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There was a popular movie based on a popular book written by some author, entitled “the Notebook.” The entire movie is structured to give one and only one interesting effect. An old woman with alzeimer’s memory lost is told by a friend a love-story, and she listens in fascination. Finally, at the end of the story, the moment happens, when she realizes that this friend has been telling her their story, that her friend is in fact her husband and lover. The husband also says that he has told her this story before in order to lure her out of her amnesia.
A more interesting effect I hope to someday achieve is this: to tell an interesting story, and for you my loving reader to suddenly realize that I had been describing us the entire time, that I seemed to be playing the grandiose megamaniac, but that I was not describing me, but you, I was describing us.
I coo in your ear, a whisper my admiration. I love you. You are as dear to me as my eyes, as precious as the pupil of my eyes, and you wonder if we could meet, somewhere, sometimes, if I am not already dead, and you lament that you had not met the infamous writer of the infamous book—but listen! You hold me in your hands this very moment. I have put my soul into your hands: I have tasted your breath, I have watched you read me. I have seen it all,not through you, but into you. It is us together, we are it, we are that final thing, we the glorious immortals. If you can read me, let there be no doubt. Either you will see it or you will not. And where you see I am there.
O brothers! O sisters! to you I call in love. I call you as a wife to her lover returning from war. Sprint to me from you armor with your limbs like wind. I have sung lonely songs for you, and counted the echoes. I have drank sighs down with my water, and ate heartache with my bread. What you are I need. I await you as the drought awaits the thunder. Yes I await you, for you I would wait any interval. What matters time with the timeless? What matters price with the priceless? When your time is right I will come to you wherever you are, like Ulysses through the sea––an outgoing and homecoming. I have a will and wont for you. Will carves mountains. Will trenches rivers. When you find that insatiable love, not even depressions will satisfy, nor promises, nor losses, nor dreams, nor fears: the ocean swallows every river and is never full. With your riches in yourself, afford me time. Be not too busy: even the bee is not too busy for her honey. Show me the things I’ve been missing; show me the ways to our home again darling! The joy of you swells in my womb, kicks and is bothered, but the birth is painless, a rejoicing, a release, a revelation. Conceived in torment, labored in joy––how backwards I am! but forward to you. Let us remain devoted from now till our scars become wrinkles. You are so well written. My fingers through your wild hair and you arch your neck. My fingers over your lips and you inhale. My fingers over your navel and you smile. Your breath in my ear is the fullness of life. I strum you like a golden guitar, stroke you like a drifting babe. Let us knot each other, so the farther we are pulled apart, the tighter we tie.
You drape around my neck
Golden guitar
Body sings
From fingers on Her neck.
I smell the coffee grounds
Beneath your fingernails
I smell the fresh cut grass
Behind your ears
Yes my Beatrific anima,
You must forgive my silence:
When I praise any other name,
I praise you through that name.
When I curse any face,
I too curse you.
How did you slip
Like a gift-horse in
So that my selflove
Was thus love of you?
My mirror the face
Of Us.
I who loved self and pen
See you were them.
You incarnate the All
There is no greater Flesh than thee,
O ignorant Goddess
What I know firmly of you
No living soul is permitted to know
Nor you.
I am the world soul—the ego of Man,
I am all eyes.
Of men, none are greater than I:
Fettered but never bettered.
Your innermost center,
Your deepest soul
Lies inside my womb
A child I glimpsed nothing of,
Knew nothing of
(knowing too soon would mortalize it)
Yet today—what word?—suddenly I breathed
The eternal inhale.
My heart swells with your name.
My chest heaves and the repression became epiphany
A Rossetti unlocks the code beneath my lips,
All praise and affection become your inscrutable name:
How my heart is filled with joy! How grand is life, and grandly to be lived!
Beauty: angelic and double soul, greetings my maiden! I write again to affirm and confirm that life is in all ways beautiful, down to her darkest detail and singing through her highest heights and farthest moments! Yes life is in all ways perfect! I haven't the disciple’s kiss for even the tritest moment. Nothing is wasted, nothing is lost. Eros! stir me with your breath, Earth! ground me in your power. We are bound to no cave, staring never at shadows and forms: we are voluptuaries, pressing our flesh. Flesh alone is the fullness of beatitude. There is no heaven without the lust of the flesh. And all hope for heaven is a poverty, for—we—have it! Yes and Vivoce, greatest life, perfect life—I declare you in tragedy too wonderful for words, in ecstasy a height that knows all depth. The crescendo of awakening awaits me. Till I exchange scars for wrinkles, and achieve the white crown of wisdom, I pledge my life nothing less then my all, my full passion, my full heart, my single minded devotion which knows no distraction, becaues for me there is only you, Life. My maiden's soul trembles in anticipation, O gentle life of bliss! O powering overpowering!
Genius, genius, genius!—inspire and instate me. Genius, genius, genius!—you peach bite of lightest joy! I am lightening. I flicker a hundred directions through the sky, finger of Goddess, posterity's darling, laughing hero and dancing child, a flicker a hundred directions through the night, and an exulting explosion through the tree of life. I lust for life.
Finest death! O divinest nothing, a void but not avoided, sought, fondled and frisked. Nothing, loveliest nothing, you are the place and purchase of me, of myself, of my something, my creation. I am a holy womb, birth and infancy, coming and becoming, brilliance and breakthrough. The Goddess sighed a jubilation and I was before her, before my own and with them, a fullness and fulfillment! “Vivoce” was the name pronounced on my birthday, and Innocent was my name. I break every ideal over you like a branch over my knee. Make, make, make—make the world as yourselves.
I am drunk on water, drunk, drunk again on water. I am high on air, the high high air, and drunk, ever so drunk on this crystal sweet water! I am sexed to hell and heaven by the blinking of my eye, sexed and hexed and lovely breasts, my own heartbeat the gasm, my own heartbeat, steady and manic on water, drunk on water. The stars sing for me. Don’t ask me why I tell you. My tongue is loosened by water, by crystal water: I am the sun I am the moon because of the water, my spirit over the water, my spirit is the water. Alalo hoorah saben! On water, even water! The land is delicious, the very dirt, delicious. The air is high, the water toxic, and I eat the dust, eat the rich black earth. The sun shines only for me. Ten billion years practicing only for me: stirring, stirring the air, high on the high air, for me; drunk on water, drunk on blood, orgasm for heartbeats, and the sun shining for me, made for me. Alosha mipalonio, careeshee marrenla. For me, and from me to you.
I: a strange star, paving temples from the bricks of experience, who limbs through the thick of insanity and survives to tell of the other side. AllGoddess, I say: I and MAMA are one.
Would you love life? Come, sip from my flowers: I am abloom with blossoms. I am the eye of my time, the center of this century, the butterfly fanning typhoons with my petal wings. Be not surprised that I know myself. Have you known yourself? If you look in my mirror, you will see for sure. If not, you are akin to my cat, who when I vigorously point at the mouse, instead keeps eyes peeled on my finger.
Cry
I am complete infant
My brow smooth as glass
My body electrified nerves
The butterfly flutters like drums
A pinprick would kill me
My heart fills my whole chest
Warm as a bruise
The mother in you loves me for your breast
The demon in you lusts me for rape
I seek
The child in you.
Apotheosis!
My Self
I am the Father of all gods and men, I the tongue that named all languages; the unutterable word is center of my becoming; none before, none after. My many Sons have filtered through the world: I crucified one, sent another to the asylum, fed another hemlock, let this one die in a woman's arms, buried that one in an unmarked grave: What I give I take back. And even what I give you now for this moment I will take back: Give Life Gratitude!
Logic is the line of my brow, melody the echo of my throat; my right hand is the first six days, my left hand the apocalypse; my tongue is muse, my eyes destiny. My work is axial, the fullness of my being is contained in every moment, until I lay down again in my earth. I am Man, Father of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; I am Man, Father of God.
For you believe in the “Son of God,” good sheep, but now that the Father of God has arrived, you believe not. This is in full keeping.
Thou shall have no God before me—even myself.
I am blitzkreig, the mocking martial, worthy warrior. Do you call me hypocrite? Then also call me hypercrit, I am as critical as your looking glass, rounded and rotundo, I give you my love, and my love may kill you. My mind is the blind that heals.
I sing my songs and live for long creative strokes, broker steals, wending wheels, like a great soul sea loverbite.
I am Michigan, and my hand print is the high five of this nation. I am the Great Lakes, my students the Mississippi. I am daily changing weather, unpredictable and mad; I am sullen with winter and gracious with spring, fly-high summer and painted fail of fall. I am Michigan and live in her diseased Grand Rapids, a city with much potential. I push the broom for her, and take only enough to eat. My greatest works are for myself, and I will not degrade them to the press. My genius is not for sale, but I give it freely to the genius who can read me.
Ah: while you stutter and quote, the universe puts her praise and faith in me. You glare and scoff and say “Never has God spoken for himself,” but here I am and here I speak. My heart is the center of the Sun, my clothing the blondness of the sun’s hair; my praiser and approver is the grand all Matriall.
You are fools if you think God will huff into your heart like a brat on a balloon. Does he struggle to fill you, or does he with a sigh fill you full like a fly-high noon? One touch and you are full day. Believe not the twice-born, thrice-dead Christians who claim God is working on them, and they are yet imperfect mirrors of his glory. Look closer, and then step back. Don’t be hypnotized by the dead. But you, when you say you touch God, do not say it with words and rites. You are the full pheonix, and your every deed, every word, every writing is ash of passion, living to live again.
Stare through the sun’s three veils, into the vowal forms of truth. Eat your fiery word and let its ashes fill your veins. Your saliva ink, your fingers pen. You wear the holy zero on your forehead, blue with a square of fire in the center. This is your fourbrain.
Have you ever noticed the liars recommend you look “within” or “above” for truth, knowing full well you will find as little as they, that they tell you what you should pretend to find? I never looked in me or above me, but only at me, and there I learned all I needed to know.
The kingdom of heaven exists only to the king of heaven—which must be you if it is to exist at all. The kingdom of heaven depends only on you. They say wait for apocalypse, and this “revealing” they define as world destruction! If you are not the second coming in yourself, you are no Christian: you wait in vain.
But we are not Christians or Muslims or anything else, but simply ourselves: Men and Women.
My eye is Cain’s mark: you will forget me and you will not forget me. My tongue is the eternal flame.
Am I cracked? Then my crack is that wrinkle on my brow--------for a mirror so large, you may still see all of heaven and earth, as, indeed, you would see from any other man, as even the dewdrop, without a crack, captures moon and stars in full—yet you see in me more, crack or no, for I am no mere dew drop, but the fullness himself, obilesk, in body and gesture, the higher than sky fullness: blue sky is my Iris, the black sky one of my pupils.
Each mind is a heaven and hell to herself … a universe unto herself. We turn inwards and become a universe: our eternity. Those who are like us attract. If you would spend your eternity with Jesus, you must be Jesus. Would you join Buddha in Nirvana, you must be Buddha. There is no escaping this: you are yourself and must always be yourself. Would you be in the presence of God, you must be God. You cannot gain infinity for nothing. You cannot be forgiven what is part of you. Eternity is the crystallizing of NOW (nothing more, nothing less). You will always be surrounded by likeminded people, and cannot be saved from yourself.
To defeat a Christian you must write gospels. To defeat a Muslim you must write Korans. Its as simple as that: you must write what they love, better than they have received, and thus overcome them through their own beauty.
I am all question marks. I speak in riddles. I interpret the clouds, and consort with sun rays. I speak the hummingbird, and she licks the sweet of my tongue. The bees gather from my hands. The fawn licks my knees. Grass bends from my breath. I give you true clues in false directions. I trifle your heart, and you accept it for a while, until my wind seethes your veil, and you feel shame. What is shame before me? Ha! Have I not invented your nakedness? Shame before me, my own? Do you hide from your mirror as well?
You stubbornly praise me, and your enemies chide you to praise the mother. But this I do not permit. The mother is beyond being praised. Let her praise you: she is great enough for that, being truly All.
I am the Father, Sollus, center and sight of MatriAll, Eternal Man, Daniel, maker of history, forger of languages, begetter of God, sounder of sons, flame winged, earth-treader, tryer of skies and space, fronter of Race, allman, forever child, eye of science and poets way. Give Life Gratitude!
I affirm the great human race. Man for man is all. Mankind, humanity, this is the purpose of purpose, the purpose of values, the locus, source, and meaning of all values. I love humanity and put my energy into his success, his growth, his place in the universe. It is this honesty, this kindness to man because he is man, not because of threat or promise, but because I love mankind in and for itself, that I write and give my writings over to him. My creativity is for myself, and I am part of mankind. My all is for the all of man, my praise is for living in this world, this universe. Thus I am.
I am mankind embodied.
I am Hermes gained the bolts.
People believe for lack of originality. They take a tradition, and justify themselves through it, either as maintainers of a glorious past, or purifiers of a spoiled religion, or experts on the founders’ and first followers’ thoughts. Whatever! Waste of mind, waste of hands.
Which is why my world religion is open ended. I do not close my canon. I am Eastern in this: more may be written.
What I write, my corpus, is collectively called “The All.” I stand entirely for myself. I am not a compiler, I am not a thief, I am not a librarian, I am one man and I am all men: I am Sollus.
Let your yes be both yes and no. Yes implies the no of its opposite, and thus you must resist evil. As Sollus, I love the mouth wide enough to say ALL. Every last fool must be saved for any of us to be saved. I do not say “all is one” without also saying “all is many.” I do not say “all is true,” and deny the false its falseness. I say either or, I say both and, I never contradict myself, I entertain no paradox. Everything is good and some things must die. I recognize the spontaneous choice and the fated perfecting of the Universe. Growth is infinite. I seek one world religion, as well as the flowering of all world religions. They are the many pillars to the One World Religion that stands atop them. I am the eletist of eletists, and this allows me to see the value of even the lowest man. I recognize the three desert tombs, but I will be buried in none of them. Everything I speak of is man.
You could contradict me, but you don’t know how. I am like a religion. Those who get me regard me as obvious. (A religion is systematized importance writ in mythopoetic terms. For the doubters who close their heart to the terms, they regard themselves clever in mocking them. They at least have a spiritual experience in that.)
The All you hold is the collection of my works. Each sentence is a nerve, each punctuation a finger tip, to carress your eyes, to massage your ears.
I require a place of power, my own place in every sense of the word, to write my world religion. Since I see that my project will succeed, I take the most difficult position I can, for the glory of it. I am for the all of mankind, for the all of the human race. I require, therefore, the priveledged place, the highest place, my own place. I require the place of one sometimes insane, but usually sane, poor, but rich in tools, educated, but self-educated, American, yet a black sheep, German, and yet French; law-abider, yet anti-authority; monogamous, yet lusty; I am bipolar, but mostly unipolar; moody yet stable. None of these are paradox. They balance. I seek to be the most hateable thing, the most honest, and I succeed.
Posterity’s Darlings
Take care, Caretakers,
Lying infants, inverts, troverts, and reverts
You slayers of truth
You good trees that bear no bad fruit.
For I warn you of one temptation:
That you speak too soon.
What has the sprout podding?
What the sapling harvest?
What is your wisdom
But a muzzle and a lonely room?
“But I am the greenness of my perfection”
And innocence peeks from your eyes.
Yes, but have not green eyes for your perfection.
Behold, I arm you;
Knives for infants:
1.Rebaptize your darkness as light.
2.Use your judas kiss
No teacher gives omniscience: the student who is student takes it.
3.Burn your photographs
Behold and you are held; become and you shall...
4.Know: perfection is easy
5.Obsess—take my cyclops eye
6.Ask and you shall borrow; create and you shall own.
7.Complexity is superficial; contradiction marks the well.
8. Wisdom rejoices in rebuke.
Do not dissapoint me with a rebukeAjealousAconfusion
9.Devour your halos
Shine from within.
10.A farmer cannot swallow his plough.
ÿ
Perfection Is Easy
www.msu.edu/~junedan
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