T H E N E T
[I][the next morning]
the ORACLE opens her glory hole!
hark ye her awkwardness? you see, she, the SEE,
needs rekindle cinders — which is, to rescind
— or rather, reverse, if I may revise
last night’s visions t’were versed…
but how to recant what she can’t recall?
or amend the unremembered — how
might the blind revisee?
whatever sprung or erupted or flung
itself from her lips as if
to sue a fly yesternight
is at-least-half-ashed already in her memory, and any
remnants of embers’re extinguished — every sentence
of her impromptu, improper prophecy
dismembered and heaped indistinguished — every word
of import or portent she purged,
utterly purifired, burned
by day to vague graylings
the mind-made-matter her trembl’aching brain
now scours and rums-for-ages thru in vain
for speech-seeds such of wheat, peas, barley
and millet in-mixd with the cinders — she sees
these gentle-bend commas of beans ,
but no spelt in between — sees
how this barley points to an amaranth !
in inarticulate exclaiming,
with twin lentils’ : aphonic explaining.
and spherical periods … o the poppies
ye gods! all pauses!
gaps as gasps in ashes of whatever she’d said.
only breath’s left in memory, only
structure of augury, only punctures.
and she, having awakened in the adytum,
with br’aching day-shy eyes now sees
how a little blue-yellow breeze
veils in from the wind-door
scatt’ring a bit the black-gray, re-be-evening day,
maybe even — !
[a catch in her haling
as she’s seized by the realized]
there is that scattereth and increaseth, oft caught
in butterfly nets of breeze: what’s wafted off
may proliferate, belitter her oblitterations — lifted
pity PYTHIA, so-called PYTHONESS,
O, or SEE, the mouthpiece
of her namesake’s slayer, maker
of nameplace — most sacred snakegrave…
o you know the one —
of the lyre and sun?
some seven rays of the latter having strung
the former’s bow. the smiling lyre’s seven names
are a seventensed tautology
of fine lines defined by touch —
made soft and fat in their midsts for singing,
just as longing for the fitful play of fifthed fists splayed.
the same for SEE, no? her lyre-in-hiding
his deft right hand at her throat.
so thru her he may sort new courses
for stars, everystring in between reconstellating
the fate-threads written in crossings
of these: overs and unders of order
— concordancing on a space-time loom.
to lay life’s alignments — that we may meet,
that we might twine-lie and repeat
our rounds of light-made-sight and sound — reprisals
which tie up our ends in agains.
then how wide this net — domed sky as high!
as the tiny, shiny mind of a lyrebird’s
an orrery — o petty turns behind the eye
of lines, its spokes — lines the orrery’s spokes
invoked in croaking voice:
swiv’ling lifelines, diff’rent lengths,
traced circs their ends evoke.
of rings in rings,
o nest suggestion — nest of many nets!
webnest of ravel refined to tines,
to side-by-sides like lyrelines
or parallel lives — all radial in nature, really.
think of it — all of apollinear times
or glittering histories — oral, i suppose — spoke out
from sun’s still, burning center of churning
and she, P, as his prophetess, she
who dissembleth with her lips is his sitting
spokesmaness over nine of these lines, nine
for the months of sun.
[the social maths say that]
all fathers know nine daughters
are worth of one good brotherson, and
that nine moons make one sunseason.
given this, in the heaventwelve piecewheel,
the fourth and final triad-slice, that darkwhite
silent space in tines tho asleeping — holds
the yearwheel’s tail-end in winter’s triangle-
that awful maw — as the words
of a talebearer are as wounds
[the very slain?]
returning serpent of sink-toothed sooths,
the back-biter, deep-throater — so deep as to seem
all-throat, so one must wonder where his tongue goes…
tho i suppose it circumlocutes.
o yes, ouroboros — whose gag reflects her own.
nausea, anxiety cycling — each
in its turn eclipsing the other:
the desperate heart-quake that pounds at the head-door
while aching rains its acid back to upset gut
[and then back up]
such is her convulsive expulsion- what’s eked from lips
— her reverse peristalsis is an inverse precipitation.
so then did she speak from
where now she leaks from… was her heart
her words’ wellspring last night?
no… tho hearts are weak and easily
per-versed by dark —
[as heart is sol of system]
they’re really all too body, all too red —
[as bloodfist beating redly]
for such… subtle utterance as this —
moonstruck she was, truly, which is to say
drunk on the watery star, overflowing
under its fluence, which is to say
… what did she say?
what in this revel’s revealed?
her heavy brain wet yet unreservoired,
post-diluvial, post-delusional, truly
— after having profused… whose truth?
or whose tune played her
for a vessel dispossessed?
as the wholly impious, perfect body of fool-
ishness, which here is rumor, an effluence
of vacuity ineffable, starwet and suggestive
— a black hole of decadence is
all this NOTHING IN EXCESS —
evaporated madness — a sane, if inundane
a condensation circ her water marked
on the soothsaying stool may serve clue:
symbolthink — what does a ring sing of?
[what does it signify?]
this full eclipse… o screaming darkness,
licking flames for lips?
black spot where thot at threshold burnd.
or is it the snakering? the againthing,
mouth full of a whiter swallow
— this seeming nemesis
of toothsigning PYTHONESS,
this — made endless by holding its end
it makes itself hole.
this act is real, and thus requires a why?
[y being the same
slack jawed snake, less self-reflexd]
its disempowering principle is pleasure,
and any symbolic meaning’s simple y incidental.
all phallus, but initself intersexed —
obviously of female mind, thinking
itself in circles…
o them drippy dizzy spins revolting —
as a dog returneth to his vomit
O's own emesis, once swallowed
returns, also a fool returneth to her folly
— sick squishing twixt her toes.
so O ummms — as she invokes the phonal drones
of ecstasy, or just postpones explaining.
[ums the um of contumplation
ere the er of error]
the omphalos — sharing stones with umm… phallos
— the world’s wooly gray navel, the closed door
to an umbilical course of orifice, the whole
from which the idio sprang —
stone over the wellspring of a hidden river
whose own willing runs itself.
note the warp and weft of its coverlet,
its knotted nets like checkerwork,
or lyres overlied at rights.
our sound-swaddled outie shares whole name
with the swallowed, clothed stone chronos disgorged.
o you know that same old song
and dance about the son
so long many dances about the sun ago…
song of the swapped son, the true one
afloat in mother- woven basket
of paper reeds she’d wrought, the shell she’d overlaid.
flesh and stone both obscured by her warpings
in which he wended in a diff’rent river
for a while, unminded.
O, roll the stone over and off, show hole
and call down your question in the classical supplicant’s
narcissic position, for it only echos
back in implacable winter, which won’t answer to no one.
let then wefts waft upward of oracular vapors,
sauce that unstrings the vocals.
an unnaveled cord lowered
finds its way to the source
of the coursing — the source is coursing
unseen — and the earthen serpent,
as deep river fissure hisses as if it lived still,
ever-unstiller than any living-being
[living being but dreaming
an adder undulate underfoot, and a ululate
unwebbing of tongue
immanent in leg-melting steam up between —
o it’s just on the tip of hers — lips burning with it,
hovering over its coming —
o! hark old glories!
this must be memory upthrusting momentous!
the watery boutade’s oraculate
or spasmic souvenir reveals: one, her soaked
white robe made sheer, with her nipples
pink pebbles thru, two, written in stone
KNOW, THYSELF with a comma-bean between
shines wet: not a truth in itself but its ism,
which is, in this case, fishier than ishness…
so what? somewhat humbled — lower yourself
as your own right hand at the rope rappels you
down the upwafting well shaft, down
to where truth dwells, resubmerged
in river, who hath babbling, half-drowned.
attempt to compel her of course to recall you
and wrestle with her for your question,
questing with blessing of curse
her strange unlying guile widens and writhes
its redirections unbindable… her ellusion shimmers,
chimerical… try break the change of her faces.
never stepping in the same river’s guise —
twice evasive, she flows both ways, the way
the minor secrets may.
but try anyways — vie all ways to vice her,
find the right chokehold to open her throat.
the river’s lethal currending revery —
an unmindful- ness, which is its watery quality,
disabsolving all. swollen with so many
stolen mementos — all tho true, aren’t all you.
so again, you sort thru: dividing
by divining — the art of finding signs
by signs — finding essence, the
nessness the divining makes
divine — the dowsing rod
like a python cast down to divers-faced waters
— the mantic finding the manic river-in-her tied
by cord of rope-tile, many-threaded, multi-plied.
and the river woven, too — with streaming strings
reweaving — withersoquivering ever caressing
nesses on nesses, singing simply their names
for the pleasure of it, this friction
of rivulets rubbing those vibros o
the violyrebows know — ay ee ee
ee ee eh ee —toothless truths,
and inarticulate — yes delphic, but davidic
and orphic as well — as in water
face answereth to face
her true phase, a phrase,
a mask to be reveiled: i will divide them in what’s hidden
and scatter them in what’s revealed.
then go to the ant, SEE!
anti-myrmidon, so to speak —
and seeds, go to threes… little poppies’ ellipses,
red as their perfections are
as fire-ants in these ashes — so sort yourselves!
and therefore remember yourselves,
ye ever-regenerate, red hundred-armorèd
centurions in your fire-brethren world.
with an inborn leg-memory preordinance
of form and mation, march-on
in to and out, too the mouth
of the mound- oris, os, ostium
or vomitorium, sinking by instinct
in their odd whorled order, as if a drain-floor were
the dark portent’s opening, porte-noire.
and do make root, in fact
take flow thru notions
of one great tap truth, its chief shaft unspeakable,
from which off shoots — articulations,
reticulate distributaries netting the pettier
proofs, rumors, reasons dissem-wended
so many stories lower.
: this the fabmythric
of their nation-state, an anti-net unmade
of knotted air, of naughts in earth
which serves for its interstices.
: this the virtue, too
of their snare — whatever’s caught is hidden there
riddled within strings intrinsic.
hear a pulsing there, all thru’s
a red-beat march-to
of some unseen, unseeing under-sun,
a time-keep unminds mine,
this rhythm without thot that draws,
propulses, flows both to and aways
out from a cthoracic cavity,
her secret-keep, the coursing’s source.
and is there a teared veiled there
before the hole of holes?
deep penetralium, terra interior,
palpating black-belly sense-magic
with no image, no eye
as every smuggled crumb of upper-sun’s snuffed
by smother, supreme mother, most inferior
red re-member-er beats on, weaves her beads on
strings of he-secreted seed she keeps
in her self-reticule.
and from there — is there not some psychic tear?
consciously unmothering, she
abandons her handiworks.
unwarped and wended away to be raised
by other, unqueen earth mothers:
half-sisters and aunts.
their hardly-bodies, soft and unswaddled
long to short pauses, or comma called larva —
then to pupa, when what was egg will self-shell,
once grown the stones to ossify —
willing the power to sprout
one radicle leg first — then five further,
spurred by rhythm’s swim to the dance,
artless march thru the branchless
roots of routine.
but if someday the system wills
one tunnel up and vacate cave,
what strange funnel-web seductions
would he then seek?
more masterly tapestries, stilly dew-glit
imageries, making eye-sense of sense-memory
— what spiders looming lie in,
spin-strum lullaby in?
what sunlit late-swathe swaddle
befits his birth-shroud reversion, his slipping
more comfortable, yet a little sleep?
an agrenon, a little slumber, a little
folding of the hands to sleep…
and if this is resisted — what’s left for him
but rematriculation? which shares roots with matrix,
by the way man’s drawn to the mons,
go the mound, and homing, go back down.
but this time trailing behind him’s a line —
a-cording thru the canal
his story, tho borrowed, his yarn thru the annals
and down to the bowels, down
to the nethermost node, for all low-roads flow
to her pleasure-dome,
queendominion, the heart of
all matter, gestating cave of make-belief.
each an impression of the empress
one comes to fuck the mother, running from sun…
does it all come down to who
gets to wrestle with womb
well — in the whom?
slow drone, collapse
then swell again
of solar plexus, her nexus
of sunbeams netting her center :
O’s inner ummm over her own in and outie.
hark her again!
for, as opposed to her previous lunatic
and dithyrambic vision,
PYTHIA keeps her re-vision pithy,
speaks she in I AMs:
this being her only knowing, a rhythmic sun-thing.
certain of the structure of it, certain interstices,
sound-boundaries, aeolian edges
of the breath-silhouette.
and of the letterd prophecy-body — if not
in keeping with its spirit, at least
with its sol unknowable — the very same
souller of the seven-noted rainbow-
red-etcetera violyrebow — here after all
is her self-ful-spilling promisey.
she’s keeping it
draped over a sky-rafter
of the sun and its beams,
the moon too, unseen — slung over these,
hung over her,
[is this what had come over her?]
ah well ah well
all’s well in the all-well when
not for another hundred-hundred years or two
till what I said — what e’er I said comes true.
so O of the many epithets,
inspired with the epic breath,
just… postpones, transposes
her epi-phony… indefinitely —
sowing ellipses to test-what-she-meant.
her own soul like a stiff-necked river,
willful — pulling of the python-rod disregarded
— just one spoke of the wheel she’s overturned,
and sleepily rolls on, all snakes on the sacred way
but twigs atwitch in her periphery,
asps to scatter, and bringeth the wheel over
them and the wheel’s eyes as prey’s — on the sides,
in present-center, this small still breath
in re-turning ever-ever-present yet evanescent as it rolls
down the road — o focal navel o solar point.
don’t you know in time you’ll cloak with time
your stolen after-glow, SEE, your whole mouth
shining white dripping winter as you dismount
the three-leggd stool, you’ll reveil in re-twirls
as moonth-she do, irrevelatory?
then what else from this pismired prophetess?
naughts, gossamer rumors strewn thru
grasses, twigs and sticky
gossiper’s webs we lie
in — net-mesh of fire so fine
only water could pass thru,
pass for truth tho filtered
in this word we weave or be weaven
and truth, being true, is quality of faithfulness
— faith, full of ness, is integrity of net, a holding to
even again. the evening-out hour,
the weaving wending down.
SEE restories order in the cinders,
she sweeps the meshingfloor. keeping
but three poppy seeds asleeping
on top her finger’s tip.
all her arm Cs them O into her swallow.
gather up your parables, P, nine marvels
lost in time, nine wonders without musing
wander in the mind
off to nod, your drowsing rod tugs down
to hidden river ignorance
— whose trailing tail ings — it curls up into
mouth of cave as if to —
and when she come to sleep, all dream.
this poem is pro-verb: it lessens
its morals to morsels
of unsorted story.