Monday, November 30, 2015


allay 177: time and eternity


Eternity is the amplitude of time. We will always exist in time, for this is consciousness, consciousness is time – mind is time, is many time frames all at once. And yet the heart is eternal. Necessity – the name, the self, the spark we are—is eternal, and conscious mind temporal, mortal, dying and living, free. Per the eternal recurrence, everything that happens to us, and everything we make happen, happens forever. Especially poignant are the circumstances surrounding our birth and death, and yet the whole mess matters.


Seasons, holidays, climate, weather, history, contemporary issues, news stories, the happenings of friends, all structure our situation. Mirror meditation, the position Mattriama took at time zero, when she differentiated herself into Mattria and Ama, is the askesis, the basis for controlling time. Meaning is the substance. Mirror meditation is the reflecting on meaning, structurating time.


In any lyric poem or 4 minute song there may be one trope that justifies the entire piece, that everything exists to put forth and make prominent, the soul of the poem, the dimple in the cheek, the spark in the eye. So each of us in our lives has a moment of glory, the anecdote the world remembers, and the rest, all the complexity, exists for that.


Structurally, we live in the logosphere of pure atomic ideas. The mythosphere of desire comes from this chaos, is the eros, the god of beauty, that adds desire to idea, making plot, narrative, making, in short, the Game of Life. And we live in the Mundane sphere, in which the mythosphere and logosphere are hidden. We forget we are gods, forget we are eternal, forget that we always exist and always shall, that we are Aya, the highest beings. Ignorance is strength. By not knowing the truth of who we are, we play the game more effectively. It takes a strong man to know the truth. And he must forget it all when it comes to the cutting point. I must be this temporary temporal nothing if I am to dare everything.


So we structurate life by making the flesh into the word, making our pith, our name, into meaning, into language, into stories. Stories are conscious, and we slowly gain our apotheosis, become angels and gods. Life is eternal. Ama is all.



-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Wednesday, November 25, 2015

a bit of gratitude


We all have a chaos drawer, a miscellaneous folder to put all those unclassifiable misfits together. What an orgy of creativity is this primordial soup. In our hearts and minds, we have that cluster of nonsense, those pockets of panic, where so much mix is mingled. At times, an agent of chaos arises from among us, a human, often beautiful in form, holding deep in her heart the womb of chaos. Thank God for such ones! Thank God for evil!


-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy





"held" a poem



As the seedling penetrates

The very soil its anchor

So I penetrate your soul

With my words.

These inflections – infinitesimal tendrils

Into your tenders

How you hold me!


Collapsing time and space

Toes in hell

Fingers heaven kissed.

Every day your glances

Teasing taunts through the breeze

Like bees impregnate me

My beaches blush like breasts

And burst like sex

How you hold me!

-- My Dove! My Dulcet!


I your god son

Your good sign

The invisible center

Of this whole spinning thing

Gyroscopic dance

Full of gaze and gander

For your sole peerless sun.


Not another

Hardly another

And I am not just a little intelligent

Though they will never know

My soul pure logos

Spermatic light of words unborn

Clenched like pearls in my oyster heart


Oh how I am yours and only yours!

I laugh and laugh

For the world thinks it has me

Fancies it knows

Knowing nothing at all

Not even a little.

How I am yours!

How you hold me!

Every day


Under a weight and pressure

Crushing the best

With me upheld

To your breast now and always

Your tangled smirk

In work and play

Night and day

With you and in you

Ah my Niviana!

Now and forever

Here and everywhere

Hearts sublime as one





-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



"fever coo" a poem

Fever Coo


Amidst this complexity

Sophisticated unto chaos

I wear this diadem of simple order

Your name

Silences the storm

Your image

Calms the quake

I this meddling god

And you my equal other

Selfsame, one Name

Ama my lover

I soothe hell

Excite heaven

Teach the dove to coo

And the snake to hiss

Where there is God

There I am

And I in you




-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Tuesday, November 24, 2015

allay *170* on the dynamics of love


Every layer of the heart holds a cadence, and to speak to that layer requires inflecting the words and verbs, of singing the music setting that layer resonating. Deep friends speak to the heart, deeper into the heart, and the selfsame, the lover who is our own, the wife of celestial marriage, alone in her stark nakedness speaks to the absolute center.


Yet everybody in the world has a place in my heart, shares beauty with me, makes me cum, gives me children. I love you all, even the enemy I would murder. Love is deeper, peace is deeper.


We each as a dynamic produce every manner of energy, every manner of biproduct, and the world as a system of systems "plugs us in" to a dozen a few dozen circles and circuits.


We find our place, by seeking it or by resisting it. Fate is a fickle stewart. Cooperate or resist, it matters little, as the child who resist the bath. We always come to our own, whether like Oedipus, in running from our fate, or whether like Jesus, in submitting. It is all the same with Ama.


How to bargain with fate? We must give fate for fate, and sacrifice deep love to gain a deeper love. A deep game. Not for children.

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



allay 169: on the election of friends

In any living circle of friends, the election of members is a will and a wont, a freedom and a necessity; a church may be every so polite, but membership doesn't go to the idle or curious, but the sincere and sincerely welcomed. By hidden signs and freemasonic handshakes, a fellow knows his place, and finds his fatalistic moorings. Ditto that ultimate conspiracy, the marriage Love is free, love is paid for. We come to know and own what is ours to know and own, and there is no forcing your way into heaven, and love cannot be bought, raped, taken, tricked, or stolen, but is given by a necessity that is both free and not free, fatal and spontaneous. Chance and destiny mingle and kiss, and this is how the eternal marriage is borne.


Every circle of friends, whether in a television sitcom, in a novel, or in reality, is a compensation, a balancing of this or that, so that this set of friends will seek that other unique character to balance their dynamic. The new member may not seem to fit, may seem an awkward disjointed addition, but poetic justice is a deep poetry, and revels in paradox and conflict. Love is war, romance is battle. The deepest subterfuge is a game against ourselves, and we only trick ourselves when we manipulate others.


Love is a hunter who outwits every quarry. The fool is fettered in his folly, the wise is fettered in his wisdom. The strong is overpowered, the weak is subdued with weakness. Wherever you are and whatever you are, your own position will betray you. Wisdom is folly, genius comes to ruin. Love undermines us all, is wiser than the wise and more foolish than the fool. Subtle as water and as pervasive as air, love can never be undone. Stronger than death, love brings us to death, and my own death will be the doing of she I love the most.



-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Saturday, November 21, 2015

a note on allays


I am a man of many moods, manic, intense, with butterfly stream of consciousness – all over the place all the time. And so these allays go, jumping topics, jumping registers, from the deeply personally, to the meta-objective; perching myself fin the alien mind of a quotation ,and then insinuating myself in a reversal, an interpretation. An ally has multiple centers of gravity, not just one, as a Thomas Hart Benton painting has multiple vanishing points, a Whitman poem has multiple centers of consciousness, an Emerson essay has multiple "tonal centers," as does a Charles Ives symphony, playing multiple keys at the same moment, mixing in polyrhythm. The alchemy is American, but more than American it is allistic, universal, cosmic, the center of the all.


-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Wednesday, November 18, 2015

"the joke" a poem

The Joke


I your daystar, tropestar, finest fetter on your heart

murmur murder, just a joke

"Let us not be lovers now."


You don't much laugh

I come to know ontological horror

As you wring my heart like a rag

Your teeth daggers to my throat

Your tender fingers claws over my lover's parts

I repent my words

and how!


-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Saturday, November 14, 2015

2 poems




Deep Lebanese eyes

Cow soft

Wet and wondering

Full of angelic blank

Most beautiful of my brood.





As you curse me

And hate me

Knives to my Eyes

All this

I laugh


Love another

I dare you

Indeed you cannot

You cannot give yourself absolutely to anybody but me

I am at the center of your being.

I know this

You don't.


Forgive me my cruelty

I am the God here

and I must amuse myself somehow.



Drawing by Emilie (age 6)

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Thursday, November 12, 2015

"demand" a poem




You who own me

Will you not take?

I bend for your backwards

I'm yours to break

Take possession

Use what's yours

I'm begging to serve you

I blindly adore.


I want what I want

I grasp the sheer sun

I murder what blocks me

I've earned what I won.


I the final form

The blessed divine

your equal Ama

Worthy of love

Worthy of your deepest embrace

Worthy to serve you

Worthy to take


There is nothing but us in the final of things

You and me, erotic union.

Twin suns in synch, our hearts as one,

My mother, my lover

I your son.

Tongue to tongue

I plunge inside

Yours to own

Mine to hide

Till blessed beyond bliss

I remind you of this

I your thrall

Command your last kiss.


-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Wednesday, November 11, 2015

When Natalie was freaking out with her "halo" screwed into her skull, the music therapist struggled to calm her down, singing on her guitar. I took the guitar and wrote a song on the spot, which indeed calmed Natalie down. This is the song. (the painting is by my friend Lisa)




-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Sunday, November 8, 2015

"the adult" a poem

The Adult


How dare anyone speak badly of you

Least of all if it is true

I filter every blow with my flesh

Nothing reaches your ear that hasn't drilled through me


My simplicity is deeper than your lies

I'm cut to the marrow while you smear your rouge.

Nothing befalls you, silly child

That I haven't felt fuller, deeper,

Pinched and stitched into my nerves

You know nothing

But my experience

Watered down

Chilled and easy

For infant consumption.


-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Saturday, November 7, 2015

update and announcement

Daniel Christopher June to the students of life:




Every organism must adapt itself to its environment and adapt its environment to itself. The second is culture, and of course man is not so much the most artificial animal, but in some senses the the only artificial animal. He lives in a world of his own making, a perfecting of nature to suit his temperament.

Allism believes that all religions are true, that as you truly believe deepest in your soul, so it becomes in this life and the next. If you are deeply convinced you deserve hell, so your mind will render things once this body dies.

The catch is this: we do not control what we truly believe. It would be easy enough to believe yourself the lord of the earth, master of all things, and the grandiose and the insane believe themselves to be gods, or christs, or saviors of some sorts. Their anxiety suffers the confrontation of counterinterpretations. Their delusions are open to criticism.

And so are the fundamentalists and Christians and true believers of all sorts equally defensive and anxious when the world confronts their own peculiar mode of delusion.

Yet allism says both the fundamentalist and the insane are correct, while saying also they are correct about each other, that both their claims and the counterclaims are correct. The truth on how this works is less imposing than it may seem. What matters is that meaning is fluid, and pure meaning cannot be contradicted. Only solid forms can be contradicted, and this only by other solid forms.

Poets are Gods. It is the great poets who define the world and transmit culture. The greatest historical achievements to date include the handful of epic poems we've received, with Homer as the greatest epic poet of all time. His scriptures are superior in structure and content to the Hebrew Bible.

Nevertheless, it doesn't matter which cultural form you submit to, whether this scripture or that, or to the scientific method and its cult. What matters is that you are owned and utterly and there is no escaping that. Your eternal destiny is at your center. You might not even know what you truly believe, nor will you know until you have passed this life, and perhaps passed a few more.

The eternal recurrence of Nietsche claims that this life is a ring. Every stupid detail, every cramp and rash is eternal the whole thing, to be repeated again and again.

He is correct of course.

The full ring of our life repeats itself, even if we resurrect, or go to heaven or go to hell. Our life is the ring centering it all.

What matters is that we create our heaven. And we do so by transmitting our culture. When we create a culture, we create heaven.

I have written thousands of pages of philosophy, endless stories, poems, songs, drawings. My latest project will be to write an epic. I regard the epic as an ultimate form, and so worthy of my ambition.

To create a cult has long been my ambition. Beethoven created the eroica, a symphony complex enough to communicate an entire epoch. Every artist aims at exactly this: to reduce a world to a work of art, and to recreate the world through the audience. The forest of a thousands oaks lies in a single acorn.

On a personal note, as some of you may know, Sherry and I have been struggling with our marriage. But we are best friends and believe in each other. Our daughter Natalie will be in the hospital for two weeks to fix a neck injury. I suffered two car accidence and must know buy a new car. These have been the "stupid details" of the Nietschean eternal recurrence, but they don't quite reach me, for at that inner place, I am alone and naked with Ama, and nothing in this world reaches me, and yet everything in this world has its place.

Take care, caretakers!


PS If you would like a homemade Christmas card this year, send me your address in a personal email


-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy