Slipstream
The finite carnal minutes expand when the soulsex fit’s sublime. Then, expectant galaxies smile with the curl of her lips and the starbursts in her jade-gold or azure blue or smoky brown eyes when she cums continuously, precious quivers, ecstatic, eyes glazing now in primal delight. We purringly ponder our deep hunger in motion, her womb growing thirsty for her hard-on heartmaster’s anointing.
I don’t know why, but she shifts with me when the assemblage point, reality nexus moves through deep intent, changing scenes and extending the mortal years of the slipstreamers.
Once we slipped into deep trance while lovemaking, and not only had hours passed in our bedroom, but outside, at the break of day, years had passed, five to be exact. When we sensed the strange changes, we found a newspaper, and could only marvel at the date. Before, I would have awakened alone, shifted away from my lover and everything else. I have called this an alteration of the time-space continuum, so perhaps we are sliding through fissures of alternative history. I surmise we are shifting together due to an extraordinary soulsexual bond.
Sometimes our longer-stride-of-years experience is valuable in zeitgeist pattern recognition. Always our vital soulsexual longevity is a precious gift unto itself, even as it launches what is beyond. Escape velocity dyad. Holomovie dissolving into fierce bliss transcendent home free.
When a black helicopter crashed into our house, we were in the retro fallout shelter sexing incandescent. We crawled from the ashes of surveillance stunned but unscathed.
Various sleights-of-hand produce funding, the business of the unseen. No, not pickpocketing, nor dime-store psychology psychic, nor cloak and dagger intrigues. The skeins of light that connect opalescent souls in their flesh candy cases. Or just handy slots in space-time. They want the linguistic DNA I carry, semiotic code injections, imploding metaphoric enigmas.
It offers strong immunity to the prevailing societal virus of virulent delusional norms. The usual grinning death machine of big industry draped in flags and carryin’ crosses grinding meat believers into repetitive pulp fiction.
Pulp parabolics gets yer rocks off without submitting to lobotomy. Antiviral vortical prose to live by.
Since the assemblage point shifts leave my true love and I at times disjointed — beds cracked, rooms half-hanging in one time-space continuum or world, half in another – we’ve learned to spin our nomad lodgings from pure love. Crystalline gossamer shelter for twenty hours, a hostel cycle of manifesting minds.
Ferocious gravitas on the tundra, where icy crack a million universes.
And in the warm well of oasis beauty, blazing bonfire hearts keep the cold at bay.
Above, the chrome palm-frond ceiling of our shelter.
But then tsunamis lunged from the cracked 9.0 ocean floor to the deaths of 220,000 and millions homeless, and I didn’t see her again for many years, amnesiac as I was in the rubble, left for dead, miraculously surviving, etc.
All the time-shift differentials are still bardos, the haunt of being a simulacrum. Dead zone hee-haws. Intensely virtual.
Crystal hearts within crystal hearts within crystal hearts shatter simultaneously.
Invincible love declares her laughter is a silver bell, wings of the spirit, adored of my heart, shattered so often it’s at peace in the sudden miracle.
This love is a baptism of fire and water and earth and air.
Outside, heads were rolling in the streets again because the iron horseman came without warning. Literal medieval remains, and the ironically medieval consequences of allegedly modernist policies, show the persistence of blood and guts pulp’s reflection of the ephemerality of mortal meat.
The world is still officially hell, despite cozy enclaves to the contrary, packed with jabbering lunatics striking fear into impressionable imbeciles with even more vicious hells in the presumptive afterlife. “Love” is filled with lies and trivial horrors no mind can bear.
That lovely I mentioned above keeps slipping away.
Or it’s something more universally whacked than that. We live longer in the slipstream, it is true. There are fractures in memory too. Not Alzheimer’s, not amnesia exactly. But when the divine enigma I love leaves me, is out of my presence, she forgets who I am. Perhaps, Memento-like, I should inscribe the highlights of our intimacies on her flesh.
What was that I was saying? O yes I died was reborn in slipstream living longer ‘cause altered time-space continuum, shifting of assemblage points.
Old gringo of the gnostic song. Bane Savage, Slipstreamer. Every day tossing doubloons at the stark street’s shipwrecked denizens. This blue gesture toward quasi-immortality is made with the same haunting evanescence as your revered face in memory.
I’m singing while I still can the songs of love and madness. I’ll know I’ve found the right voicings when divine thighs part from the hot flow, when divine minds smile on the soundscape.
Being enfolded in stretched time affords me the buzzing blur of holonomic prophecy.
Listen to my vortical voice intone. Frequency’s modulated to pleasure your precious rosebud. This is addressed to the femmes of course. The men are to smash reductionistic scenarios from third eye unblinded.
Smithereens the perpetual dumbfuck doom machines. You want your big brother protective toward you but not insanely waging war on Mind. Therefore create policies of Mind, in which humans are deemed worthy of evolutionary emergence more than murderously slipshod indoctrination. Let us all die into Mystery with uncomplicated dignity. Win the war on subhuman policy rationalizations. The ones that find untold numbers of human lives expendable for political-economic gain. Make the world entirely fit for human habitation; make humans entirely fit for the world. Start in your own backyard; expand outward.
I’m shouting inside the cells of corporate executive golems. All too much of business-as-usual is conducted with the legalized conscience of a psychopath. I’m the migraine in the skull-cave of Moloch’s minister. His Jesus still drives him to the airport in a black SUV fueled with the blood of patriots. I’m the acid rain in Dr. DeathWish’s corrupted brain.
A la Delicatessen, all the ladies cum ecstatic while all the warmongers’ heads explode. True grit of the Make Love Not War revival. Correction: the Make Love THE War Revival. Cruel to be kind; kill ‘em with kindness. The way savvy Gnostics from 200 A.D. practiced communicative martial arts with Literalists, seeming to agree, while obviously not.
Crank up Thanatos/Eros tension and maybe you get something like Scanners spliced with Debbie Does Moloch, directed by Jane Campion, special advisor, David Deida. In which Debbie will of course be an Aeon Flux-like anime-esque heroine with X-rated superpowers to subdue the presiding demon of the war machine and other pious wretched sacrifices of the young to prevailing demonologies. Make love to the depths of your being and die to your mere self before you die. Or have your head explode.
Pornosophic war in skull-cave churches. Literalism burned on its own stakes. Jesus never existed for your “sins” — only your gnosis. Millions of FUCK EVERYTHING YOU BELIEVE T-shirts sold. Picture taken on the front page of your mind glad-handing Capitalism, a papier-mache honcho in the side pocket. Reality formation or bust. Mindsets, policies, documents morphing.
Molecularly awestruck, as the old world crumbles, I surf the infinite instant.
Pornosophy and Free Society
Porn is the secret history of civilization, and drives new tech, new markets — which in turn has a tranformative effect on the overall societal grid as we know it.
“Far from viewing cyber-pornographers as pariahs, society would do well to view them as mountain men and women in the mold of Jedediah Smith, who discovered and opened the passes of the Rockies for entire families to follow west. These early rogues were scruffy and smelly, perhaps not fit for polite society, but they did good service. Though uncivilized, they showed the roads for civilization to follow. We need not let the cyber-pioneers into every home, but society will benefit hugely by letting them roam free.” — Peter Johnson
“Sexuality and eroticism are the intricate intersection of nature and culture” — Camille Paglia
On the everyday level, many of today’s porn stars are increasingly more self-empowered regarding the fruits of their labors. That reconnects their lineage to the temple courtesans of ancient times, and neutralizes the sordid shadow side of history associated with the business of graphically depicting a full-range of human sexual behavior. Whatever one’s taste is regarding sexual products, it is vital to the health of the culture to begin to reassess its institutions, and to recalibrate what is meant by “freedom,” and what is meant by “obscenity.”
Although there is no disputing the broad-based emphasis on so-termed adult products being primarily for entertainment purposes, the recent obscenity case (yes, the “law” still mucks about with this, even when no children are involved) against John Stagliano, points up the great importance of the adult entertainment industry assuming responsibility for an ethic that preempts the long siege of religio-political pretensions to the high ground — which, given the facts of history, is the real obscenity. The ethic I am referring to is thoroughgoing creative awareness.
To paraphrase maverick writer Mark Amerika, from his novel Sexual Blood, ethics don’t come from religion, religion comes from ethics, to the extent the former has any meaning whatsoever.
The porn star on the rack is your true desire under intense interrogation. That can be a BDSM scene pushed to shamanic transcendence by your own informed consent, or it can be the decidedly non-arousing fascistic machinations of church and state.
We can no longer afford to compartmentalize or ignore the entire situation of our arising. Even blase reductionism is a philosophy, and whatever you don’t want to deal with will most decidedly come back to bite you in the ass. Pornosophy is one of the means of expressing a willingness to deal with the radical inversions of meaning applications that real intelligence demands.
Language is a Demigod
Title is from a Ken Wilber statement, in Sex, Ecology, Spirituality.
Ironically, he doesn’t seem to take that assertion very seriously, nor the primal, vitalistic charge of language, being hyper-rational, with a nod toward the transcendental, expressively (referring to his language use, not his existential state).
If 70% of humanity is at a magic-mythic living base, as has been averred, I think it’s fruitful to recall Jean Gebser’s magic (primal unity)-mythic (collective belief)-mental (conceptual thought)-integral (differentiated holistic clarity) calibrations of language being audio-visual-conceptual-diaphanous, respectively.
“My school colors were clear,” japed comedian Steven Wright.
The primal power of sound, rhythm, image in the poetics of expressive choice is something that impresses us all, whether our center of gravity is pre-, rational, or post-rational. When the latter, we hook up rational concept and a contemplative seeing-through to that audio-visual collective commonality.
Deleuze & Guattari, in A Thousand Plateaus, made the interesting observation that innovation in literary praxis occurs through a “rupture” of the line.
I take that as rhythmic sensibility. Being a troubadour as well as a litterateur enables me to appreciate the “intertwingling,” as an avant academic friend of mine, Diana Slattery might say.
Andrew Harvey, writing about the Koran, said much of it was about an intentional “derangement of the senses” a la Rimbaud. I’m no expert on said text, but that provocative recollection invites us to ruminate on the spirit of Islam as resonating, at the audio-imagistic level, at least, with Rimbaud, Dylan — and okay, higher-psychic and subtle-causal jump to Rumi, that wonderful Sufi poet of whirling transcendent delirium.
Obviously, I’m working poetically here, but a Sufi grounding seems to me the first antidote to shadow-Muhammadan poisoning, the imbecilic violence many in the West associate with Islam, not merely the overt guerrilla terrorist acts of bin-Laden and company, and his counterpart at the level of State, Gorge War Bosh, but the textual violence in the Koran itself, that Timothy Freke & Peter Gandy, in The Laughing Jesus, say is there. One section depicts Muhammad carrying out the execution of infidels, while picking out the babes among the survivors. Gangsta o’ love. And of course, the main theme is that Jesus is a Gnostic allegorical figure, rather than a literal historic teacher. If all that’s true, no wonder fundamentalists seem always on the brink of hysterics. Drum! Sing! Dance!
Anyway, while those at rational or integral, can hardly buy into the hobgoblins of irrational beliefs, the willful confusion of literal with metaphoric, we can appreciate the power and beauty of sound, rhythm, and imagery associated with said religious bastions, since these are qualities that resonate positively all up and down the spectrum of consciousness. Music and visual artistry embrace I/We/It quite nicely. In fact it energizes just about any discipline, any line of development I can think of.
The psychograph of Cognitive-Emotional-Interpersonal-Psychosexual-Moral-Spiritual lines, in one of Wilber’s graphs, makes me think of equalizer levels in the recording of music, and the playing of recorded music.
If one thinks of language, or its leading edge praxis, poetics, as applying equally to image/music/text/virtuality, the tranformative implications grow by leaps and bounds.
I’m not an academic myself, I’m an outsider in the wilderness, a wild card who tends to think of said multi-applications of poetics as my religion.
Spontaneously, I think of how the best Talking Heads music makes me think of anthropologists “getting down” with the indigenii, the rhythmic magic power of drums, of sound. And, of course, the energizing effect of black Christian gospel music on American pop culture is enormous.
I suppose that’s it, really. The way to connect the pre-rational with the rational and post-rational, religious and otherwise, is the interdimensional transforming power of art. Maybe the grand unifier is the beat, the voices raised on high, the dance, the visual display.
The following sentence has sound, rhythm, image, concept, and transparency (the transparency of integral unto transcendental, not the faux modernist transparency that postmodernity took to task):
Molecularly awestruck, as the old world crumbles, I surf the infinite instant.
It’s excerpted from a book-in-progress of mine. Damn near every sentence poeticizes.
I’ve written a ton of songs since then, many of which are presented in a film I’m making, but these lines from “13th Psalm,” a song from my last CD, Waking, still resonate strongly for this piece:
Words to live by flow through mind/born of Spirit clear unsigned/Scroll your meaning line by line/springing from your sacred spine
Iconic punk rocker and writer Richard Hell, of Voidoids, Blank Generation fame, wrote that an okay novelist writes books; a good novelist writes chapters; a really good novelist writes paragraphs; and a great novelist writes sentences.
I aspire to that last notion, in an iconoclastically scriptural mode.
In the much larger picture of interdisciplinary imagistic/musical/textual/virtual rhetorical power, we are just getting started on radical poetic applications that can sledgehammer ring the magic-mythic-mental-integral-higher psychic-subtle-causal-nondual bell in one mighty carnivalesque swing.
Consider that the entire It matrix we bring our attention to is culture-coded by language. If demigod language of image/music/text/virtuality is also code, we’re in DNA, mathematical, chemical, and computer programming territory as well.
I don’t see any reason why a more thoroughly muscular poetics can’t invade the entire interdisciplinary sphere of manifest existence. Viral meme, indeed.
“Language is a virus from outer space,” wrote William S. Burroughs, and Laurie Anderson sang it – another fun notion to toss in the mix. Personally, I’d call it a virus from inner space.
I guess I can relate to the notion that marketing is the avant-garde of capitalism, and art can be the avant-garde of marketing, an at least potential poetic justice at the head of the dragon.
I read a cluster of leading-edge business books, that assert the notion that companies are becomingly increasingly in the business of storytelling more than products, and that neologismic artistry is a keynote of effective branding.
The story of language use, poetics, is the marrow inside the bones of storytelling, as it were.
The Deviant’s Advantage, one of the aforementioned leading-edge business books, with emphasis on wild card creative factors, contains this provocative sentence: “Language lies at the heart of culture, and if you can co-opt a language, you can effectively shanghai a society.”
Hmmm, maybe too many of us “conscious” types, are too effin’ polite.
Frankly, compassionate overview notwithstanding, I’ve always fantasized interdim alien dream invaders taking over, structurally a la the film Dreamscape, and have written narrative accordingly.
Methinks Blue Man Group is a vanguard trio of the daimonic takeover. Note the emphasis on wildly makeshift percussion grounding the audio-visual viral language invasion. Could crazy wisdom guru Adi Da and intimacy maven David Deida, with their recurrent blue motifs, possibly be the wizards behind the curtain of this display? Heigh-ho.
Do we need language police to kick ass on such egregious euphemisms in the media as “ethnic cleansing” and “collateral damage”? Gosh, I’m sorry, sleepwalking journalists, your entire families just got ethnically cleansed, and they weren’t even dirty. Ouch. Dang, I think the countermander-in-chief just got collaterally damaged. The terrorists were aiming for his dawg, whose brain stem was implanted with a microchip encoded with gospel glyphs from Sirius, threatening the hydrophobic life style.
The preamble to the U.S. Constitution is grand poetry expressing the dignity of true democracy, that would-be work-in-progress wrestling with pushy capitalism’s reversal of emphasis.
Adi Da wrote an essay entitled “Christ = mc2” wherein he asserts that Einstein’s famous equation of It values, matter-energy-light, when applied to I/We is a formula for spiritual resurrection.
In The Literary Mind, Mark Turner, grounded in both cognitive science and literature, avers that parable, rather than being merely a specialized literary form, is actually a useful model for how everyone’s mind works: “Parable is the root of the human mind – of thinking, knowing, acting, creating, and plausibly even of speaking.” That’s an exciting premise, for yours truly.
Autopoetically, this, from Between Science and Literature, by Ira Livingston:
“. . .language cannot be understood as a God-given gift or a free human creation or a tool to be bent to human will, but only as an emergent and semi-autonomous phenomenon, something more like galaxies, ecosystems, and bacteria.”
So it goes, as the late great Kurt Vonnegut would say.
“Poetry is knowledge, salvation, power, abandonment. An operation capable of changing the world, poetic activity is revolutionary by nature; a spiritual exercise, it is a means of interior liberation.” The great late 1990 Nobel laureate, Octavio Paz wrote that. I met him at Cal State L.A. in ‘85. He said, “We are tocayos,” meaning brothers-in-name.
Language is a demigod, is a virus, is primal expressivity, is autopoetic.
Use it, channel it, with enormous respect and sacral-secular nuance and differentiation. Be it. Ecstaticize performative lingo.
