come out
of amnesia’s cloud
join the urn singer who turns on a gyre
singing of written bodies not food of worms
dream bodies spinning
finally protest bodies emerge from the documentary she narrates
“What you noticed is young women occupying the street, the site, the library, with defiance. A whole environment fierce in alternative, defiant. occupy you must. Our streets. And the speed at which something is devoured, spits back up although the ethos never changed will teach you how to live in dilemma. We are still a debt culture, but we go underground, let the fickle-of-heart who steal and undermine the occupy meme crash and burn.”
Tahrir still in the urn.
All sites of rite and protest intersect, converge in urn: cave we meet in to plot our revolution, Wall Street, Times Square, Union Square, Brooklyn Bridge, Harlem, Maidan
Performing in a trance of nonbecoming but to be Mostafa’s Egypt dimmed by nonbeing, Thel weeps.
She embodies anutpāda: having no origin, not coming into existence, underlying emptiness quantum sphere of the not-born-yet activist who haunts the marketplace where broken shards disarm the dreamer
Urn singers mount the rim of jar and proclaim their vision.
Inhabit the nightmare. Liberate the nightmare.
Wary to proceed. Way to proceed. Advanced adversarial flashlights shared with other visitors to nascent Offworld, those who are cogent, immigrants, animal mistresses, border-creepers, sundry troopers, and frequent rabbit rescuers. Consider this a holiday package designed by future tourist guardians. And benefits besides in transference, rehabilitation. Mordant proclivities inherited from the colonies. Once in a time they are standing around a large compass and holding its forcefield. But on the other side of dimension, sensitivities have difficult other compasses at the ready. They read the subtle body with impunity. Adversed. Encompassed as a shadow-field might. Tell you where to put your body on the line, dial tremors, the hand that points to the cardinal pouting, bronze girl scout at the ready. I want . . . there. A series of missteps to go into or future masterful arrangements. Thel might not be quite adolescent, nonbody reticence to bleed, that would be anathema to Thel.
Thoroughly attuned nights. Vestals. Way beyond childhood. Gestures indicate desire and not waste time. Identify yourself. I am dithyramb! they shout, back from the dead, power in a chorus: WE WANT . . . WHAT’S THERE. AND TO SHED INNOCENCE. OCCUPY!
What occurs around the perimeter of migrants is uncommon weather, unfathomable suffering. There is activity, as you might expect, in a small depleted village. But also paranoia of factions, carnage, rooted religious neighbor snitching on neighbor, a totalitarian wind blowing from the east. Not enough supplies, airdrops that make no sense. Gray weather is a different province. Yellow weather is not such a good sign or sure. But noxious. A chemical will root you out. It will emit mastodons or rumor so you’d better prepare. Core mastodon belief structure is wanting. Is the coast clear? Out of the cult chambers. Dragons breathe here. Mastodons seem to relate to the equinox, as do elephants. Elephants had hoped to save us. Namaste. Not stardom but peeling of skin, sisters, passing a skull around, caressing it with sinewy trunks. Temperature here is exceptional. Some will avoid injury and thrive, a place of restitution. Gather in field, daughters, to confound becoming-human:
Hatti who loves caves, who sings in caves
Ahhiyawa, an archer of the Future Feminist clan
Lefkandi, Greek agitator, in crisis
Luwian another city dweller, eastern Caucasus
Nydian writes her way out of grief
Elateia wishes to travel with the consciousness of silent things
Hibiscus aspires to take birth in a coil of future feminism
Satella, dancer of radiant tribe
Tekke, who knows how to work the machines
Ambromartyr, tough hybrid sprite
Terrifa, seer and asexual
Anodyne measures herself with healing antidotes
qualities are fixed like epithets
are they chosen?
memories of the virgins from the vales are faint
William Blake did not tell us their names
But only of Thel, a not-stream enterer, the thirteenth fairy, wandering sister. A place of restitution in her demeanor but you may be fooled. She cannot carry us. Although she turns us to ourselves in a self-help way. Is life cheap? Is that the question?
Offworld women smile. Lift the load for greater good. A better form of governance. Temples that make sense, not monolithic eyesores. Chariots and practical urns. Be an urn singer. A place for trees will be set out as you perform. Strive to circle and resist. A place to bury, as you wish, whatever your fancy your praxis your superstition your folly your lineage your dynasty your parentage requires. May it be ritualistic. Utopians of the future: get your grave plot now, good for growing herbs. Tend your ground. A soundless utopia, the phones are silenced in their little beds. Cradles or tombs. Left the new world back to your arms.
Hatti patiently waits with her singing bowls. Circular motifs. Migrant sisters with their plots, planning psychic takeover. A site that indicates global rising.
Magdalene’s myrrh bearers thanked the patronage of apothecaries for obeisance
thanked the glove makers, the perfumeries, the prostitutes—over 201 in number—
and tanners and the like for their service
unapologetic apostola apostolorum
or women of the “alabaster jar” were not excommunicated as they once had been
even though they applied unguents to perfume the flesh in forbidden acts,
fearless in the ruby night
Thel was pale. If things did not grow and die and change we would be stuck in the frame of her eternal dream. How much fun in sighing all the day. A dove’s voice mournful, a lily happy to be rayed in light, a little thing she’s down for, caught in a silver shrine. Worms at the end of each day. Weary of their toil. But who will find her place in this realm of perpetual displacement? Silver too disintegrates and dies.
Why not pass away, cloud, to love and peace and raptures holy and unreasonable, strange weather and a journey again of finding a wise leader. We will answer in due time. Rock out of their cradles perhaps, drop down here on planet and believe you. Respond to your inquisitors who work your question. Hook in, hook up. Work on it. A meek cloud over Blake’s Albion. Wake up, Thel, come occupy.
Compass advocates a kind of mapping still matter-bound, hold awhile and sometimes the interpreter balks. Not a fairy tale but talking about whole communities of resistance. Literary too, ask about the home they live in, unspeakable poverty. Those who rise from dystopia. Why gather around a compass if you are not awry. Why not come to the aid of, why not now compassion. A compass trembles. Have this heart at ready. Occupants of samsara, phenomenal world. Paranormal. All surviving like the delicious elves and fairies in Tír na nÓg. A land of youth. Hidden hills. A meteorological metallurgist seeks out, preys on the fairies’ fear of iron. One who makes wheels and fixes treadmills. Conjures wind machines. Camaraderie to an echolocator, who finds things, dangerous, tracking echoes. Menace to the wee ones. Redefines polar attractions. Fairies inhabit interstices. Angels in the ozone. Parts company. Mutter-ghost. Fix a treadmill. Startle and resist, the executing of wind. Freshens some of our debts. Offworld confirms and appreciates the history of all things relevant to human accomplishment and explanation. Confirms lovers. Without debts, what records? Would not be here without you. In Spanish “to keep legal.” José Martí, Gabriela Mistral, Ruebén Darío, Ernesto Cardenal of revolution claim prophecy could not agree more, navigating arts in childhood in poetry. Everything a scramble, mostly hardscrabble. Long time to consider. Future equinoxes. Forgetting where the moon was putting herself, and in relation to her planets, furtively bringing together in an encompassing charity. A special part of the forest will still be a tremble to some of our sisters. To others make folly and a more peaceful talking down objectified as for the baby seals. Robots for our suffering, but isn’t empathy a good thing? It will be correct. A section of philosopher’s argument was what we had in mind, math wizardry that has its own belief system outside our world. Will propagate. Will join. Will be in ranks of lost empires. Brought to knees. Math couldn’t save us. Who measured this?
WHO MADE THIS CITADEL? I DID. BUT IF YOU FUCK WITH THIS, MY REMNANTS, YOU WILL BE DUST.
Whose message breaks off here . . . arrogance, patriarchy.
Resembling the egoproclamation cuneiform of so-long-ago Nimrud’s rulers. Citadel gone to ruin.
How did the word get out? And out of hand, gone down under its pillagers.
Did you just happen to walk by this pillar of amendment?
And see the sign NOT ENTER HERE? Private property, tear it down!
Contributing a table to a longhouse, filled with little wheels and ducts and trays and receiving accoutrements. Receptacle for true money and symbolic money. A special part of the forest where witches gather. Born of mastectomy. Amazonian in proclivity. We came here surviving the “marks,” the “enhancement days” and drugs, the stencils and amputee reconstruction therapies. Metal workers and plastic workers stand together. Medicine is advancing on you. Kill or cure. Stack it up for the warriors, community wants its book written, the long demise ahead of all this. All this? What. Is documented. In a black hole.
Apocalypse, what’s all this preparation? Your belief system shreds mine, was a message. Some tussle or fair use. Your belief system kills mine. For the writing bodies this is a problem. Charity only visible in hindsight. As dust settles. Mephistopheles says he saw this once and coming. By chance hunting and gathering edible moss. A pact with his own medicine. He ate and dreamt in an alarm. Called in by the curiosity of a possibility. Milked by prophecy. Eternal life. Who would give it you, who leads. Going to flames. An infant martyr?
Already a gathering, a circle of animals mounted by mystical maidens. Why should any clan get abused of notions that abound the gathering. Beware. Were exceptions to how they organize tributes. A consciousness is thinking it over, about entering this worldly realm. Offworld has a solution in prajna power. A race of diminutive little people and their animal attendants driven into hiding by larger invading humans, needs rescue.
Seed the new enhancement colonies? Stay in aporia, abeyance, zoned-out mortal waiting stations, wait your chance to liberate sentient beings. Toss a limb around while you dally, biding time on the charnel ground, the place where life meets death in twilights of mind. Don’t go so dark on me, looking for family connections. Forcing of match-making resumes its odd frequency and forgery. Tangling the hair of sleepers into elflocks is not the only solution. Wear secret clothes inside your own. Dye them green or weave them of living grass. Save water.
Projections in Endtime: Resume your touch, your sense perception of prophecy. How that is examined, explained. Save more water. A child there too, dousing for water. Could be you, waking, waiting for your Locator. To sit around this ephemeral wait station until dawn. An oil drum for light but you see with many eyes as the puppeteer chants parts for the shadows of ghost worlds. One a strong current, feel the others? Of different figuration from yourself. Find your way to your rest station. Out of bounds for martyred, church or temple or shrine. Recompense some of the insurgents, at first reluctant to go there, across a divide. Trace back a history of fleeing persecution, find and found your poetry in a safer land.
Explicitly prying the time machine to activate its mystery again. What is Occult to a machine. It is a cylinder of alphabets, it is a sway of geese treads, it is footprints of every extant and extinct thing. It is fossils, it is memory and rune. It is challenge. It holds mind and indication, it is a swift summation, it is current and not so current, it resides in your breast pocket. It locks you up when you need shelter. It is resilient. Occult is metabolic. It was formed of all children too. To sit around a clearing to make an Offworld, into dawn, into performance. Occult was banned, Occult held hostage, many celebrities of Occult. It is a kind of entrance morphed into a miniseries, into a chamber, into sanctuary, a place tamed the augury, it is a state of mind, it is a dabbling, it is a mystery, it is a hierarchy, it is a respite, it is full of shenanigans, it holds our attention, it is presumptuous, it is accosted with turbans and large rings, it is outside established religious cultures, it is a reaction, it is Antinomian, it is recursive, it is full of spells and curses, it is a metabolism, it sways the hold on either logics. Either / Or. It is irrefutable and it is not. It is not dangerous for you. It is coming your way. As the times get harder the Occult has its day. Weak minds can handle it. Don’t worry. If you worry about Occult you might slip into huckster metabolism. You might walk in you might plunge in you might drown you might be as a weapon is, trigger ready to make assumptions, you have no need of relative proof. You abide in the absolute. The absolute is a mind frame. The absolute costs you. The absolute is a cast of mind. Eternalism or nihilism. Absolute never resolves Occult, merely plays with it. Occult is my own propriety. It is shaping content as we rest here. Utopians had their revivals and witches and herbs.
The Occult was a kind of cutout or intervention in the timetable of awareness practices. You wanted magic out of people, out of the environment. If we could only explain this Occult thing to a child even. Plots of infant redemption. Thel walked here to converse with the resolutions of the Occult and shook her tender head. She cogitated, she sang within her urn.
Thel was a mastery of continuing noncommitted poetics. How to gauge spectacles of the thing itself, composite reality. Chausubles and torches. Miters and crowns. Ways to be purified. Twelve apostles were turned upside down. Occult is for in-dwellers, Paracelsus, Meander. Out of step. Flood or fire, the insurance business model. The leaning-tower events. The burnt-towers events. The falling-down events. The exploded-towers events. They were seen on huge screens everywhere and in all the stadiums. The tower that is a kind of wormhole body for language. Antithesis of one-dimensional seed planting. Slime mold events that turn Occult centuries hence. Clay events will have their day. The mud events with sticks. You take a stick and make circles in the mud the shape of a kidney, then bake it and place it under water, see it dissolve. The talismanic, the efficacious, the burrowing below, the way you might imagine bacteria responding to the telekinesis of your worry and lament. The way Occult shapes policy, who was the nut of a would-be president who consulted oracles, who consulted those who tread the stars? What about the cult of abrasive controlling underwear? What about candidates a long way from their colonies? From Cotton Mather or maybe not so far away from Cotton Mather. Thel would wonder the fuss. Who are these men so big and white with white fluff at the collar, unkempt hair or wig who are they and how do they resemble cloud or clod of clay? Why are their voices never soothing? Occult in the rim of a glass, the way light strikes it making it seem silver and like a wisp of some rarified rainbow that is silver in color only. Or like the line of a cat’s smile. Unborn as a potential child of wonder. A child of illusion. An illusionist because it is the child I try to locate in this. Making the rounds of humans of all times, and their escape and ilk and migrations. And protest. How one could be representing why one might want to get born here. I need to hear the voices of the doomed of the damned of those stuck on this world wheel. Why come back again and again? And the poem. Why not just check out?