Fermenting the Milk From a Prophet’s Tongue

Oh Great One, please divine me my path

Please grant me the comfort and absolution within

So that I may return my gaze to the light

So that I may once again raise my head

To the full moon triumph

That I may be delivered

From all this chaotic longing

All this grasping, clinging

All this fear of separation

All this longing for reconnection

All this unsettled discourse in the mind

That questions whether I should remain on this path

Or abort it and return to the terrors of the night

 

Oh Great One, please provide me a slim measure

Of epiphany for the soul

So that may rise above

So that I may halt in my meandering ways

So that I may sever the bonds of desire and aversion

So that I may become whole within you

So that I may cease my separation from this world

So that I would leave the remains

Of my egoic skeleton

Behind

 

So that I may rise above this all

So that I may see a new day

So that I will drink in the admiration of the dawn

So that I will bring peace

To the chaotic patterns of internal warfare

So that I may blossom, glow and resonate

So that I may become one with your universal breath

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh Great One, save me from desperation and longing

Give me the courage to rise up

With the strength of a warrior

And hold within me the child

That shivers with the pain, the suffering, the loneliness

So that I may cradle him in celestial bliss

So that I may be peace, within and without

So that I may awaken

Without derision, without chastisement

So that I may bring my mind to rest

In the present moment

To see, to feel, to be

The true expanse of my heart

 

Oh Great One, sever me and save me

Allow me to rest within the rapturous embrace

Of Mother Earth

Deliver me to my divine garden of restoration

Slow the mind. Let it triangulate. Let it rectangulate. Let it permabulate, methodically, with peace and patience, marching steadfastly towards the stars.

Vector angles do not decline or arise. There is no verticality or horizonticality to them. There are only subtle delineations, no measurement, just the preternatural context for volume. They serve only to give direction, but direction within the preconceived patterns of what the aim of this all was for.

But what was the aim of it all? Was there any focus, any volition, beyond the arising tide each morning in the advent of dawn? Awoken from the splendor of sleep, the mind would trebuchetically inclinate and derivate. It would look for a posture in wheelhouse at the front of the ship to gaze meanderingly at all the day could bring, the week could bring, the next episode of life could bring. Pretentious clairvoyant searching. That is how the mind would awaken from slumber.

But for all of this grasping would there ever be direction? Within the confines of the perpendicular mind, would there ever be focus beyond seeking? There would not, even though the mind would always project the appearance of volition, of motivation. But the scattered, wistful and unfocused mind does not seek direction. It only seeks to clutter the space of consciousness as it arises from the unperturbed grace of the unconscious mind.

Awaking from sleep, awaking to weep

Tears of sporadic dislocation into places

Of unintended action or volition

It is the decadently unprecise mind

Wrapped up in the decay of clutteration

That would cloud over every

Aspiration of the dawn

Every rising sun on the empty line of the horizon

To obscure it with pointless patterns of fragmentation

It is the vector that would provide direction to the mind. The analytically aberrant vector, with no upward or downward movement, no vertical or horizontal expansion or stretch, only a subtle course of action, seeks its way through the scattered, heaped up, miscarried, clumped together, miserly unreleased, coagulated corpuscle of the turgid, meandering unfocused mind. The vector, saddled with the contextual gelatinous curdled glob of the directionless, lollygagging mind, would bring it to the focus of thin thistle reed mindful moments, and steer its eye to open at the aperture of the dawn.

It is the volumeless, pointless, contextless, volitionless vector, disengaged within the wasteland of the mind, pulled up, stretched and straightened out, that exists within to give direction and focus to the meandering mind. To the recently awoken plateau of consciousness.

It is this vector that we must uncover, exposed by the light of the dawn, to take upon ourselves as we turn our eyes without. The vector, without preconception or premonition, would give us direction for the passage of our feet for each new day.

What is the vector? From where does it arise? It arises within. It is given birth by the universal direction of the divine.

Leonardo DaVinci distracted by the egoic marvel of ingenuity

He had been waiting in textured moments

Transmuting all the frazzled brain electrocutional

Pathway dislocation

Across the rhythmic threshold of the divine

Presenting it as the gift of a deranged infidel

Silently skulking outside the temple gates

So he could lay out all of his

Unlimited frescoes of the mind

The painting of the Last Supper

Carved into cave grotto walls

Of the Celestine monastery, the Cistercian hovel

Where moisture would simply embellish

Then emaciate

The patterns he had announced with his fingertips

Evolved with heredity agriculture

Descended from the multitudes

That caused him to fragment

Into dual augmentations of creativity

Tapped into the recovery and resuscitation

Of the lingering wisps

Arising from the perimeter of the mind

Slowly integrating themselves into

The lamentations of the mad

Trapped inside this material world

With the brazen construction of engineering marvels

Of calibrated inoculation

Of words made prevalent by the notion of divinity

That prevented the rapturous mechanistic mind

From seeking the puzzle of material integration

He was both an artist, a visionary interlude

A conduit for the divine entry into the world

And a vessel of scientific wanderlust

Attacking the muscled interaction of heroic inner vision

With the collection of atoms we would construct

With our fingertips

Encapsulation, coalescence, dissemination

Divinating the abstract constructions of the mind

Into corporeal manifestations in this material world

He would walk away from the grotto

The Celestine monastery, the Cistercian hovel

To export the atomic principles he had brought to

External aggrandizement

Through the expansive visionary embrace of the holistic mind

He was the gigantic parts

Of the meager whole

There was nothing he could not bring

Nothing he had not brought

But there was nothing he would ever finish

Treading in the incestuous footprints

Of the Duke of Milan

Sforza

He had ornamented and embellished everything

Creating monumental costumes

To typify a recreation of the pretentious allegory of

The contemplated mind

Believing he could do everything, anything

He would do nothing at all

There were visionic regenerations he would never finish

The Last Supper would arise and evaporate

On the walls of the cave grotto

He would never finish the whispered conspiracy

Of Peter, or the methodical counting fingers of Judas

Because he knew it was all just some ideological recreation

Of the patterns of Greek mythology

Laid out by the Homeric imagination

And set in stone by the remembered oral tradition

Of pretentious diatribes

He understood

Without much contemplation

That the Last Supper was just one more

Patchwork modification of the psychology of myth

There was no more truth to its occurrence

Then the stone cast eyes of Orpheus

As he arose from the bowels of Hades

There was no reason to complete it

He would deposit his rags on the temple doorstep

And return to generating the engineering marvels

On paper

That would never leave the grain

There were so many tender moments

Between the thin whistles of terror

That emanated between his lips

Over a bowl of soup

At the dinner table

Where he kept his eyes closed

To avoid the judgmental stares

Of Pentecostal parents

But there was without any doubt

A divine universe

That opened up

On moonlit nights

That cast an auberge hazelnut glow

Over the rudimentary grid-like structures

Of the cemetery

Outside the church

Where his father delivered his tempestuous sermons

Hovering above the simple plot

Where his older brother was buried

Who had preceded him by a year in birth

And by thirty-seven years in death

He would gaze longingly out his window

At the silhouette made by the moon

And wonder if there would ever be

A resurrection

If there would ever come a time

When his brother would arise from the grave

And rejoin him on this ethereal plane

To fuse within him his body and mind

And recover the wholeness of the psyche

Which had been severed

By the rapture of neonatal fratricide

He would ever long to be resolved

Of his crime

Which had fractured and cast aside

The affections of his mother

And given rise to apparitions

Of lustful bodies conflating in form

Just on the other side

Of the door to the bedroom

Of his Pentecostal parents

Who had stolen from him

Any preservation of innocence

That he had clung to

As a child does

To the sagging nipple

Of his petulant mother

He had spent incandescent hours

Drawing all of his tortured malaise

Into words on a paper

The he intended to part with

From the pulpit

Of an unassuming meeting hall

Just northeast of Dover

A frolic from his assignment

As a curator for frivolous

Works of art

He had pathologically delivered

Every single future stage of his existence

Slowly through every word

As he articulated the lost serendipity

That can only be recovered

When the body is assassinated

When the soul is set free

When the crows alight from the wheatfields

When Christ

With his apostles

Slips slowly away from the altar

Of stone

On the mountain of olive trees

And accepts the fate he is delivered

By the iconoclastically clad

Roman soldiers

Who have come to march him

To his crucifixion

The solid conundrum has arrived

But it too is just simply a wafer thin

Uncoagulated funnel

For the dissipation of everything else

Nothing would ever rise

Nothing would ever fall

Without emaciation of something

And the embellishment of something else

Rocks are never tethered on the shoreline

They have just chosen to remain

When the crushing tide

Would wash over them

Exact fist and fingers

That would pull them loose

From their inculpation of status

From the harbinger point

Of their status quo

But they would never leave their precipice

They would never fall away

Tumbled down and over

Into the embrace of the tide

Where they would, if they chose

Simply be filtered down into the sand

To become one with the silicon particles

That would rest beneath

The toes of ghost crabs and sandpipers

Running away from the encroaching tide

Whenever it made its way

Back to the rocks

I have been brooding with heavy breath here forever

Translucent in the dawn

Transfigured by the dusk

Staring endlessly

At the tide approaching and receding

Relentlessly plotting, preparing to attack

The receding shoreline

With aggressive action

With pulsating, culminating fingers

And fists

That would attempt to unsettle the construct

Of rocks

Piled up at the shoreline

But that was never the intention of the tide

The water never wanted to return

To the encompassment of the ocean

With heavy new encumbrances

The light as a feather water

Would not want to saddle itself down

With the weight of an inanimate boulder

So why would it keep

Pretending to attack the rocks?

Is it just being playful?

Is it just meandering around

The solid fortitude

Of the inanimate pile of rocks

That would treat itself as a barrier

Into nothingness?

A gentle frolic that creates

The illusion

Of a cacophonous storm?

Of a simulated attack

That would slowly

And without any thought of malice

Or intention to debilitate

Break down the surface of the rock

And swallow up each microscopic pebble

That it returned with it to the sea?

The ocean waves would appear to never

Withdraw with an acquisition

From the rock encrusted shoreline

But it would, bit by bit

Piece by piece

Drawing back with it tiny grains of sand

From the unencumbered rocks

To gather up its own barricade

On the shoreline

Beneath the feet of the ghost crabs

And sandpipers

That swells up the girth and breadth

Of the sandy beach

By slowly emaciating the unfettered rocks

And I would watch it all

With universal patience

As the swelling tide

Would transmute the rocky shoreline

Into every minuscule, microscopic

Grain of sand

The transformation has begun

It would occur unrelentingly

Outside your peripheral scope

Of this material world

In ways you would ever see

Patiently await the change

It will come

It will swell up beneath your feet

And lift you up

Into the universal embrace of the divine!

The middle way. It is the only way. It is the only pathway that your feet should tremble upon. With unadulated remarkability. Without any offerings of prayer to a deity that does not exist in any level of corporeal form.

The pathway is demonstrably difficult to find. There are no summits to escalate to that do not draw the mind away from the present. Distractions abound along the way. Ever erring and pulling away from the disguise of divinity.

The middle way is not marching. The middle way is not trumpet finger hallucinations with the barricade of breath. The middle way is not a celestial summit you can yearn to achieve with the solid circumference of feet. There is no glowing eidosphere where you will simply find an escalation into eternal emancipation of serendipity.

The middle way is between all of the obstacles, all of the reverberations of unkindness, flowing up though the sporadic gunas. The middle way is surrounded by both light and dark, but both trepidation and serenity. It is calmness in the midst of a prevailing storm. There is no summit to be reached. There is no valley to reside in. It is a simple plateau of untethered form. You would never find it. You would only ever be it. If you surrendered into the disallocation of less. There is nothing less than nothing more. There is only detachment from everything you would discover, not discover, uncover, not uncover, design and find, not design and find.

The middle way. It is everywhere and nowhere at all. Except in places in between everything else, where the mind is still, the focus is steady, and you are universal likeness. A mirror for eternity. This is the middle way. Vacancy forever, longing never. No more aspirations. No more trepidations. Only insular lightness of being, and external transfiguration, engagement into a complete and utter reticence.

The middle way cannot be found. It can only be. And being is without becoming. It is only knowing. And knowing is without recognition. It is only relentless absorption into inert stillness of the mind. It is never ending. It is only beginning.

Fall away from the precipice where you would devolve into trepidation for the feet. Tip toe over the edge without intention. There will be no volume of weight to harness you down, to bellow you up. There will only be enraptured stillness of the soul, and limitless expansion of the mind into places where the soul would no longer weep with insecurity.

This is the middle way. It does not exist. It does not not exist. It is the eternal metronome of the dancing feet, in unison, patiently awaiting deliverance, without any expectation, without any realization of anything other then serenity.

Do not relent into passion. It is passion that would override compassion. And with compassion there would arise, without integration, simple passivity. And with passivity there, in the internal, eternal, interwoven vines of peaceful floral deliverance would you, without effort or attempt, simply exist within the middle way.

All of this is the embalmment of recalcitrance, despair, hatred, dislike. I must mummify it all. I must wrap it all up in camphorous cotton sleeves. I must sing sorrowful praises for the Ankara of the dead, moving slowly through the pyramids of the passage of time. Into ornate funeral catacombs.

I am dressing up each entryway, placing panels of renunciation in fresco antler cornices, to announce the uncallibrated wilderness of tooth and nail that would remain forever in ornate edification of casket woven mummified corpses.

It is now the funeral march. I am engaging, disengaging, watching the solemn forms of the Amenhotep priest ilk kinds marching in rapturous incantation towards the ceremonial enclosure of the dusk of remorse.

All of this has gathered itself into a decrepit, decaying, disfigurement of the soul’s resting place.

It is time now for the next regeneration. The cognitive evolution away from all that has been lost, given away, torn asunder, placed down on the parapet carpet lung of the tomb of engulfment.

It is now time to ceremoniously walk away. There is another temporal plane of disbelief where all these errant echoes will build up with skin, whatever they wish to be. But away from me, so it matters not.

The trial of ceremonial tribulation has been completed. The juridical jaws of enlightened passageways into the reopening of the soul have spoken. It is over. It is time to close the sepulcher doors.

Sitting by this waterfall, I watched how the water calmly formed in a pool at the top, then turbulently cascaded down the rocks, only to return to calm in the pool below.  Then I thought, while the water was turbulent, was it not still calm?  Did it not fall over the rocks without obstruction, not letting the rocks impede its path?  Or cause it pain or suffering?  The water just found a way to fall around the rocks, to continue its journey, only to once again find a place of calm.

We must be like the water in jungle waterfall.  When the turbulence arises, when the obstacles come, we do not need to run up against them.  We must find a way through, around, over, because we must continue our tasks unimpeded.

Be like water, and continue your journey without pain and suffering.

Dead reckoning and celestial navigation

Teeth worn down by the sea mites

By the aggressive letter holders

Proclaiming a grander wisdom, from

Ptolemic webs

 

He would turn away from the stern

From the wheelhouse

To focus every second bmb ,..,.., zzcbcz bof attention

On capsizing the mutiny

That he knew would occurnv mb

Every time the weather turned sour

Every time the bellows rotted through

Every time b. ‘M ?’ Mhe lost the placementz vmM z m z5m m. M. Mc ‘tvm z m. ‘. C m. M. m.

Of fingertips on starsVxVxm. x x

To guide him around the arcane

Archipelago

That he could not see any end of

In the distance or beyond

 

Discouraged by the inert movement of sails

Through aggressive shark-filled tides

There were so many who would teeter on the brink

Of pretending he had never conquered anything

Of pretending the Patagonian monsters

Never existed

Because pelican arms could not move south

Of the equator

Without disrupting

The balance of the humors

Without drawing in the heavy bastardized sighs

Of the heathen democrats

Who would prophetize the expansion of the seas

And disregard the density of land mass elongated

From the gates of Eden

 

There was a dance

On tailored floors, with tailored strings

They say that Magellan had come from the mountains

He had

From the very forceps of a mountainous wistfulness

In northern Portugal

Places where you would never imagine

You could sit in the sacred hull of a vessel

And draw your fingertips across the

Crusted surface of the maps

That still pretended there were only

A few tiny longitudes of new breath

Separating the west from the east

 

That somehow passing through

The endless night of the Southern Hemisphere

In the Tropic of Cancer

To the Tropic of Capricorn

You would easily land on the

Whale-harpooned shores of

The Japanese peninsula

In the lands somewhere east of Java

But so close to the vehicular landmass

That spartan saviors would arise

To reassert

To reinvigorate

The Ptolemic web

 

Of Jerusalem diaspora

Of the continuity of the Mediterranean

Of the lake of the Indian Ocean

And confirm for the mountainous Magellan

That he had only a few more footsteps to follow

 

But none of this was anything more

Than simple, maniacal conjecture

Fabricating falsehood, to permeate and echo

As far as it could, within and without

To infiltrate the vessel of the mind

And prevent it from ever trampolining over barriers

 

Until the barriers lost

Their constrictive hold

And fell away

To empty out the resolution of

Dogmatic enterprise

And shifting open the windows

Slightly with askance stares into

Ripples of infiltrating light

And expose the nascent

Incantations of the truth

That there was more than just

The terrestrial planetary core

Somehow imparted into inert cosmotic membranes

With cloistered movement

Etched into planetary stone

Brackets fastened to thickly woven

Manufactured planes of sedentary space

 

Sitting silently at the stern

Sifting through transgression maps in the wheelhouse

Magellan would pat fingers to drum

His vestigial hand

On the wooden deck

While he pondered the truth of the moment

And began to understand

How the circular pathway of the earth

Would open the doorways of the mind

To truth beyond the dogmatic

Science of religious cosmography

There was always a measure of translucent darkness

Around the edges of his paintings. Slim,

Elegant fissures of angelic breath shrouded

By the hooded robes of inconsolant

Tonsured monks.  Who would have overtaken the image

If it was not for his habit of

Dabbling in patterns of light that grew 

With the thickness of his brushstroke.

 

The winter’s night had been long

And arduous, as it always was

In Kristiana before the advent

Of electric lightning that made its way

Across the continent, the waters of the North Sea,

To hang uneasily on Karl Johan Street where

He would one day paint images of 

Startle-eyed pedestrians and bone-tired

Factory workers making their way across

The bridge in the late dusk of September.

 

He had been anticipating the moment

For months, although the shortened breath 

Of his childhood elongated the arc of time

Into years in the shallows of his mind.

While she waited, in vertical swathes of 

Encroaching opaqueness, at the seat 

By the window staring out

Across a sea of asparagus bushes

Swimming like feathers in a brisk wind

Reaching out towards the mansioned estate that rose

In a hill from the base of the field.

 

The air would entertain the mechanistic 

Plodding encirclement of crows as they

Rose and fell into the blanket of asparagus

Swimming into expanse of sky.

 

She would remain there, at the window

In his mind, at the edges of his unconscious.  In the language 

He would learn to speak with the apparitions 

That floated in the space between the patterns in the air

Long after the consumption took her.

 

She would bow her head to suppress a cough

Into a bloody rag, then return her gaze

To the asparagus fields.  He would wonder 

If she was longing to enjoy a more horizontal 

And expansive perspective that might be found 

On the other side of the field beyond

The pastiche of flowered tops of asparagus blossoms 

As the hill drew up to the doorway 

Of the mansion that she could only make out 

By squinting her eyes through the hovering 

Matrix of crows.

 

He would often paint the residue of her image

In portraits, in landscapes, but most admirably

In interior spaces that drew away from 

The frontal perspective of the image 

Into the darkened recesses where the thickness of the paint

Would merge into narrower brushstrokes.

 

It was not until he was walking, alone

In St. Germaine, soaked in absinthe and 

Driven to more aggressive hallucinations by gnawing hunger

That he would see patterns of regeneration

Present themselves in a way that made him 

Understand 

The waning dissimilarities between the past 

And the present, birth and death.

He would come to understand why the images 

Of his mother’s plodding descent

Into incandescence by the window 

Was more than just the abstraction 

Of his childhood memories.

 

He would continue to paint her

Reverberations that undulated

Beneath the skin of his right hand

Long after the gunshot took his middle finger.