We are nameless

We are nameless, I-men, striving
far above the beggared notions
of apathies and death’s release.
We are shadeless, unencumbered
beings drawn from Prime Consideration.
Others, fallen, fail, false in trade,
offer i for I.
                     I, reaching
skyward, holding fast the honest
roots wherefrom he rises— i-man,
reaching down, splits the rhizomed root,
splicing fungused-i to feed upon
a stolen I-man grace. And struts.

.

Cunningham

A red-winged blackbird sits, watching me, his fence post newly staked, bark on, topside down. At arms length, rusty fence pliers bounce along a span of barbed wire. One. Two. Three. “Hemlock, see, twists as it dries—” that’s Cunningham’s voice, “stretches the wire. Set one post wrong-way-to and it’ll sag right there.”

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Come a day I recall Seamus Heaney and with newfound pride—my own name and that red-winged blackbird down Vernon River way.

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Seamus Heaney, renowned Irish poet, wrote the fabulous poem, St. Kevin and the Blackbird.

Draw

.
Draw
a circle.
Draw a line,
through its middle,
in your mind. Within that
circle, on that line, draw yet
another circle there, just as the 1st;
you choose the size and where upon the line
it falls. And in the spaces left unclaimed, on either
side, if there is room, draw yet another circle there. And
others still until the line is full. This string of worlds, sized large
or small or mixed, is ready now. The secret of this Tao is
held within. The universe, the path you choose; the
distance ’round each world alone, when added
to the others, is equal to the measure of the
first. You drew the circle. Drew the
line. Drew the others. Chose
their size. The secret
of this Tao is held
within
.

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Letter to the White Imbongi

These are the thoughts of the Locust thrum—

.

From the ripple, the thought is the Rock is God
From the Rock, the Earth
From the Earth, Sun-Moon
From They the thought is the Milky Spiral
The spiral known as the Eye of God
And from the Eye all space is His
Gift of glorious and of noble heights
And from the Eye all space is Hers

.

These are the thoughts of the Locust thrum—

.

Praise them then— the Locust mind, the flights of Stone,
All Earths, their Suns and every Moon
Praise Galaxies
Praise Space— Her heights!

These are the thoughts of the Locust thrum
That which is done. That which is done

.

Imbongi, in South African tradition, is the name/title of a poet.

I imagine a great imbongi with imbongi friends who relay information from far away. In particular, this letter is about thoughts that the writer supposes have come from a distant cloud of locusts.

A Gentle Scent

A gentle scent surrounds me.  It eddies,
flows, reminds me.  I dream.  Look long
and away until just so and seeing you
and having only to say—  I seize upon
some flower, something I love, you see,
and say—  This is where I begin.  This is
where I am.  This is where I am re-awoken.
And in that span you hold me with interest,
with affinity.  You who can never end,
whose beginning was before mine—
From non-existence you rekindle me.

.

LOGIC STICKS

Don’t beat me with your logic sticks
It ain’t that I can’t take the licks
My skin is thick, as thick as bricks
It’s just I’ve had my fill of it

.

Chorus
          We’ll beat you when you’re up
          No, we’ll beat you when you’re down
          No, we’ll beat you when you’re up again
          And beat you when you’re down

.

René Descartes rests headless in his tomb
Cogito ergo—ergo whom?
Don’t beat me with your logic sticks
Fidem! ergo sum

.

Chorus

.

Don’t care what makes your logic tick
It ain’t that I can’t take the licks
Don’t know where your logic’s been
Logic gets around

.

Chorus

.

Don’t beat me with your logic sticks
My skin is thick, as thick as bricks
It ain’t that I can’t take the licks
IT’S JUST I’VE HAD MY FILL OF IT

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Might be heavy rock. What kind of vibe do you see?

Young Wm.

The point is, young Wm., you have no ticket
to the pantheon. Earned it? Yes. But in leaving
left the scrip behind; compared yourself
to erstwhile selves and having fallen thus
go now unbidden. Whilst you, young Wm., hailed
Lo! A fraud! A thief! or by some lower
hellish frame have learned that crueler hells
no doubt exist though like the pantheon
as hard to find. The point is, young Wm., you
have no ticket to the pantheon. Get on with it!

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The Curious Cognition of Eddie and the Candlestick

Chess is philosophical in nature
And machine-like in action
And so, a philosophical machine:
A universe, a mind at play;
Each piece, mind-set.

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The board itself is at least a piece—
A piece-supporting piece, you see.
Chessboards behave as minds behave.
Pieces behave as minds behave.
And ideas of mind exist—
Like the be’s and the what’s of the candlestick.

.

And this universe is a mind machine.
Agreed or disagreed—
A universe hangs upon a fabric of still,
Of mind manifest and lightness of will—
All presence sans preference
And essence sans weight.

.

When Eddie moves the candlestick,
Unlike moving a picture upon a wall,
Eddie moves the room with it
And never moves the still at all.

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