Sun Ra’s “This Planet is Doomed”: The Galactic Redaction

February 8, 2012

material void!
vacuumatron of Earth
a negative hole.

rash planet of war,
isolated from cosmic
spheres, chained to famine.

hideous parrot
idol—the only law is
love for salvation.

bleached skeleton, bones
stupid in the sand of a
dehydrated brain.

synchronization
of shadows to authorized
reality: death.

. . .

let me synchronize
super-lightning seers with the
thunder art of time.

footsteps pattering
upon the rim on the edge
of the in-between,

the pioneering
mind, evolution of the
crystal sound herald:

chaos is music,
invisible light, music,
silence is music,

pivoting planes of
harmonious peace, music,
a vibrating fire.

circumtropical
sense creation is a form
of intuition;

you will recognize
the retromental spirit—
blue metathesis.

if you limit, if
you reject, pure music is
your nemesis field.

spiraled parallels—
pure sound, the living mirror
of the universe.

quiet, vigilant
silence, intuitional
intuition, from

the decision code
of the cosmo-usual
to the outer planes

of is-ness, sees the
solemn riddle, the cache of
the untuned double

beast, acoustics of
not-ness, density of the
hyperprism, hyper-

density of the
isotropic bounce
on a dimension

of infinite-dark
vibratory sun ratios.
the atmosphere is

a coplanar bridge
axis, an intermix of
rotating orbits.

tomorrow’s realm—light
years’ journey to a new shore,
world of abstract dreams.

http://nortonrecords.com/kicksbooks/sunra.php

Bukowski’s Last Poem (and First Fax)

January 25, 2012

Oh, forgive me, for
whom the bells bend. I forgive
you, walking in the

water. Forgive me,
O Lord, who was in the old
shoe, small. Oh, forgive

me in the middle
of the mountains from the voice
of the day and night,

speechless death. Forgive
me the leopard who died last,
large. Oh, let me sink

all the fleets, armies
defeated. The first poem
fax, this: add to cart.

[via French-Galician-Dutch-Filipino-Latin-Welsh, Google translator]

http://www.booktryst.com/2011/03/charles-bukowskis-last-unpublished-poem.html

Jorge Luis Borges

January 3, 2012

***************

The central problem
of reality is the
sand of memory

***************

Democracy is
an incomprehensible
series of effects

***************

Immortality
is a fight between two bald
men over a comb

***************

To die for art is
easier than to live for
God the destroyer

***************

A translation is
truth in the divine language
of uncertainty

***************

The empire of love
is built on a river of
resigned solitude

***************

Life itself is a
quotation that corrupts life’s
quotation itself

***************

Causality is
a dream that suppresses the
fact of Paradise

***************

The future devours
posterity; it is an
ignorant tiger

***************

Religion is the
coronation of the sphere
of the infinite

***************

There is a single
moment in which one finds out:
time can’t be measured

***************

“Abomunist Manifesto” Remanifested

December 29, 2011

Abomunist Expression

Take hands and feet and
something abomunist, or
spit’s about the same.

Frink abomunist
poetry, drawing, photos,
unemployment and

the abomunist
Prime Minister. Countries risk
real-time, ready-

to-drink death, nation
of abomunists who feel
American pain,

BOLI pain.
If you’re in Abomunist
Square, the exception

is a rectangle.
If you want to display talk
using only a

newspaper, read with
abomunibility.
$50 is

an abomunist
debt. Solve problems and write your
own money, not for

more money, for the
abomunist Catholic
fanaticism of

what are just dreams set
Protestant true. The think-Pope
is a candidate

for think-President,
fosters poet children who
believe that the new

literature builds
printism abomunibly—
abomunists of

write-foot, published by
outdated restrictions. Such
artists desire to

communicate but
read dentistry files at home,
in unmarried house

of mother’s mother.
Insane sanitariums,
university

prisons, USO
kindergartens and county
canteens—get ready

for abomunist
preservatives—compromised
rejectionary

philosophy of
abomunist everything
but snowman water.

[via Japanese-Latvian-Norwegian-Polish-Vietnamese, Bing translator]

Whitman Assemblage #1

December 19, 2011

A Lincoln Elegy

sorrow strikes something
deep down in melancholy
dismal tears. heavy‑

hearted funeral
rites, black-bemoaned mourning, sobs
sunk in sighing and

silence. pitiful
violent lamentation.
loud weeping bewails

weeping’s lament of
weeping. depression deplores
anguish, deplores the

deep-grieved regret of
pain of mind, passionate pain,
regret afflicted

with tender-hearted,
moving compassion. downcast
sympathy casts sad

obscurity, the
gloom of midnight, a sad shades’
gloomy tenderness,

full of pity. soul-
wept dejection, cloudiness,
grief-heavy total

darkness, serious
gloom of a partial forest.
the cloudy of mind

sunk in mind-gloom, the
night’s somber affliction mourns
burdensome distress.

extreme anguish of
body, extreme anguish of
mind. harassed by the

silent Almighty,
weighed down by torture, humble
suffering, dull shades

of deep prostration,
loud, oppressive misery,
plaintive disaster,

a calamity
of trouble and affliction,
a mournful wailing

of calamity.
distressing humility—
mute grief, eloquent.

http://www.listsofnote.com/2011/12/eloquent-silence.html

Mario Savio Assemblage #1

November 30, 2011

The Conscience of Kierkegaard

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is replaceable.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is irrelevant.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is impossible.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is contradiction.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is autocracy.

This is not that time.
This is the time of extreme
moral paradise,

the court of vast last
resort, when the chrome-plated
levers in the bleak

machine stop in a
wasteland of abridgment, sick
with dissenting stars.

Jean Dubuffet

November 18, 2011

***************

Art is an orgy
of chameleons huge with
monkey dementia

***************

Art is the highest
degree of normal—super
normal, which is mad

***************

Art is plunged in snow
like the unlimited steppes
of delirium

***************

Art is anything
that the commissioner of
police says it’s not

***************

Art is anything
that the commissioner of
police says it is

***************

Art is art as long
as it isn’t grasped by man’s
raw smitten fingers

***************

Art is not in bed
with the State; it sleeps naked
in the dirt with roots

***************

Art is mimesis.
Art is mimesis. Art is
mimesis. Art is . . .

***************

Art is contrary.
Art is homogeneous.
Art forgets itself.

***************

Art is afraid of
extinction—but it scorns all
continuity

***************

Art is painting but
painting is not art; painting
is mood carpeting

***************

Art is dirt in the
service of rubbish; art is
fashionable mud

***************

Art participates
in the creative process
by not being love

***************

“The Soft Machine” Machined #2

November 13, 2011

repatriated
by grey strata of subways—
terminal postcard

rotting in ozone
chrysalis—sun stuttering
in all-night purple

cafeterias—
smell of cobra jazz covered
in iron heart of

goof ball sleep—rasp of
green slimy iridescent
shit rubbing on flesh

somewhere in the cold
mouth of heavy knife time—boy
torch moving, rusty

lamp, tongue terms—round disk
of morphine, script gristle in
rooming house bathtub—

shrinking bread over
lagoon of old saliva—
village of built racks

“The Soft Machine” Machined #1

October 30, 2011

obsidian pink
of the fish city—spectral
palaces of cold

blue fluid heavy
as word dust stacked like lust in
shuttered silence—we

came out of the mud
in blue image forever
trailing patterns of

demagnetized glooms
from carnival rooms splintered
in rotting orgasm—

we all live in the
fish city—dead postcard of
a place forgotten—

muttering burlap
music, addicts waiting in
the vines—blue addicts

in the attic of
crystal birdcalls—the city
from when we had names

Luis Buñuel

October 25, 2011

***************

Somewhere between chance
and mystery lies the grave
seduction of smoke

***************

Truth doesn’t matter . . .
A daily cocktail of truth
cannot change the world

***************

What is lovelier
than life without memory?
Amnesia is God!

***************

A paranoiac
imagination is the
freedom of poets

***************

Why can’t the Devil
in all His luminousness
make me his consort?

***************

When you’re naked, age
matters; when you’re in the grave,
age doesn’t matter

***************

Fortunately, an
exquisite sense of horror
protects me from life

***************

Oppression of love:
essential spurt of reason,
then bitter regret

***************

For a writer, the
margin of conformity
tastes of word torture

***************

Alfred North Whitehead

October 6, 2011

***************

Religion will not
regain its old power till
we pray to Science

***************

Abstinence is not
simplicity; abstinence
is the death of God

***************

Civilization
advances by extending
its distrust of art

***************

The human body
is an instrument for the
production of vice

***************

To make the past live
we must perceive it as the
eternal present

***************

There are billions of
molecules in the human
soul—they dance like fish

***************

Ninety percent of
life is pain; the rest is Christ
nailed to a cheap cross

***************

Immortality
is the everlasting search
for anesthesia

***************

Of what value is
the attainment of knowledge
if you have no mind?

***************

Solitariness
is a bagatelle; being
alone is pure zest

***************

Amid the flux, there
is something that survives: the
need for a large truck

***************

Put your brain in cold
storage; thinking is merely
abstract inference

***************

The Circle With a Hole in the Middle

September 21, 2011

America is
a crisis of now, empty
fiction of shadow

dreams, museum of
broken forms. Tomorrow is
unprecedented

X—science and art,
the virgin twins, foxholed in
golden skies of love.

America is
a caravan of crazy,
a century of

something else, something
in the shape of a question,
but not our question,

something in the shape
of change, friends, but not our change,
a thing whose grammar

is not human, whose
tone is the tenor of time
as a thing that keeps

a record of things,
things to come. A design call
for the body, the

head, a prime design
for time, for women, for Man,
for the hidden three . . .

For the rare music
of improvisers, meta-
language of free sound

in a suite dancing
naked in the hall with all
the neighbors, colors

dialing feelings,
an evening song opening
the town like beauty.

[assemblage composed of words from Ornette Coleman LP titles]

Meister Eckhart

September 5, 2011

***************

He who would be pure
must be transformed by the light
of a thousand books

***************

When God called at home
I had gone out for a walk . . .
Thwarted by action!

***************

A serene person
needs but one thing: the thick hide
of a simple ox

***************

I am secure in
the knowledge that God cannot
see my puny soul

***************

He who has mastered
detachment is the hinge on
the door of sorrow

***************

Contemplation of
the Eternal Birth will plant
you in the hard ground

***************

There exists only
yesterday—tomorrow was
many years ago

***************

God expects but one
thing of you—thank Him that you
know not what it is

***************

A thousand years hence
the eye of creation will
see only darkness

***************

The knower is a
creature whose heart is empty
of all compassion

***************

André Breton

August 18, 2011

***************

Leave your memory.
Leave your future. But never
leave your Dada road.

***************

Love is when you meet
someone who tells you love is
imaginary

***************

To see art, to hear
art means nothing . . . To write art
is worth even less

***************

Convulsive desire
produces contradictions
hidden in doomed words

***************

In the world we live
in children will never have
to happen again

***************

The exaltation
of beauty is a fleeting
moment of dream death

***************

Dalí’s the plaything
of incommunicable
despairing freedom

***************

Between virtue and
vice is the shadow of a
fear I cannot name

***************

The past hesitates
like an affair of the heart
itself forgotten

***************

My wife has ceased to
be a waking event . . . She
renounces substance

***************

The Books’ “Free Translator” Retranslated

July 26, 2011

One can see the boy
and girl control when I know
the patient’s shape, the

patient’s movement—the
day two years on, the wind, the
mouth at risk, walking,

chewing gum. Like a
black dog in the snow of an
easy sleep, I can’t

believe my eyes, my
pen a new friend to record
the hole of Adam.

Symmetric mouth and
high-speed legs, Knee-Dummies brand,
it’s a lift-up just

to count the dollars
again. The dead numbers may
not be counted. Keep

the nose and go back
to easy sleep in the hole,
my new friend. I can’t

believe your eyes and
I can’t believe my pen. A
storm girl’s solar jot,

a Lula bag of
meteorology and
raccoon hats. Plants are

speaking. They speak plant,
speaking carefully to the
sewage system tree.

[via Latvian-Italian-Portuguese-Turkish, Bing translator]

Picasso

July 24, 2011

***************

The chief enemy
of truth is the harmony
of the beautiful

***************

My mother sings like
an alarm clock . . . She’s the egg
of sterility

***************

I have removed all
traces of reality
from my diary

***************

If the Pope were a
Minotaur I would be a
monk-soldier of love

***************

There are only two
types of women: the mirror
and the photograph

***************

Everything is a
museum, and everything
is in the canon

***************

What is a cat? The
elimination of the
unnecessary

***************

Children are useless . . .
The problem is where to put
them when they grow up

***************

The truth is a lump
of sugar that dissolves in
the bath of old age

***************

When you’re willing to
die today you can put off
life till tomorrow

***************