IT occurs of course, in the middle
of the already bright day.
a moment whose length you choose.
a moment neccessary to the condition
which calls for it. a glimpse at the possibilty
of peace and its air, its consortium.
a sly treatment of a growing list of words.
complexity shares its neighborhood,
however, and keeps a respectful distance.
a luster is purchased from a poem
that reminds us of connections we had
thought hidden away forever.
and while many have chosen to trade in the lucre
of vehemence, of tragedy, again the universe
justifies itself and promulgates no
divorces visible to the human conciousness.
it also happens when one needs it most
and least. a rapprochement which alludes
to not teaching, because it cannot teach one.
it only lifts the veil of self teaching. paying
the price of dialogue’s market. it explains
how even the abstraction connotes the figurative.
denying Freud.
in the middle of the already bright day,
jumping from the bed, the interior recognition
he had derided, defriended, unnerved for
so long, screaming, reclaimed the god in
himself. a gray film was ripped away from
the already bright day. the entire galaxy
was filled with a light that was not light at all,
but a greater recognition.
a splendid and piercing continuity, where
the story must be told. everything is always
at once where no injury is prescribed.
where the tangled web we weave is a glistening
threshold to freedom. to pointedness.
Wifredo votes against the church, and vows never
again to debase the body of the poem.
2
it so resembles the day of harvest, no,
the very morning of harvest. as silent
as the sun rising. the curve of the earth
pealing in its slot, a ball bearing.
here, fate picks no weapon, no future,
no confusing explanation, but the peculiar
procurement of honesty and its weightless
fascination, suffering to honor a peace
lacking confession. so like
the complete bloom and fruit, the blinding
veils rent, lifeless, meaningless.
surely one becomes exhausted, splitting
hairs of the paradox. conjuring the remedial
text for the enslavement of the self: the walls
of the temple come crashing before infinity.
a sincerity of singleness where ther are no
mothers, fathers, friends. no soothing arithmetic.
to annihilate the blasphemy of spiritual masterbation.
casting away, scattering our pretentious
illumination with all its perversions: a greater
recognition! honesty is death’s signature.
the man-child claims that only the dishonest
shall weep at his grave.
3
we will reach the operatic laughter,
the dissonant sky symphony. orchards
of cinnamon and beryl, a gleaming mercury
river, whos shores are mountains of orange
blossoms and honey bees.
our blue-black tone originates in the ocean
around us, no longer initiates. blue-black
angels with completely transparent wings,
cuddling the galaxy’s heirs, whispering
enchanting frequencies…the measureless
dhikr, the fountain of wine. not a spell,
but the very same word touching every tongue,
present in every dreamy view.
somehow, le jeu du paradis attempts to
reduce contact with the visitors. and yet,
no game, because magik knows no production.
it is the artists’s proof, the non-product of
revelation…the body’s own universes. the body’s
own lust…the body’s career.
somehow, the blank page cannot give birth
to the blank page. the possibility of transmission,
the joy of awakening, the joy of expanding the
omniverse outweighs the stealthy measure of lightning:
“As for their rings, they were so high
that they were dreadful; and their rings
were full of eyes round about them four…”
the game of paradise is the pure seduction
of memisis, the attempt to initiate a luxury
of history. the greatest rite: to be needless
of the pen, to write the IT into being. Aimé
held the limitless blank page in a pouch around
his waiste. his machine was made not of pen and
ink, but maps of certain sections of the galaxy.
“And when the living creatures went, the wheels
went by the: and when the living creatures were
lifted up from the earth, the wheels were lifted up.”
blue prints of landing sites. eat a
tablet made of honey. parallel mirrors
built upon eternity, the shuffling of wings
and feet along its route. the greatest rite is
the write of transmission…the telescope of
language and its abacus. its gyroscopic trance.
its portable window on the Everything.
“…withersoever the spirit was to go, they went,
thither was their spirit to go; and the wheels were
lifted up over against them: for the spirit of the
living creature was in the wheels… ”
“…and the likeness of the firmament
upon the heads of the living creature
was as the color of the terrible crystal,
stretched forth over their heads above.”
what better way to lure the seeker
to the mouth of the abyss. or the someones
who build the velvety tombs of sleep with blinking
eyes in the palms of their hands and fire as their
countenance. what better way than the endless
ledger? the fundamental hum of the ever expanding
constant, an Everything forever pressing outward.
within the reach of a single stroke: the voice that is
“brought down,” the voice that is conjured is the voice
of everything, the conical spiral of rushing waters.
and, hence, form is only inference after all.
palm trees and carpets at the end of the dusty
road, the weary traveler tosses coweries
and burns hair to settle his affairs with autobiography.
flipping the transmission like a flapjack, assaulting
all of the revised models of inheritance. superman
has no nationality in Negritude.
“thou also, son of man, take thee a tile
and lay it before thee, and portray upon
it the city, even Jerusalem: and lay seige
against it, and build a fort against it, and cast a mount
against it; set the camp also against it, and set battering
rams against it round about.”
“moreover take thou unto thee an iron
pan, and set it for a wall between thee
and the city, and set thy face against it,
and it shall be beseiged…”
a reality settles on Aimé’s shoulders
(yet another prisoner of the sea, endless sky,
screaming gulls) a ceremonial setting straight.
an awakening, a peculiar divination: without
warning the sky, in its crush, split open and peeled
itself back! man invents god, woman declares
“mother of god.”
-Sadiq
