With time extending indefinitely and event horizons torn from me perpetually, as in hurricane winds through my phantom bedroom, reportage advances into the teeth of the gale force.

I understand the Mind of God better than the Heart of God, voice out of the whirlwind more than sustained divine grace. But as soon as I say that, the reverse is true.

I hack new vectors of meaning, machete in hand for the vaporous vectoralist hyena class, last bastion of capitalist appropriation of what it does not produce.

Of course we should keep in mind broadening definition of capital, rather than knee-jerk demonization thereof, then a dynamic embrace of the integral needs of all necessary participants becomes a new radical natural capitalism. Pastoralists, farmers, capitalists, workers, vectoralists, hackers, finite fossil fuel to infinite hydrogen. Wark and Lovins/Hawken as our hybrid tour guides.

I live in the sandstorms of time longer, but it only makes me less visible.

The horror poetry of her beauty stirs me, she of unknown soul marrow. She of the bodily power points.

When I crank out guitar chunks like song ideograms now, I hear the ticking of biological clock time louder.  I listen to the mysterious source of my own voice soaring into nonwhere.

The road to hell is other people continues to be paved with alleged good intentions.

Whirlwind’s a nanotech swarm of molecular desiring-machines out of which this voice hums.

Every lover’s an aggregate hive of inexplicability. All our alien fantasies are intuitions of this reality.

I went looking for the arena in order to turn attention into bank currency. I want to buy nanobot swarmfucks from Planet Xenon. In the arena I’ll perform psychosurgery on bankers and barracuda appropriationists. But you can’t get there from here because Zeno keeps breaking the distance down into smaller and smaller measures so you never arrive.

A nanobot swarmfuck constantly shifts appearance within desirable parameters, novelty on glistening overdrive until the credit chips evaporate.

“She” is a muted neon parade of all the goddesses in my horizontal bop lineage. Programmed nanobot hive mind. Shapeshifter. Silken electricity humming.

Your buddhic aggregates in full-swooning glory, non-self delirious cool.

I dug these wordz up Nag Hammadi-style, in the desert of Egyptian enigma. Scroll down and more will miraculously appear.

Mayhaps memes of 8-ball oracular relevance.

No one speaks of the banal translations of ancient banal-or-not scriptures, nor the implicit imperative to write scripture, gnomic Gnostic calling.

Epigram, maxim, aphorism, proverb, adage, gnome, axiom – all terms for concise prose or poetry of a witty or instructive or paradoxical nature.

“The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.”

So I fashioned a heavy-duty black leather and steel-toe combo to go on a door-kicking spree. Behind closed doors, there are always these powerful paper abstractions with suits attached ratcheting an exploitative, appropriationist percentage of original production, because the source of same doesn’t know how to leapfrog the logjam of business-as-usual.

I didn’t want my stretched-time faux immortality enchained to life in archon hell.

Like Burt Lancaster’s mythic nutbar in The Swimmer, plunging into a series of swimming pools, I’ve got to find my way back home kicking down doors, and sledgehammering conventions, ‘cause the bio-clock is ticking for living on my own full recognizance.

“It is a tale told by an idiot, all sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

The no-thing is breathtaking.

We could hang with freeze-frame martial arts kicks, followed by a furious gratuitous bloodfest, to the glee of all; I could name a building after my hardon, but I’m afraid those actions distract me from the mission of burning through our social soulcores with a magnifying glass under the midnight sun.

This is not negotiable. Only the resurrected invasion of the daily reality dreamscape by a Mystery beyond compare avails.

Alien is the radiant Source. Deleuze said parody is more profound than reality or imagination. Certainly delineation of reality formations irreverently obviates banality and mere fancy, respectively. Blakean Imagination seems a numinous realm, omnijective, other. Reportage: tabloid politics. Indeed, parody may be the only responsible cognitive mode in a world where violent stupidity is ritualistically sentimentalized as normal institutional developments.

Eat the rich, indeed.  Eat what eats you, sinner saint. Appropriate the appropriation. What eats me is lack of currency on intelligent terms. So I eat the lack of currency, meaning there is no lack, and that I am currency. Trump, for all his blowhard nonsensicalness, showed he had the right stuff when he told the investors who had apparently lost a big bundle on his daydreams that the only way to recoup was to continue to bank on the Trump name being synonymous with bold winning, not bankruptcy. Embody an emblazoned brand thoroughly, and you are, indeed currency itself.

“We don’t need no education. We don’t need no thought control.” Grammatically ironic, of course, but that song from The Wall, and its attendant imagery of education as children on a conveyor belt ground into sausages, overlaps with time’s slow grind of the physical body into death.

But fortunately, the destiny of attention itself is more profound. Besides, the meat body was practically made of nothing at the subatomic level. Something very strange is going on here. Lean buddha mind’s a vector unbound from sheaths of identity formations.

The story is, the story is. Attention’s mutations. Once we did not see 3-D depth perception, what is called in painting, perspective. Before 13^th century Petrarch a literally flatter dimension of inner and outer. Ego-centeredness is a mutation out of the mythos of collective psychic reality.

 What passes for scripture is mostly obscene. Religions are mostly obscene. Shocking the intervals of programmed tangents leaves you standing alone in a clearing with the stark wind of Reality ruffling your unstyled hair follicles on the mountaintop while the dull noise of society’s relentlessly casual physical, mental, and spiritual violence gnaws the soles of your soul.

Listen. Stop. Breathe. Stop. Dare. Stop. Die. Stop. Eat your infantile politics of experience. Stop. The Zen Master’s stick is my vitamin-enriched carrot. Stop. Having great fun, wish you were real. Stop. Unplug from the matrix. Stop. Herd the corporate suits onto the reservation of capitalist schizophrenics. Stop.

I’m in your head now, and I won’t stop eating your brain until everything untrue is consumed.           

I smile deadly at all the dead people enthusiastically giving birth to more death. 

Nailcakes for breakfast, emergent properties on the porch.

Stop making sense is not just an ancient concert film.

A long-time friend said I was Spinal Tap amp at 11, I say I’m zero, who cares.

Demon’s animal instinct amped. Vis-à-vis eros-amor-agape emotion. And luminescent Mind.

Jesus is the Word made flesh, but cultically vanished, and streaming in your blood archetypally. He won’t fully live till you shut up about him. The Age of the Other is ceasing. 

I stand in the Clearing as the Goddess dissembles, re-assembles herself in the ever-changing rainbow spectrum, astro-patternings of what might possibly survive the whirlwind, vortex, nanoswarm of aggregate qualities.

Slipstream vis-à-vis the vortical assemblages. Nanoswarmfucks favor deep full-rotation penetration from digital scrollz. Carnal gnoziz.

Molecular machinic makeup startles in the moonlight. The silken digital rustle of “her” simulacral skin.

Patterned after mirror recognition, her lips and tongue are velvet illusion.

We extend in the slipstream of consensus time’s strange velocity. Feathery “she” is in the eye of Chronos’ hurricane.

Does her cold code translate into bliss up her artificially enhanced spine with this current life-like yab-yum swoon?

Fucking leaves of codeflesh I hang fierce suspended over the abyss. O wait. I AM the abyss. And all that jizz jazz.

This model’s molecular chip layers on the gaunt zombie standing remains of a once great cellist.

Taking her ass is a butterfly symphony of great nuance and honey rich feeling. Her residual cellist’s melancholy infuses her shuddering algorithmic sighs with heart-piercing irreality.

“You’re cheating,” she whispers huskily, as I squeeze her throat, stark beneath the hive.

The nanoswarm layers are programmed quiescent, or they’d be down my throat like a black fly storm, and my vectors appropriated by client control.

A lost Aquarius, she’d licensed her libido under heavy gambling debts, chiefly picking the wrong iguana at smoky midnite back-alley fight scenes.

My desire for hybridized ass is primal proof of yielding. Formal polarity of yin-yang freedom. Jouissance. Perverse foundation of daimonic power. Your crystal tears of worship move me, even if you are merely delirious with joy for your lost complementary opposite.

“But I love this monstrous moment,” she adds, Asphyxia of anal orgasmic delirium. Host and techno-parasite of one voice.

All very gentle and profound, no crushing of larynx, no tearing of sphincter.

We are not savages, though perhaps we are sardonically sublime.

The part of her psyche licensed to nanotech overlays with a human cellist’s implosion, whilst assaying Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” without first being anointed by The Chronos Quartet. She bowed her 19^th nervous breakdown.

The black hole loves her enigma. Artifice embraced with a strange joy.

“What’s love?” I query, buried deep in her dark yielding moan.

“Death of enquiry,” she rasps, my silken Asphyxia, as this fine scarf encircles her throat.

There’s always the slight risk of nano-infection, should molecular machinic programming safeguards fail, in which case, one’s will is subsumed in the hive mind. What is its nature?

But I’ve slipstreamed, time-stretched five centennials, and everything blurs at the edges. Nectar or venom for the hive mind. My language inoculates against appropriation, in other than a dead heat of melding momentary vectors.                                                                         

The blue noir madness of her cumquakes calms me. After blasting the jizz back into the snug sphincter black hole of gnoziz, I kiss her low-humming ass and we hold hands in the dark, pondering the quiet death and resurrection of romance. Later we discuss parasitic upgrades.

“Parasitism and symbiosis are the true basis for evolutionary change,” she murmurs, echoing a Crichton novel.

“Deleuze & Guattari trace the movements of liberating desire, breaking the bonds of Oedipal-capitalist reality-jacking. Vectors of molecular machinic desire. Buddhism invites the original psychological deconstruction of illusory self into evanescent aggregates. Habitual patterns to be re-evaluated unto a priori transcendence. Now our bodies are invaded by molecular machines, nanobots, in the perfect white hot battleground of meaning for history’s stark figures. Politics of nano-hybridization: parasite/symbiosis definitions. O please not a Pinochhio Bosh brainfuck.”

Her smile is a burnished warmth from deeply ingrained cello discipline.

“And we’re already nanobotic human constructs before we even began our molenotechnology,” my darling courtesan alien muses. “’Ribosome is the biological name of the atomic robots that exist in the cells of all living things to manufacture proteins,’” she adds, quoting Lin Sten.

My backdoor kink is a fundament-al kosmos of root chakra deep yum. Next time we’ll eat yams with our sphincter-ring ceremony of power.

Girl, you really got me now, you got me so I can’t sleep at night. . .you really got me.

“The nanobots enhance the pleasure of my submission,” she murmurs.

Of course, I know the paradoxes of identity, but there remains the issue of client control. Planet Xenon guarantees responsible anarchy in policy matters. Perhaps Asphyxia has bargained no worse than any other provisional person. If the hive-mind’s more Borgesian than Borg, labyrinthine liberation from representational tyranny ensues.

Just a whore, you say? But she only rents her ass to a select clientele, those of algorithmic pulp astro-synastric excellence.

“You ever consider covering, um, “The Wind Cries Mary” — that Hendrix ballad that Clapton and Sting recorded separately, in different mini-eras?” I’m thinking of her “Purple Haze” meltdown.

“If you cum in my throat, I’ll turn into a cello,” she answers, meeting my eyes like a tractor beam.

The molecular robots are amping her aggregate wantonness.

“How do these precision atomic fuckers amp your heart?” I muse aloud.

Riverine tears wrack her hybrid state.

Upon her terror-joy I build my church. I shall hold her close to my radiant heart against all odds in the slipstreaming, reality-wrenching moment to moment to moment.

I scanned what the pro reviewers and some Netflix members had to say about I’m Not There.

None grok it quite the same way I do.

As Dylan ultimately transcended himself due to the formal operations he brought to the lyric line (and the concomitant freewheelin’ performance life that entails), so this film transcends notions of narrative or chaos or confusion or even characterizations, though anchored by an uncannily spot-on rendering of ’65 Dylan by Cate Blanchett.

It’s the kaleidoscopic lucid dream of a fully-lived life, the hypertext poetics of nuanced performativity.

Dylan’s to song form as Shakespeare is to dramatic structure. He takes the tried and true and blows the doors off the old meanings. This film bears the same relationship to a more standard biopic.

As in Borges’ classic parable “Everything and Nothing,” (which riffed on Shakespeare), Dylan is everyone and no one, the variegated enigma of any creatively driven life exploded to reveal its mythic entrails.

For instance, because Ebert’s still a journalist, not a poet, he couldn’t quite stuff Gere’s Billy the Kid playin’ the black kid “fake” Guthrie’s guitar into his critical box, tho’ he dug the production overall. It’s the associative logic of lucid dreaming, Roger. All the psychodramatic fragments of the Dylan persona, his influences, his ambient referents are in freewheelin’ interplay, like any good hypertext story told.

Dylanology is ultimately secondary to the inversion of journalism by kaleidoscopic poetics.

As a matter of fact, as illustrated in Mark Turner’s book, The Literary Mind, steeped in both literary praxis, and cognitive science, everyone’s mind works parabolically, that is cross-patching various stories from one’s personal history, dreams, and cultural ambience. What’s unfortunate is we tend to think “education” means the starched left-brain reductionism of same.

This is not a mere biopic with fictive sidebars — it’s an archetypal tone poem.

Both critics and Netflix members dismissive of the film are simply unfamiliar with the workings of right-brain emphases. And invoking Godard as superior in this context is howlingly ironic, given that Sympathy for the Devil was one of his worst films, Stones and all. Keith Richards said it was like working with a French bank clerk. I even love Godard otherwise, particularly the talismanic Alphaville.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I’m a “famously unknown” poetic rock troubadour myself, 80% done with an experimental documentary, and this film gave me some key structural insights.

I don’t even have to get into the 6 or 7 characterizational why-fors, with strong performances all ’round, from Cate Blanchett, Christian Bale, Heath Ledger, Richard Gere, et al — it’s a parabolic waking dream about the free life of the mind and soul when it comes into contact with the clunky artifact we call “society.” The apparently disparate entities comprised of ’65 electric Dylan, early folk Dylan, Rimbaud, the movie star, the little black “Woody,” and the not-dead older outlaw Billy, et al, all enact said psychodrama.

Dylan’s a Voice out of the Whirlwind on a whirlwind tour, stand-in for the creative spirit of everyone. Sure, the mercurial youth trips over his own ego once in awhile, but true to his troubadour calling, he never lingers long in triviality. This I discern in the film, and intuit about the life of the literal man in question.

Wake up and smell reality, not the square peg in the round hole of “educated” linear entrained yammering.

I’ve only viewed it once at this writing, and will no doubt see it again, parsing out other details. But I stand by this fresh overview.

Others invoke director Todd Haynes’ oeuvre, etc., in the linear connect-a-dot game. I’m simply focused on this film, for its archetypal talismanic value to me.

I’m Not There means what its title says — what remains is a shimmering lucid dream of great processual beauty.

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.

“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.

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 “13^th 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.

French director Catherine Breillat used Italian porn stallion Rocco Siffredi in Anatomy of Hell and Romance, “real” Euro-indie film spilling over, so to speak into XXX-world.

Baise-Moi (Rape Me) is a notorious French chick-vengeance flick with explicit hardcore sex.

The violent sex was simulated in the notorious rape scene of Gaspar Noe’s Irreversible, but the psychic scorch remains etched in memory, cinematic no-holds-barred attraction/revulsion to ass-rape/beating of Monica Belluci, an iconic beauty who then extends her martyred erotic aura into boilerplate cyber-gnosis, in The Matrix Reloaded. 

Then there’s Nagisa Oshima’s explicit take on an obsessive true sex story, In the Realm of the Senses, of which Madonna blurbed: “It turns me on because it’s real.”

Or Michael Winterbottom’s 9 Songs — not because it quite cuts it, in its odd clinical explicitness, but because any hardcore alt poet would want to do it over again, the mix of fucking and alt rock, and a better-realized narrative enhancement, of a better-realized sexual enactment and relationship. The actress, Margo Stilley, is stuck between the gonzo of the porn star, and the “stretched parameters” of a “serious actress.” Hence, the middling girl gone mild vibe of a sex instruction DVD. Kieran O’Brien coolly lends his uncut tool to the uncut proceedings.

I viewed 9 Songs again, and found the rock bands wanting as well. Un-sexy explicit sex; non-rocking alt bands. Hazards of “art.”

By the way, did Chloe Sevigny swallow Vincent Gallo’s jizz in The Brown Bunny?

I just reviewed Upload, from the award-winning XXX side of the fence, and it was built on a cyberpunk boilerplate, with optional add-ons, sex-scene-wise. It has more story sinew than the above-mentioned “real movies” tho’ there is still more subtlety up close, the poetic inside with the real reels.

Personally, I would be intrigued to see Gaspar Noe’s psychic intensity fused to Eli Cross’s cerebral porn intensity. Recalibrate the violence. Hammer out new boilerplate out of artcore thriller, gonzo XXX, smart genre grit. I suppose it might take a mix of porn muscle and indie film nuance to upgrade from both camps, since I think there is still plenty of room for creative evolution in the examination of implicit and explicit intimacies.

Greg Dark crossed from porn to B-thrillers. I’ll have to check that out. Then one thinks: why does there have to be “cross-over”? What if one were into AdultAdult expression, meaning the compartmentalization of formats is just an antique convenience, not an indication of what something actually is, if that thing is freely intelligent in design enough.

Well at least one can artcore hardcore from either indie or porn camp. Probably the difference is in calibrations: less sex, more emotive nuance; more sex, less emotive nuance — tho’ the genre-bust is in the full execution.

Retool Winterbottom’s 9 Songs to mood check with Chris Marker’s Le Jetee, then pulp-pound it back out through Cross’s howling assfuck dungeon.

What’s truly intriguing is exploring the spectrum of Zen awareness, Romantic embrace, Dom/sub edges intensified to shamanic overdrive, paranormal OBEs, transcendent awe.

Like, what’s the view from Planet_X? What if raw fucking retained its power while being a trope for other psycho-spiritual-societal explorations? Gives “fuckit” priority shifts a new meaning.

Get the butter, for The Last Fandango in Cairo.

Gutfuck, heartfuck, mindfuck. Rated XYZ. XYZ-factor is WHO or WHAT is fucking. Shapeshifters.

Libidinal mystery. New spontaneous rituals. Oblivion fuck tours. Sweetly shocked chakras spinning.

Here’s a spontaneous riff in the spirit of Kathy Acker: Tho’ she had a PhD in comparative lit, she insisted her only resume was deep-throating 9″ post-gag reflex on psilocybin, spanking her clit, and twirling her tongue in the trails of spermatozoon on fire. She served the roaring sky god swallowing, yes, but her throat owned the joystick of  military history. That made her Queen of All Embodiment.

Next: pornosophic avant pop lit via Kathy Acker, Mark Amerika, et al? James Ellroy’s smutty alliteration? Roland Barthes’ The Pleasure of the Text?

I’ve been out here a long time. The long-buried treasure under the grassy clearing didn’t even correspond to my emergent magnet of intent till the autumn of my mortal years. Weary of wishing for welcoming warmth, I’ve wandered in realms of possibility.

The vortices, gelatinous, funneled the souls’ incarnations. Will-o’-the-wisps into pulp wars. Where dull demons iconized Jesus falsely. Where increasing others, though, danced in the sunlight. I witnessed our myriad rebirths.

I found the holes in everyday flesh reality. Burrows to heal from the wounds of inflated ordinariness. Entries to elements heretofore unknown. Answers to why people favored illusions to truth.

Out here means far away and close as breathing. In the wilderness of the heart.

I was forced to be a sanctuary unto myself, for the outside of the wilderness was inside the glittering chattering cities as well. Many were the faces and forms, forces and fames of the Kosmic Goddess’ human aspect. The kisses from enchanting strangers blossomed into ravishing flux. Safecracking salt mines financed delirium. I knew the women were chimerical vortices in the never-ending stream of mystery, as myself, as everyone, but their fierce nests prickled with controlled hysteria – the normal intonation in the karmic maze, in the hive mind. I knew the value of full intertwine, the desired gene-splicing of souls issue, but the binding truth of poietai was elusive.

Bane Savage is my handle on the sidewalk. Park your piquant aura ‘midst the neon glow. Wildings should show savoir-faire.

Some take time, some make time, some spend time, some bend time, some sell time, some bell time, some do time, some rue time. I steal time.

The cubicled jibber-jabber of Mammon claws at your survival, but you learn to carve your initials in blood on the screaming archon’s face.

Space-fu fighters are out again today, their moves mastering a whirlybird effect in the sky, aided by rotator blades on their helmets.

The judges sat purposely recycling the perceptual gilded cage of subject-objecthood – profaning the divine singularity in their amnesia. There was no place for the shattering of the siege of history, so gnosis was inscribed in invisible ink.

“You’re my absolutely obscure object of desire!” I cry, my laser gaze keening the trembling perfection of her inner thighs.

This will intoxicate her in recurrent waves of timelessness until she discovers I am an incubus. Then her eyes will smolder darker, and her lips screw into a wicked smile – or she will shriek “Begone!” till her terror turns her catatonic clam.

She licks her lips while my lion’s loins stir.

Scriptural libido ensues. Howling bliss in the eye of the cyclone.

No, she is not mute, but nuanced in silence, intriguing in discourse, divine in intercourse.

One moment we are luxuriating in a king-sized bed, post-coitus, and the next I experience the strangely familiar shimmering dissolution of the scene, and know that the time-space continuum, the shamanic assemblage point has shifted again. Intent was largely subconscious, so awakening is gradual. “By passion bound/also released.”

Through this slipstream in time, I frequently do not know where I am, or how much time has passed, for I seem to be living longer than my contemporaries, the years stretching into eras.

No doubt I shall attempt to hold on to my next great love, full knowing the moment will come when the time-space continuum will shift, when I shall claw at her chemise while it turns to river flux.

Older younger freer lonelier I abide. Lonely becomes happily alone only when I allow the Eye of the Storm’s naked beauty.

The Eye of the Storm, not time’s elusive joker, finds the long-buried treasure under the grassy clearing.

I’ve rushed about, wind tearing through my hair, exhilarated by the sprint and the tranquil swaying trees, only to find I was always in the same spot, no matter the shifts in the landscape, the movement of the body. Always molecular awe. Being’s indifference to antiquated frivolities, or virtually everything a karmic mortal thinks important. God’s not dead. We are. O but we are that field o’ god as well as escape velocity particle-phantasms.

Poignant are our eternal moments of zombie transfigured to godhood incandescent orgasmic. Let us devour one another ecstatically in this stupid hellzone. Velvet vortex is our yab-yum union. Your eyes a glaze of interdimensional stars. Yes.

Sartre said “Hell is other people.”  Twofold, it seems. First, undue emphasis on feeling separate from the other leads to hell, and second, ramshackle narrow societal standards lead to hell, so it sure as hell ain’t my broth. But then Blake reminds us, walking through Hell, of “the delights of genius, which to the angels look like torment.”

It’s those interdimensional pit stops I make that account for the “lost time” – where this lifetime is five to tenfold more than a typical span. I become a virtually immortal marathon man during the pauses, after the time-space phase shifts, the assemblage point movements.

So does this give me any zeitgeist intervention skills?

What is the long-buried treasure under the grassy clearing?

In my soft moments I long for one to come whose smile and flowing chemise shift in the continuum with me, much to my delight, for the wind howls louder on even calm days when you are ultimately alone in your intimacy. Every place I touch her is the blessing of being, unbound by time. X is everywhere, the mystery, immersive, omnipresent. Assemblage points shift effortlessly with our coital breathing. We live in the immortal “curl” of the wave of time, cradled by the power of emergent conscious life. Ares-Aphrodite born on the sea foam together, surfing the vectors between dimensions, worlds.

The long-buried treasure under the grassy clearing is the Heart, awesome core of being, and the vital natural capital of utilizing erotic fireworks for personal and collective transformation, via neo-tantric understanding of whole systems. Or it is a bomb set to explode at your glance. True alignment is recommended. X Marks the Spot of Reality. That show is a melting and a shattering of point-of-view.  All you win is Existence.

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