There is something deeply comforting about this, deeply reassuring. Everything rhymes. A universe of correspondences, of sequential richness, metaphysical jazz. It really is a world of poetry. Tuning in to the rhymes and melodies, and giving praise and honoring and playing. You’ve got to be playing. Participation is the key to mystery. To feeling into the mystery, allowing it to hum and hymn inside your bones, to gather inside you in tiny concentric whirlpools.
Everything rhymes. A never-ending stream. Now I know why the writers tried to catch waves in the stream-of-consciousness, why they chased after the shadows of darting minnows.
Sure there might be bigtime ego involved, but one thing doesn’t negate another, its ego plus the fact that there is a trust and belief in the ultimate rhythms and jazz and cosmic waves rolling ceaselessly.
The ocean. The bottomless qualities of the ocean. What if we ever made it to the bottom of the ocean, the very “bottom”, and we found that there is no stopping, there is no bottom to the ocean, no bottoming out, it just goes on and on and deeper into the mystery, or we are taken to another world, another dimension. The ocean, like space, may just go on and on.
At the heart of the deepest ocean, there might just be deeper mystery.
A wondrous endlessness to the whole thing.
Everything rhymes. Stacked layers of rhythms, a structural base of sound, vibrations, patterns, recursion.
Everything touches. There is no actual separation. Separation is an illusion, a con-job. The touching is the truth.
Everything rhymes, everything touches.
The creation of a new mythology. Rooted in most ancient, pagan mythologies.
The re-mythologization of art, return to a state of sacred devotion, the world re-sacralized, and we praising, honoring, playing, engaging.
A felt-sense of the world’s magic, or currents running without pause, a divine seething, a convent of pure feeling for the unseen, for the numinous. A re-spelling, through chants and incantations, to language as a vehicle of sorcery, and you create the world which simultaneously creates you.
Nothing to worry about. No explanations needed.
No dry brittle logic or tortured rationale.
Everything rhymes. A letterless alphabet of sorcery. A hidden lexicon of numinous glyphs. To get there, you must not assemble or contrive or apply boxy logic to a sense of ordered architecture.
No, no, no. What you want to do: hallucinate deeply, and abandon yourself to a state of reverie. It is this state of reverie, this state of longing (for the elusive and inscrutable), this is the sovereign way of the sorcerer and the poet.
To get there, you must be in touch with the blue flame.
From the blue flame, within the blue flame, through the blue flame—sorcery!
Everything rhymes in this letterless alphabet of sorcery, in this bottomless soup of jazz.
Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, spoken word performer, and playwright, John Biscello now lives in Taos, New Mexico. He is the author of three novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, and Nocturne Variations, and a collection of stories, Freeze Tag.
His fiction and poetry has appeared in: Art Times, nthposition, The Wanderlust Review, Ophelia Street, Caper, Polyphony, Dilate, Militant Roger, Chokecherries, Farmhouse, BENT, The 555 Collective, Instigator, Brass Sopaipilla, The Iconoclast, Adobe Walls, Kansas City Voices, and the Tishman Review. His blog--Notes of an Urban Stray--can be read at johnbiscello.blogspot.com. Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year.