In not so many words I found my wanting voice warming and calling out to you almost. It was going to say things about blues and greens I think in relation to the sea in relation to your eyes. I might’ve gone there or somewhere near to there if I would’ve kept going. Instead I turned around remembering that beyond description lay not so many words not so many words echoing as kissing cousin to silence. So silence then. So let’s say within silence I kept quiet with words circling hawklike everywhere and I said nothing in so many different ways it was incredible. Because as you know against the raging clamor of silence all phenomena pales when it is your eyes holding my voice hostage.
Everything always going on. People worry about everything not going on but what they’re really saying beneath the waves what they’re subliminally saying and worrying about is them not going on. Everything going on and them not. How to reconcile I not continuing I said and gone. If it feels like the world if ending it is because you are ending. Individual endings magnified to worlds ending. Autumn is a sonata. A soft lisping grave for lost hours. Fall falling is the sense you have when mortality grows magnificently yellow inside you a wistful flare and you ending becomes elegy scaled. Notations at the edge inform you that you will be ending and you ending becomes all ending everything ending. Every generation spells doom differently yet the same. One of the older meanings of apocalypse was revelation. We waiting to be revealed to ourselves as apocalypses unto ourselves. In the dust of lost blue hours we grow silent. As if practicing to be dead. Then we talk and come back to life and the cycle renews with us wondering about everything always going on and everything ending and what is there to do except cherish and bless.
Make the small your domain. Your belfry for lost hours. Within the small words gather to tremble to sublimate to keep solitude company. Also they become cinema in which you are watching words gather to keep solitude company that being the plot you being the watched watching. You wait for the words to become the monologue you will speak you listen to it forming on your lips here it comes—Solitude is the circus from which everyone runs. It is also the nexus toward which all is drawn. You look at the mouth moving and can’t say if you agree or disagree with what it has said but no matter what you think how you feel the voice continues—Solitude is near to god. The lost hours are near to nothing. Between the solitude of near to god and lost hours near to nothing there is a place a space in which you can place yourself. Make the small your domain.
The monologue ends. The film reel if there had been any hisses flaps a snake swallowing a baby bird. You notice you are now near to fading and this gets you wondering about god and solitude and lost hours and when the wondering ends what then.
In the dark I tell myself stories cycling through different guises different spells and guesses to sublimate an existential itch I cannot scratch. In batches the words arrive wingless like immigrants from distant shores. I go there hungover from daily bread to kiss them to issue intimate welcomes. The words gather to form a title aligning a cause Homecoming for Exiles. In the shadows of the words growing nearer to me I suddenly realize I am speechless. I don’t know what or how to say. A silence soul killing not golden. A fuzzy glowing one presently unformed that one day may grow up to become wisteria or adagio flickers and softly lisps Chill the fuck out. I bow down before this wise word this buddha fleabite of lyrical say so. The words a harem of fireflies each light an ember christlike in its fault and burn. In the dark in sync with tiniest flares I tell myself stories carried along by tides and furies of telling to only god knows where or why this longing.
It has been called this mortal longing and we have all hailed there all ached there swearing. Between lisping partitions of rain we seek phantom threads blue gray promising to guide us down unmarked roads to deepening distances. Seeking being the side effect to breathing to nostalgia for living. There is no cause only risk. Only want within rain falling to christen to cherish our defenseless fade.
Here we are hooded in shadows with tigers green fire eyes lighting up new seasons. Tigers green fire eyes the forests of emeralds burning of bedazzlement and jade bewitching. We enter calmly at our own risk. We heard that one of us once lay down with a green fire tiger nuzzling cheek to cheek fur to skin. We suspect that this person’s action was dictated from on high. A call of longing at the mercy of greater symmetries. What happened to that person who lay down with the green fire tiger? No one knows. There are stories. The boy lay down with the tiger nuzzled the tiger for a long time then stopped nuzzling and that is the end of the story. Or the tiger opened wide its green fire eyes wider still and burned the boy into dust into legend. Or the tiger swallowed the boy headfirst. We are not sure if the boy is a boy or if the boy is a girl or man or woman. All we know and eve this we don’t know is that there was a tiger of the green fire kind in a forest with no name of fabled origins. Green fire tigers roam there. If you dream one you’ll know it. We have dreamed many. If one ever speaks to you this means you’ll be leaving the world you’re in. The rare speech of the green fire tiger is a carrier inevitable in its capacity to transport. To hear the green fire tiger speak to you directly is to feel your eyes burn as if an entire forest inside your head is burning down to the ground to clear space for miraculous nuptials to spawn.
We lie here in fields dreaming unseen and fondle ourselves forgetting ourselves. In intermittent flashes elegies come as summons as reminders advertising what it was like to be human whenever that was. What was it like to be human the commonest refrain one voice trailing after another then the next amassing a cortege. Each voice every voice carries within it seeds from great distances. None of us can be seen. Presences felt stirrings resonances in waves of voices drifting veiling overlapping. The waves accumulate tidal asking in white roars and muted grays What was it like to be human. None of us can recollect. Continuity of selves long gone we carry on as messengers allied to moving distances repeating again and again What was it like to be human echoing the call of every and all.
We’ve heard rumors that God doesn’t know he exists. She exists. It. Whatever the gender or genderless you get the picture. God doesn’t know there is such thing as God that he is this thing we call God this blessed hunk of bright rock candy savored by longing mouths. No one told him. She doesn’t know. Someone we don’t know who someone once suggested that it is our duty our sacred task to remind they Hey God you are there you are God this explicit thing we call God that gives us this day and all days our daily lore the core of our be all end all edness. God in his glaring lucid blankness might receive us freely and say There is no God or God who exactly when she feels herself confronted by a roving needy tribunal. This not done out of spite malice ill will or anything of the sort but simply because rapture need not call itself r-a-p-t-u-r-e its voice voices rapture as force not letters spelled nor does long deep sepulchral sorrow go around infatuated with its past and riffing upon its wake as mortuary and phrase. We as selves conscious of ourselves become conscious of God as name God as thing God as yin god as yang God as yo-yo God as bright rock candy from a distant gift shop. Another lost one of us has suggested that even if God were told who she is she woudn’t hear you because God is All Ears not a single set tuned to the specifics of name claiming to be they echoing endlessly. All Ears is mirrorless in its listening. If God wakes up to the glittering hard candy fact that there is a God and she is it then worlds would truly move away from themselves in ways unimaginable. At least this is what was suggested by one of us long since defected now trespassing freely whenever wherever.
You say no more words because it is something to say, a way to get started on using more words to constellate yourself, to orient your innate trembling. Mapless, we wander. To wander, mapless and wordless, what would that be like? Would you improvise by the light of the moon? Here’s another way of looking at it: You are lost in a labyrinth. Would you agree that you are lost in a labyrinth? You pause, consider your situation … yes, I agree that I’m lost in a labyrinth. Okay, so now that lost inside labyrinth has been established as your circumstances, your goal is to find your way out of the labyrinth. The thing is, and this is what you refuse to admit, this the bane of denial—the very words you are using is what the labyrinth is made of. Without the words there is no labyrinth. In other words, no words will save you. Silence is the way out. Silence will destroy the illusion of a labyrinth in which you are trapped, of walls closing in and all that existential jazz. Your greatest fear is the silence. Why? Because, within it, the labyrinth can remain a labyrinth and you can remain trapped, desperate to find your way out. And you can use words, many words, found words, lost words to engineer escape. Beware of metaphors. They will mislead you. Words are not to be trusted. Especially when they band together in groups. They say that in the beginning was the word. But they didn’t finish the true sentence. In the beginning was the Word … and it betrayed silence. Or to remix: In the beginning was the Word, and this was the beginning of fiction.
Born from the long forgotten the golems drift in the company of echoes. Half lit unremembered near to beingness you can hear the golems muttering inaudibly. Their mouths stuffed with wombs dreaming gumming up their enunciation. The words don’t come. Or they come partly formed echoes of long forgotten speech from furthest recesses from distances not yet faced. At cliff’s edges some golems stand considering flight while others wander dumbstruck in a graying limbo always on the cusp of fading out fading in. Christ might have been a golem. Or perhaps after the crisis on Golgotha his golem returned to leave off where mythology began. No one knows. Many unremembered crises become golems. The wombs implanted in the golem mouths are there for dreaming. The womb mouths of the golems gives them creative power perhaps their only power as they bring themselves to life through the dreaming. Through the dreaming the warming and this makes the golems solitude bearable. The dreamless golems become hopelessly bound within their own lost forgotten. Only dreaming can save the long forgotten. Dreams become lighted company in the opaque mirror pool abyss of long forgotten.
John Biscello 