To glean, unerringly,
the ripe maternal genius
of soil,
she took lucid stock
of her origins
as a glamorous peasant
from the cursive fiesta
of stars–
Words, as sacrosanct bond,
became her,
if only to negligee
the remote and hidden contours
of her fable unending.
This world,
beyond this world,
splitting into festive atoms,
called upon this woman,
beyond this woman,
to air with no discretion
the favored breath
of blue roses
falling.
Begin at the beginning.
Who am I? Who is the voice asking who am I? Who is the who observing the voice asking who am I? Who is the who eternally taking notes on the who observing the voice who is asking of who exactly who am I?
Abandon yourself with curiosity and zeal to a recursive plunge in Wonderland. Wander. Seek no answers. Make unbridled love to mystery. More than once.
Also:
In the lost country of typewriters,
and heresies of ink,
lived a writer named Clarise,
who, longing to sync
the pulse of God
with sentient spates of text,
broke off
and plunged soulfirst into a wonderland
of intimately recursive lengths.
Here it is, finally.
A séance for the living,
real-time cinema for possessed bones
and sad visionless ghosts,
who are on the cusp of claiming
their spacious reams of empty,
and time-locked vagrancy.
The door behind the door has never existed.
It is a shadow, a tease, a mirage,
a trick of the light.
The way in, doorless, immeasurable.
In this chapter in the book that has gone unread for millennia
(we’re meaning between the lines),
there will appear an ancient-new breed of sorcerers, magicians, mystics, pagans, and witches,
and a summons for the renaissance of the psychic lighthouses
which are seeded in the green-fire country of our hearts.
Do not let the packaging fool you.
Your glyphic bones have flown long distances,
and played dateless concerts in the sky.
When opening your mouth, like so,
you will taste impossibly blue flowers falling out
to anoint secret ceremonies attended
by the world’s lovers and dreamers
of which we have plenty.
And you, you are living mythology,
a blessed paradox
of tensions aligned
to swing and sync
in music never-ending.
This is not a test.
Do yourself a favor:
Burn your old exam papers,
take a hissing blowtorch to the edifices
which falsely coronated the importance of these exams,
or better yet, forget the blowtorch,
the burning, the exams,
forget all of it
and just walk away,
going gently into that good new dawn,
its spawning membered
by your devotion
to the heart’s sired calling.
In this séance for the living,
dream love’s lighted labor
into your breath, and pauses,
and as you approach whatever necessary death awaits,
know that are you not alone,
and your life beyond the flirting veils
is one which demands the tenderest of braveries.
It was in the year _____ that a maskless society ceased to exist. Everyone was issued a mask. All masks were the same. A uniform anonymity, a sea of samefulness, or rather there was only one standard issue mask that came in three different colors. Red, blue or green. The color you were assigned to wear was based on zoning. Your location dictated your color.
When a child was born they had to be registered with the M.O.D. (Masking Ordinance Department) and implants would be surgically merged with the facial pores. If a child wasn’t registered, and the proper authorities found out, the child would be seized and enrolled in what was known as the Nursery. No one knew the location of the Nursery, or much of what happened there, but basically the Nursery children were wards of the government until they were old enough to be released back into society.
If you took your mask off, your facial pores would release an acidic chemical issued from micro-pellets which had been implanted into your face, and you would burn. And keep burning. The scalding would be excruciating, intolerable, and it wouldn’t be long before you put your mask back on, which would defuse the acid. The temptation of mask-removal had been the cause of many disfigurements, which of course remained hidden from public view. No one saw the wounds beneath the mask, no one played screaming mirror anymore to someone else’s unverified crises. Points of reflection had diminished in stature and vocabulary.
Signs were posted everywhere, rectangular slabs of mildly glowing metal that warned in red lettering—DEMASKING IS A CRIME
Wendigo-psychosis: A culture-specific disorder, which entails an intense craving for human flesh and fear of becoming a cannibal. In some indigenous cultures, environmental destruction and insatiable greed are seen as manifestations of Wendigo psychosis.
I recalled what Mack had said about New York having a wendigo spirit all its own. In extending that concept, or widening its umbrella, you might say that Wendigo-psychosis was the corrosive rot at the foundational base of American culture and society. That progress was nothing more than progressive illness and spiritual deterioration. The wendigo was not just some horrific, ice-hearted creature that stalked winter woods of the north, but a poison and virus that circulated freely beyond the parameters of its designated geography. And carried people into the dark inner sanctum of their own lonely winter woods.
You, Viola, hadn’t believed in love at first sight until you met Evie. Yet it wasn’t just love at first sight, was it?
It was love at first sound, love at first gesture. At the dress rehearsal, you saw her and heard her and watched her—something in you began a wordless plunging backward, a deviation from orbit, or perhaps you were moved to a new kind of running and you wanted to catch up and flesh everything out with volume and nearness, tease it with breath and order.
You, Viola, were immediately lovesick like a schoolgirl. You had never, not once, been lovesick like a schoolgirl before. You, Viola, had never experienced this intensity of craving for another human being. There had been dalliances, romantic affairs ranging from lukewarm to indifferent, but never a bright flame, never Salome and her instant cinema flickering warmly in the shadows.
She stood on the podium, beaming, and began waving to everyone in slow motion. Her hand glided right to left, left to right, a panoramic benediction that didn’t miss a single soul. The bouquet tucked near her bosom exuded a powerful, fragrant scent, as if its perfume were being piped in from ventilators.
The spotlight enclosing Clarisse in a gilded aura grew brighter and fuzzier, and brighter and fuzzier still, and soon my eyes were watery and burning. I shut my eyes. Opened them. It was dark. A warm, panting dark that smelled of wet rubber. I was planted in a cushy cloud of a lap, and I couldn’t tell if I were looking up or down.
Come on now, pop it into your mouth, a moist voice urged.
I groped in the dark, and found Clarisse’s nipple. I closed my lips around it. It was coarse and gummy. Tiny hairs pinched my tongue. I sucked and sucked on that nipple until there were stars in my eyes and everything felt near to ending
John Biscello 