Monkeys

Monkeys in a dark room, the darkness reeking of lice and mold, the only light coming from the beaconing cherry glow of the cigarettes sticking out of the monkeys’ humpty-hump mouths, typewriters thrill the silence with cacophonous clacking, each and every monkey is each and every other monkey, that is they are working as hive organism, collective and creative tribe to write Hamlet, or something Hamlet-like, could be Hamnet, could be Hamlet in Oz, could be Ham on Rye, they will keep banging away on their instruments until a tinny bell rings (a jingle of a bell you might find in the opening/closing aria of a door in an old-fashioned diner), when the bell rings the monkeys will stop typing and a man wearing an oversized pinata of a parakeet head and a pearl-gray suit and dark tie will come and collect the pages, take them away to a cloistered space, sift through the material, and try to organize the fragments into Hamlet or something Hamlet-like. The monkeys never leave the room. They smoke incessantly (their supply of cigarettes endless). Their shadows have become them, and they have become other in merging with these shadows, their own and others. Several of the monkeys wear hats, but that’s neither here nor there. They wear hats because it gives them a sense of time, place, fashion, and it goes with the typewriters and cigarettes. These monkeys only exist, it seems, because people keep asking—Did you hear the one about monkeys in a room producing Hamlet on typewriters? Some theoretical speculations, when lasting and repeatable, grow limbs, fur, and theoretical offspring closely resembling their parents blank faces.

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Slow Burn

Slow burn opens us up to possibilities. It is a birthing method. Slow burn brings with it the feels and the feels sets off vibrato trembles in our bones and deepdown. We bugleforth blessings. A long sentence begets slow burn. Nights dreaming of other nights equates to slow burn. That girl from childhood, that jelly-floating avatar of innocence and ouch … slow burn. Slow burn can give you the keys to both arson and fire-channeling. Arson is when you are amateur, immature, out of control, or have not yet developed control. Fire-channeling is on the road to mastery. It is when the Fool and the Magician merge hospitably and fluently.

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Lost and Found

Who lost, what found? What lost, who found?

The world is an endless complex of lost and found. You lose dead skin. Hair follicles take to the sky in ghostly wisps. You excrete today’s breakfast, you ingest animal fat and spirulina at lunch, voyages are undertaken on inspired whims. Where are you going? Why? Apparently it’s to learn. It is to expand. It is to lose oneself in unexpected scenarios, facades, and strangers’ lives swaddling yours like thrift store blankets. You find strangers. You become lovers. You lose yourself in a stranger-lover, you burn calories (they are lost) when engaging flesh to flesh with the stranger-lover, and two days come and go, and you are gone, the stranger’s gone, loss becomes the storyline, that’s how you find a new storyline in which to lose yourself related to loss. This is the way of the world, the simulcast walkabout of being. We traffic in way stations of lost and found. Gone today, here tomorrow. Like that.

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Here and There

I am here while I went there. Both things are true. Physically you walked to a place, a tangible and specific location, while mentally and psychically you went elsewhere, you traveled to a different, phantasmal, non-location. You can be in two places at the same time. Or three. Or four. It is a matter of, a) splitting off and trusting your multi-dimensional capacity for defection, and, b) embracing proliferation as both travel guide and modes of departure. The expanded perspective and widening umbrella of simultaneity. A pilgrim’s progress measured in streams not miles. A pilgrim’s progress measured in modes not miles. You really are a moveable feast of varying perspectives and multi-dimensional flair. Once you own this, you will travel here, there, everywhere with alternative roads less traveled consolidated into a single dependable path.

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Bough

At day’s end,

the bough breaks,

the cradle falls,

the songbird returns,

and the dreamer watches it all

spiring in neutral.

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Morph

His name is Morph because he is always changing.

Her name is Morph because … see above.

We are all changelings, all in a state of perpetual morph, that word clipped and pruned from metamorphosis. Morph as in we are trains shuttling through tunnels and across countrysides and regions, the scenery always changing—with each changed scene, with every revolved moment we becoming new, we morphing, we animation never suspended, it is a fusion, an interplay, a jitterbugging dance between cells and atoms, patterns and mosaics emerging, plates shifting. We cannot not be revolutionary. It is not possible. Morph is written into our genes, inscribed as eternal signature.

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Bodyscript

Body be thy name as prayer made flesh. As prayer marry flesh. Flesh-prayer reaped in daily chronicles of sunlight, flesh exhales us into hospitable swaths and regions of dark, flesh as the ultimate wheelbarrow, sturdy and stable. Until it is not. Tissue withers and disintegrates. Organs go to pot. Flesh becomes homemade religion in ruins, yet remaining sacred in its dismissal and erosion. Process is change. Is the set of keys you are always being given whether you take them or not. Once accepted, these become the keys to the kingdom. Flesh cries out in wolfish hunger for other flesh, for additional flesh in which to bury, mantle, and merge. Flesh cries out like a newborn with high noon sun peppering its skin, as it toddles dumbly through the world with placeless wonder at its core. Flesh and body be thy conjoined name and signature, a prayer made animate for a limited breadth of time.

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In Praise of Abstraction

Abstraction is essential. It is a key tenet and cog in mapless wayfaring. The compass by which we’ve calculated starstuff as sacral molten matter in our dream-stream and slow burn. It is Romanticism caped under a lemon parasol with Impressionism stealing fugitive kisses which stimulate rosy blushes amidst the ceremony of grass. Abstraction is the ceremony of grass collecting quicksilver dewdrops and sending them back to the clouds like confetti manna in lusty reverse. Abstraction taps you on the shoulder when you least expect it. Or tips you off to a movement in time yet to arrive. Abstraction is essential in its functions as adhesive, ponderance, gloss, sailor, pantomime, and softly singing pollen. It comes in many forms though its base existence is ghost-feed and formless. You will never find abstraction in the dictionary. Only feeble and impoverished definitions, none accurately classing or having anything to do with abstraction as commonest gospel to liminal groove.

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Flight Patterns

A flight of stairs, a flight of birds, a flight of fancy … fly into a bar and the barkeep asks—Which one of you is the fastest? No one answered. They were, in essence, conceptual. Conceptual kin. Three different ways of flying. Do the stairs and birds and fancy see themselves as kindred spirits, as relations, due to their shared “flights?” Upon scrutiny and philosophical consideration, you could say the birds are the realest of the three. The birds with their tiny beating hearts and feathery warmth and offspring. The stairs would be second in that they are solid, dependable, tangible. Fancy is an etheric and abstract term, a sliver of the immaterial, and so that would qualify as the least realistic of the three, yet … does not a flight of fancy promote winged and stair-like excursions to things and places that very muchunder the legislative purview: real. Are ideas real? A different kind of real, a dreaming-real, do ideas possess their own dream-life, carry implicitly within them hopes and aspirations to grow and materialize into something, the journey from placeless place to location, form and zone, ideas requiring attentive and engaged nurturance and caretaking? A flight of stairs, a flight of birds, and a flight of fancy are, in essence, the conceptual progeny of a mother-noun: flight. If called flighty stairs, flighty birds, flighty fancy, they would be adjectival kin. If classed flying stairs, flying birds, flying fancy, they would be verb cousins. Language is bond and adhesive. It is also qualifier, co-conspirator, and progenitor when it comes to raising and defining reality.

A flight of stairs, a flight of birds, and a flight of fancy fly into a bar and the bartender asks—Would you like a round of drinks, a round ball, or a round of golf?

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Company

Out of the deeply forested genus and enclosure,

scotophobic—fear of the dark—

emerges the rawest most primal material

from which stories are called and founded,

blackly lacquered honey

staccato in its slow-drip molasses and narcotic salve,

keeping us calm archival company

through distress-signals

flooded and fired within.

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