

my solo sonic boom.  Here’s what I discern. What else

but a ‘void’ can one face? What else but the unemployed

infinity of nothing could I be the child of? When ‘infinity’

and ‘nothing’ pause together in a clause, Famished

Mind wants so for them to cause orgasmic spasm,

seething warring parts – BRING IT THE FUCK ON

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and NO! – pitched to an untoward extremity. The true

Identity of Trinity therefore reveals itself in God, whose

word-made-flesh turns out to be a pedantry furnished

in burnished diction, supernal grammar, eternal alphabet.

God’s a school marm. Wet or dry, we’re a marvel of

a spinning lingual vacancy, hollow unity, a Source-Void

paying us an adequate annuity that with impunity permits

us to reflect upon the probable delusion we exist. What

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greater manna could we wish? Could there be more

to learn than this? Not so’s we can see. Freeze if we stay,

burn if we go, who cares, don’t know. But hush! Look!

I’m asleep on a lawn at the back of my house, aged three –

could this have been me, ‘neath a Mulberry bush?

We picked mulberries, yes, from a branch. But not on

a prickly bush! Full of ticks probably! What does it mean

existentially? I’d have sworn what I knew was a tree.

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Here we go round the mulberry bush

The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush

Here we go round the mulberry bush

So early in the morning.

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If there’s a god it got lost in the push,

lost in the push lost in the push,

if there’s a god it got lost in the push,

but a new one is always aborning.

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Mama, Take Two

Mama, Take Two
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https://youtu.be/NAsdvRFPt6U

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How sweet! -- a rainbow puffball -- a caprice!
And then a menace as she started growing larger.
I was alarmed enough to summon the police.
However, with what charges could they charge her?
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But as soon as she’d ballooned to fill the room,
ousting me from my beloved house,
then towered to the sky, in a voluminous kaboom,
she’d given grounds for anyone to grouse.
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How did I discover she was she -- you might ask --
while these peculiar doings all unfurled?
Just as she was leaving she informed me of her task:
“I’m the mama of your psyche & I’m pregnant with your world.”

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It’s Exciting to Become a Fact

for Benjamin Marcus
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photo credit: Kurt Fulton

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https://youtu.be/qpVxGD2S6v4

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How do I love this photo?

Let me count the ways.

The effortlessness with which

it conveys the spirit of the artist

and the body of the man

and the undertaken undertaking

of releasing just that span

of those delectable depictable

articulable Words which press

confessionally their best version

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of a reason for why they not

only ought to be reconstituted

palpably as art but as the symbol

and reality of all incarnate flesh.

And look now, there they are,

all buzzing in fresh molecules

of paper and of color and the faintly

dolorous gestalt of knowing living

wisely is the same as living wildly

and for it to know. which it must know,

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it is alive, to cultivate conditions

for the mildly manic mission to be

fructified that Benjamin will mark it

with his Marcus and that he will park us

with it in a front row seat which

overlooks no bleaker street than

Bleecker Street wherein we'll have

a barbecue of marbled beef, the most

arresting meat for words to find more

than belief that they have managed

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to get through to real existence.

Real existence is extraordinarily

impossible to prove, of course. But this

is just the premiere course. Benjamin

has more to cook than his vocabulary.

He's the constabulary force without

whom courses can't receive a license.

Oh it and he go on from here,

but we will leave the thing intact.

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It's exciting to become a fact!