Monday, September 15, 2014

holding the cup and sensing its future breaking, a time fractal of holding and love in three parts that is also infinity and also nothing/the initiating perturbation from the quantum plenum

0 (which is also a infinity and nothing, the pearl of possibility breaking open from the quantum plenum)
imagine this is in the middle and everything comes out from here the decentered/center. there is a call for an article about love but that just gives me a mental hiccup

a mental hiccup spiral ing out from there a mental hiccup starting again there is no love in all those words could there be, an academic article about love? there could be no love, could there, in things where i have to cite others to have a thought- what if instead each citation were a mycelial tendril? what if i were touching, grooming, photophilically tenderly mycelially like a mycorrhizal networkly reaching out and praising through who i was whoing? i feel quelled by the need to get a job, by how i might be inspected online and found too weird creative or wanting -- that is the danger with names, with wanting to be transparent but really being broken shards of broken cups that can't carry water anymore

i can sense the future breaking of this ceramic (temporary wholeness) in my hand, in this way i am also touching the big bang and also nuclear fission/fusion i always get confused which one, wait should i look that up on wikipedia or keep typing? if this is the igniting wick of a word explosion, i should continue making smoke, burning up my body in the transmutation to prayers. somehow it all blows to nothing, to cosmic grit, to the the dark, immersive, generous 97% dark energy of all creation, the gentle, sweet, generative depths from which all arises and returns - but wait, i can't s/end this in a tidy way, the great making and the great unmaking are already simultaneously arising, erasing each other, just as the leaves here are curling and coiling in on themselves, sucking back their chloroplasts chlorophyll, that's what autumn really is: not green. what's left over when the life coils back into the mother trunk; this is not really fractal enough but me thinking that makes it more so, where will we end // end/begin // begin? just as the initial perturbation in the complex multiverse flex and fold-sing-being. let me be a bee traveling in space-time, on the currents of galactic wind and pollinate constellations to form a kind of dark energy honey in the hives of all creation, just so, at the zero point, returning to the end to rill out again, a flower flexi-folding, in bursts of unspeakable color before words and after, just so, just so, just so BURST


  1. Jumpin' Jimminy, Scooter! That's amazing. I'm used to your stuff going farther than I expect, but that title let me think the scope would be much more earthy until in stanza/paragraph two (even one) you began throwing words I don't know, which put me in a sort of trance. Pushing through "mycelial," assuming I might not really need to decode it on the first read, I began to get really swung by these ideas: "could there be an academic article about love," which had me thinking exactly where you went next, so that we minds got there together in this strange temporal collapse of poetry: all this about citation needed to be considered serious or - what - allowed.

    I am pitching a piece about a cummings poem to Oakland's "Nerd Nite" and being asked to make it more academic, to cite sources instead of just talking about all that I've discovered in the cummings poem over the course of my lifetime. Why? Are my thoughts too original to be bona fide?

    And then this danger of names - and how you then transcend that into the amazing third paragraph, cosmos-tripping un-neatly. I found the end of your poem with a sense of comfort, or transcendence, returning me to love: the broken mug, the too-personal facebook post, the academic hoop jump don't really have much import. It's doing what you love.

    Which is only one part of where this poem finishes for me. I really love its complexity and (what impresses me as) its hectic pace. I like its rawness.

  2. thanks for your thoughtful revery... for your Oakland gig,
    check this out daniel - an alternate form with poetry first and footnotes of the academic burbling below... scroll of the most brilliant writers alive, ALEXIS PAULINE GUMBS

    this is what it sounds like
    (an ecological approach)