Reynolds & Midway XXII.

In the documentary I saw the words—

I forget already, the words I heard were—

I forget, re:Prophets from The Buik;

but there was something else that I was fain

to tell you now that's buried under heapes

of garbage, as at Gehenna, which is what

I thought I so desired to speak of. For of Hell

it most disturbs me, for, from e'en my birth

my fears were of a Hell of sorts, a dark

so dark that not one shred of light wd strike

my eyes, & not my hand before my face:

a child of six or sev'en I stood, my mother's

hand in mine, it could've been my father's,

plumb in a cave, in Southwest U.S.A.,

wherein the guide had plungd us into night

so night-like I had ne'er seen night before,

and queried, whoso wishes the light returne

please raise yr hand, and lo, the only hand

struck-up was yrs, sincerely, so they laughd

at one so dumb & young, or innocent ?

All three, no doubt, a three-in-one:trifecta—

trinity with minor 't', like that

softsoap that claimeth, 3-in-one, & that

snakeoil that offereth daily clarity,

I noticed of an evening: can this be

coincidence & happenstance, I wonderd,

but knew the answer in my latherd loins,

sd Midway, at which saying let us turn

back to the lantern slides: I saw

a man with quhite flanks on a public road

nude as a jaybyrd (naked hast too many),

who was to be the person of Isaiah,

at which point Reynolds clamord: be the Jazers!

forfend such visions, at which time did Midway

rub his chin & recollect his dreams

wich had been full of mony a bare behind

(Imagine me in the forest, with a beare

be-yoind ! The maiden with a bonnet sd

to Benny 'ill, who then screwd up his mug

& brought greate laughter sans an iteration)

not only of the spice & sugar kind,

not only of the waking kind, neither—

but dreams "wrought of volition", as I tappt

in Radcliffe, which was but a theft from Stevens,

one of the first things that I made

in this electric, softer mode: say things

said Midway, for the title "poem" must

be granted by another. Reynolds? No,

an other, not a sprite of thy invention,

thy shameless vanity, thy undead ego,

that stalketh still & loude inside of thee,

sticky w blood & sick, undisciplind flesh.

We made us cigarettes & watchd the screen

and learnd a tittle, which we will forget

despite the notes, despite the copy-pasted

chunks of information, bytes of data

that flow like rhinorrhea, true or false,

and clusterjammd for fingers to unpack

and hopefully unfuck, although our hope

is fading, for the world, both soft & hard,

is festering with minds & tongues that seek

destruction, not enlight'enment, that prefer

a loud guffaw & giggle to a fact,

who hold the truth in somewhat more contempt

than but beneath, scowling & sneering mouths

effeminate, insolent, & whorish-red

with shameless shaming, backwards industrie,

& duncy Alexander Potpourri.

Indeed, we're in a catch, & stuck between

the rock & hard place :seek & ye shall find

or seek & ye shall have the devil's index

+ fuckyou finger clapt inside yr nose

and led whither the Good Lord only knows.

'Tis time to pay attention, tappeth Midway,

and more, & closer. Deep. Be of good cheer

and of good faith, for God will make ye hear

despite yr stubborn creaturely stiff necks.

It hath been written, and will be againe

when you are changed back into elements,

whan that great Conqueror Worm & progenie

make windows in your skull & winde yr bones

in dirt & maggots. Maker of gold & bungholes,

of silver tongues & bullets, Lord of Hosts,

and of the world, Who maketh high the low

& low the high, Whose voice is from the little child

& sage, philosopher and lunatick, from wild

& cultivated, all, from lyon downe to lambe,

He speaketh via signs hid in plain sight, resplendent,

from asse to ant; and so He ruleth man, whose sins

are read, be His ways by the clock, or widdershins,

nathless they werke & are beyond ken, His Iamb

beyond all men, before us, obvious, transcendent.

11.30.13