Logical Unsanity

I will establish a savage; Man will be his name
Blood I will mass, and cover bones to be.
Verily, savage-man I will create.
He will be charged with the service of the Gods
that they might be at ease.
-Enuma Elish (Sumerian Creation Myth)

Back in the days after the Creator Gods had biologically engineered human primates to turn them into a work force, then abandoned the planet when the mines ran out, two other groups of ET’s, both descendants of the Olde Gods, began to argue about their responsibility to the abandoned native life forms. The highly individualistic Sirians, who took their role as teachers seriously (or, Sirius-ly), felt the humans should be offered instruction if they asked, but otherwise allowed to work out their own destinies. Sink or swim. Live or die. Survive or turn the planet over to whatever more competent species of predator might replace them.

The Pleiadians (Play-Aid-ians), who were somewhat more compassionate, cuddily, and community-oriented, insisted on a more protective approach. They wanted to gather the bewildered bipeds up into guarded rural enclaves, which they called Gaurd Dens, of which there were to be 5: A-Den, B-Den, C-Den, D-Den and the largest, E-Den. The humans would have their memories erased to protect them from the horrors of the past. They would live in a Zen-like state of innocence and be called Den-E-Zens of PlAN NET URTH (URTH U R THe ones you are) Unaware of the passage of time, they would be, in effect, I-Mortals. And, as the saying goes, live “happily ever after”. Though of course, “after” would have no meaning for them, nor would “before”. That is, they would not be for or against anything or anyone. And so would continue in perfect, if also perfectly blank, bliss and tranquility.
Read on »

THE UNIVERSE WANTS TO PLAY. Those who refuse out of dry spiritual greed & choose pure contemplation forfeit their humanity–those who refuse out of dull anguish, those who hesitate, lose their chance at divinity–those who mold themselves blind masks of Ideas & thrash around seeking some proof of their own solidity end by seeing out of dead men’s eyes.

Sorcery: the systematic cultivation of enhanced consciousness or non-ordinary awareness & its deployment in the world of deeds & objects to bring about desired results.

The incremental openings of perception gradually banish the false selves, our cacophonous ghosts–the “black magic” of envy & vendetta backfires because Desire cannot be forced. Where our knowledge of beauty harmonizes with the ludus naturae, sorcery begins.
Read on »

As the season turns a door opens,
past and future
meeting in the eternal present.

We are complete in our cycles, spring
following winter, summer before autumn. Buried under concrete
or drowned in a million video feeds, the year’s clock
is still our own, the salt in our blood thundering withthe flood of
ancient waves.

We swell and shrink with the moon’s tides.

The past is here, now, in this moment, hidden deep inside
where we find the secret life our ancestors,
trilobites and shrews and bright-eyed lemurs, carved into our souls.
We are the painted animals the shamans sealed in the deep caves. Our thoughts
still linger in those places, where humans once wore a different face.
Read on »

make this bed big
make it so i can
actually get lost in it
not just figuratively
not just in a dream

make it so you
follow me, so that
you try and run after
me, make it so you
can only catch me
if i want you to

and make it so when
i tell myself to wake
up, i do.

but first, make this bed
big like a forest, like a
skyscraper, like a sky
scraper forest, like a forest
full of skyscrapers, so that
waking would be, just the
same as dreaming, and i
would not feel so bad
when i’m missing out
on either

because big kids need crayons too.

and bouncy balls and ice-cream and skipping ropes and teddy bears and coloured band-aids and trampolines and hiding places and favourite things and favourite people.

and not everything is about sex, in an everything-is-really-about-sex-kind of way

1.

Coyote country.
The nearby swamp eco-system goes down blazing with ignus fatui.
In the fields of chaos, in the land of awful shadow,
in a dream within a dream,
guardians of as-yet-undiscovered astral treasures
camera-eye the six-sheeters,
while nameless Americans take
the fall for paper-hanging scams,
and for faulty visions, and unregistered artillery.
The son of the widow crowds the mourners for a glimpse of the great mutation. -
No one is surprised when he spits up something he never Swallowed.
Where art is wanting, beasts are superior.
My sources tell me there are radios and chemistry sets
hidden in the ancient songs – rabbit-holes and wardrobes
folding in phase space.
I, your reporter, an artist with my familiars,
stand here scanning invisible landscapes,
watching an atavistic alphabet in action.
Call this place Coyote Country. Read on »