local medicine --- faraway lies --- space for the cosmos
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  1. Cain Reversal II

    The blood must be re-claimed from the soil

    With the heavy bodies bent with lust and toil
    Each rivening day strifing the rule of the garden
    The mohammedans straking for some pardon
    Not for themselves or all alone under banished sky
    For all the abandoned who look forward to die

    Nothing so simple as an unwanted blessing
    A mercenary corp of doctors or hessians
    The great stock of whisky, a limited edition
    A dusty tome of Aristotle and keen erudition
    Prophetic Angel, Skytree, the verse of Gibran
    Oracle of Day, Holy Moses, rocket of Kahlil

    We go to the New Stars, Heavens Reverse
    All foretold and Pointed, Reverse Engineered
    The Worlds Prepared Before and Inhabited Too
    Nothing left to Starve or Bewitch from the Dew
    Unfathomable Promise, Time without End,
    The Count of Sand or Heather and Mountains Portend

    A new day perhaps, of immeasurable tin, sound of din
    A hurricane noise, a thrall of riotous cuts, although thin
    The blood-curdle choke of rage from before
    Now purchased like plasma from the needle store
    Go fuck yourself, If you want my dick, you vampire whore
    You’ve had enough since the Garden, Lillith, you’ll not get more

    Now the ratio between human, vampire, dragon and other dead
    Has been cast with fair radiant echo against the nuclear thread
    A shroud sewn with Alcubierre’s hand and Teller’s eye
    Will re-write the laws of your time to die
    Not forced by the forced prison of your local priest
    Or enticed by Babylon to take part in it’s wicked feast

    The work that was promised to Adam and re-framed unto Cain
    To un-curse the valley, glen and land: to filter Acid from Rain
    With thorns o- the rose coming loose from the Bush
    And snakes running hither or thither in scintillate Rush
    The Oracle of Satan found new charms to spread in perfect Cube
    Could be the shape of Sound Maynard or Max’s Cubic Rube

    The Time of Orwell Now and Jobs spelling Apple at his Side
    And Sting writing programs for the Cops, whom along for the Ride
    the Bladerunner checkin for humans among the technical horde
    Huxley detected the separate spirit, lobotimized souls, Model T Fords
    And Harrison checked again with electric sleep on the Brain
    A tear for Summer, or a vision for Canticles, a wave almost Inane

    With countless ages past since the Dust of Sumer lent
    It’s hell-bound rasp of gutteral destruction spent
    The awful wave of gas, a riotous nuclear blast
    In the once Green land where sage grew fast
    The dim spectre of time has given up the ghost
    With markets bazar and material plenty, yet consider the cost

    From Alabaster bone the Ocean’s a-shallow
    The Mermaids remember the times that were fallow
    Year upon year the bi-peds walked without aim or deed
    That could count for fullness, even yet upon steed
    Even in those ages of lore when upon horse they’d trot
    Or with Gasoline chariot to the park like Mel Ot

    None could account for the empty space of land
    Or like Kieth Stone, bend down and till without turning into sand
    The eidolons of time, immemorable: drooping, eternal clocks
    An echo of murmurs, drogue and sorrow, indifferent as the rocks
    Whom would not cry out, with refusal of price
    None could garner their strength or bleed them twice

    Like ‘Nevermore’ sketched into water by Salvador Dali
    Quickly running a message up a high mast in Mali
    Or Michaelangelo his genius wild, cutting a lady less forlorn
    With a savior already finished with work and free from scorn
    Oddyseus’ raft might have hurried home
    Had it not been for the Sirens’ mercurial foam

    Everyman distracted, with each passing year
    And epoch of pain pouring tear upon tear
    Without discerning the rhyme or the reason
    Or gaining knowable time season upon season
    Always the lure of fruitless eternity insipid
    The body and mind empty: blood, bone and lipid

    When fools or king’s would rush in where others feared
    Bombs fired all round and their people were seared
    In jest, a plague of doubt, a feast for Decameron’s clowns
    In love, the firing flesh of sin falling down
    In war, the rage of the people aimed at shadows’ night
    In peace, moments too few to count, the treasure slight

    Wherefore the incessant loss and vainglory
    From what source the endless folly
    With each generation aimless proceeding
    And substantial hope forever receding
    How this vague sense of emptiness and sorrow
    And no real horizon to fill one’s soul tomorrow

    Each city above ground falling in on itself
    A cascading destruction from the continental shelf [river]
    All built upon empty dreams, from false stories past
    Or emptied like a dream, when the brain wakes fast
    Awake to the shuddering quake of earth below
    Or perhaps Earth itself, blowing up in a glow

    Just like Rome to fall away at the end of time
    to pass the cup, to self-destruct on the vine
    From Aeneas came the Trojan horde
    Yet he ate his tables instead of fall on his sword
    While some chanced Paris instead
    Without casting runes or checking their head

    To hence or from where it could not matter
    On the fat of the lamb each gentile growing fatter
    Over the centuries, the meaning of things or remorse
    Grew dim and stolid, owning a garden or grooming a horse
    With all of the sparkling treasure and treats so kind
    None could fathom true nature’s curse, or pay it any mind

    Running this way and that, in search of some adventure new
    The roads ran their course with flatirons the ruts not few
    Over hill, mountain, river, valley, flood, glen and dale
    To the open sea with long, sandy beaches and cut-up shale
    To found a village here or there or town or port to call
    Imports to the harbor, markets to open, and stores to maul

    With Able’s fruit—either high or low— yielding no good life
    The towns looked above to stave away constant strife
    With no blossom, the towns built upward to store some treasure
    The good ol’ boys breaking stocks to gain some measure
    Breaking stocks not bread, with yield upon yield
    Or bricks into actions, building high away from the fields

    And the New Babylon, like F. Scott predicted in prose
    Where nothing feels decent or good and nothing ever grows
    Has grown higher, perhaps, than even ancient Sumer could
    And his books out of print, out of font, are not printed in wood
    All that remains of his stories, east egg and west
    Are programmers building forms from programs, no longer missed

    The lonely feeling of afternoon apperitifs or stiff strong drink
    Even the sparklin’ ladies in their feather, plush and mink
    Soar beyond the lay of the skyline if not the lay of the bed
    With nothing but wonder, inclination, nothing but dread
    How much emptiness this massive wealth can buy
    Without really any curious gal or curious guy

    The world’s tallest buildings reaching into ‘thereal night
    And lights flashing on hovering spacecraft above, whose flight
    Orbits the continents, oceans, floodplains, and polar caps
    When pressing on towards Venus or Neptune will open their flaps
    Look outward beyond towards other planets near and far
    Within the Solar Domain and towards them that wander

    The astronauts in future, and from before, won’t know why they came
    to this planet Earth, since they will have left with nothing, even blame
    Blame to exist, exist to blame, never settling here or anywhere
    Where the grass is the stars beyond bluer than blue, or crystal stairs
    With melted hearts, like sugar lumps, full of air, full of plump
    Bumpin’ up slow, passin’ Dante on the left–or Janice Bishop’s rump

    Stashed with programs recorded, which, condensed on universal files
    Will tell them very little of what they don’t know and may never know
    In this lifetime or the next heaven, in this orbit or the next
    Treasure from this Earth loaded up on classical chips, some kind of text
    Even the quantum loads with memory mimetic, made to mimic the brane
    Will lead you no where’s at all, empty, with your mind well past insane

    For what else or beyond could be so crazy as to part from this precious earth
    Without ever having known it’s cost, price, work, measure or stint of worth
    And clearly, those who leave, when they leave, will not have known one grain
    Of sand or soil, mud or toil: all dusty plows pluming billow-clouds into rain
    Run on gasoline or stocks of mules, donkey, horse, or ram, shepperd’s hand
    Fields from lost fields, turning wheat from grass, rice from blue water land

    The mystery of death and birth still a mystery; life a mere reminiscence
    Without any real light here or plant photometry, only luminescence
    Imagine leaving this planet without every having known it’s rhythm
    Going to some other world set in it’s own path, with it’s Keplerian hum

    Beating out some different drum, set in a blinding sphere of light and sound
    Like blended whiskey with the Irish; or Navajo, without the calendar round

    Sans irony, the starmen will consult their astrologer or star-chart for this logic
    Countin’ the days before they land again when the stars are [csmo]allo-genic
    Since this cosmos has revealed no light to them, the starmen going forth
    Eager to jump off of Earth’s orbital path, bend and trajectory
    Their spacesuits, ships, tanks, sabres, and thrusters made from the factory
    Everything printed like plastic in hazy glow and in false dimension
    In light and low gravity, with false smiles and fat charms hanging in suspension

    How could the new age begin completely unaware, one might ask ?
    With no real knowledge of how the past one ended, without a task
    This high level of dimness, this naivete, and ignorance unknowing
    Much like blind men on the river styx, or perhaps, along with Homer rowing
    Going from one ruse to harbour next shenanigan—look into the Cyclop’s Eye!
    No land in Egypt and with Dido elope, with the Siren’s despair, intoxicants in Libya

    Imagine Earth itself to be just another Troy, from which, after having raged
    In countless battles from Tyre to Megiddo has not been conquered, only aged
    And now, having defeated the Spartan race, destroying Priam’s home
    Odysseus is captain of a spacecraft with the direction of Ithaca not known
    On land to land, world to world, asteroid to comet, sun to galaxy he will wander lost
    With endless delay, look askance-or with wanderlust-be unable to define a host

    Of angels, like the first home, who—with celestial sound—closed God on a throne
    Only future starmen will proceed without God's advantage, in empty space all alone
    The victory of God against Satan, here, unproclaimed with all men lost, in between
    The endless battles of lucifer and the deity; heaven's splinter to the devil's spleen
    The past ages of travail, a mere testing ground of efficacy, the master's saving grace
    With the bulk of humanity, like chaff of wheat, having been sifted, as if only a race

    Mankind, having run as a race, a race, quite long, the original cause forgotten
    How corruption had entered, how the fall began, when Eve traipsed the garden
    Yet the race of man; his nature, his spoke, his mind, like a wheel intermingled
    Along with the path of the gods--their flight, their call--the Seth of Eve first jingled
    How could he not but cry out, from crib, in inter-mixed and complex strain
    Since so saith Adam's wife, doting upon her first real child aptly named

    Appointed to replace her prior kind, one stricken and one banished
    Shepherd Abel first, died, from blight of Cain, latter, whose soul famished
    If not his body, since fed with fruit and till of the land, in parched curse
    His work distilled into nonsense, and measure as much less in worth
    Then the gentle, strange and loving work of the Shepherd's hand
    From Shepherd to shepherd, the Maker gave not to Abel land

    Since he roamed from brook to brook, or down into gentle meadow
    With his staff in hand, and flock afoot, only the caves like ghettos
    Learning manly ways and singing with chest open and bare
    Under open sky, canopy misting light, and all of life seeming fair
    The Lord, himself, culling Abel's rapport and favour, giving him trust
    Rather than partition acres, cubits or parcels of land, if only just just

    They could have ranged together foreever, in just that way
    The moment of experience, un-cloaked and with innocent play
    In co-creation perfect, when the Lord frequently appeared With approval and fulness of strength, and nothing he feared
    Since Abel was able. That is all. Competent and true. Simple and decent.
    With no agenda or aim, no cunning ploy, singing what had been recent

    In the fore of his mind, as he practiced a tune sung by the Maker
    It had all of the elements; a good sung to song (sing) and when beat out by a Shaker
    gave to Abel the feel of the Valley floor, sauntering through the trees
    Knowing which ones best to climb or to rest upon, which ones visited by bees
    And those buzzin' along too added fervour and charm to the song
    Made stacatto by the wounded woodpecker, fizzured by the waterfall, and then a throng

    Of Quacking Ducks gave ascent to the melody with abstract acclaim
    Each creature adding intensity of sound to the natural symphony that even rain
    Could not anull the effect which Abel hummed about him in ambling grace
    Setting the Gardens creatures to echoe his voice, even the ripple of its trace
    As such, the butterfly caught up with the lad as he approached a quiet brook
    The horsefly darted about; reflected on the water he could see his crook

    It was one that the Lord had given him, in person, a kind of reward
    The Master had told him--Abel recounted; that, to be a bard
    Is the highest calling placed upon man----and the direct fashion
    of Adam, the 1st Man, had been directed with all poetic devices stashed
    About the garden. Except that the early fall of man qua man
    had precluded the Lords consternation,--had made a loss of his plan

    To fashion an Agent of Agency, much like himself, with poetic sensibility and understanding
    Deep insight, sensitivity, probing knowledge, inter-connectivity, always handing
    Gestures of Kindness, forward grace, intution, foresight or premonition
    To each kind and creature, with soaring life, and with death in remission
    Gave victory to every waking moment and in subconscious repose
    God's chief agent, his first creation>carboholic, had been made already a rose

    Yet with the recent collapse of the garden estate, Abe knew
    The devil had appeared down, in, up out the chimney flue
    As a result Eve had lost the Rose, petals fallin' to the ground
    His brother Cain had started his count of the calendar round
    Things had been different that was for sure
    His fathers loss had made him abdure

    The right of the poet, would be handed on to the one son, or both
    Since Adam's toil ws now set in stone, and like thet flame to the moth
    He could now show only what once had life, the lustre of brightness
    When before the chorse of the garden had belonged to the 1st man, his sense of rightness
    Alone would guide God's original path for him, to aptly name
    All of the creatures placed above, below or in the sea, carried no blame

    Adam's only task before--when all alone--to differentiate and describe
    The fauna and fare of the garden, its immense diversity of tribe,
    School, cousin, tree, game and den--- all of its life scintillate
    Its fecund; and teeming flower and blossom, with the heaven's commisserate
    By himself and through his own agency he had given depiction
    To the surrounding world of the garden--he hadn't time for fiction

    The Lord's charge upon him literal, immediate and direct
    For in such a manner the Master had directed him to ressurect
    His own creation, from material substrate and thing to form immaterial
    The ring of Adams naming voice hammering out the discrete creation from etherial
    Mist, the ratios of eternal harmony falling ever so softly into place
    Except that htere had been no fall at that point, only a trace

    Very likely; of hierarchy and dispensation, the grace of fulness and completion
    Not the other kind of grace--which ensues when broken man without discretion
    invites fallen spirits to imbibe without remorse in an aimless course
    Such that Adam went from grace to grace, or what was worse
    Had blamed the entire sordid affair on the very woman whom had been pinned up
    By the Lords own hand, showing off the breast, thighs and rump

    Of the sassy girl that God had fashioned for his main man
    "Let Us Make Man in Our Own Image"---God had said with no real plan
    Other than producing from Original Grace a re;icant ex nihilo
    Like the first stars, or even better---from the first honeybees tupelo
    This, the very first form of Grace, and also this, the much better kind
    Since prior in the thoughts and heart of God, what proceeded from the foremind

    Had been perfect and free from corruption, a natural singularity
    Fractals proceeding from fractals in perfect regularity
  2. The blood must be re-claimed from the soil

    With the heavy bodies bent with lust and toil
    Each rivening day strifing the rule of the garden
    The mohammedans straking for some pardon
    Not for themselves or all alone under banished sky
    For all the abandoned who look forward to die

    Nothing so simple as an unwanted blessing
    A mercenary corp of doctors or hessians
    The great stock of whisky, a limited edition
    A dusty tome of Aristotle and keen erudition
    Prophetic Angel, Skytree, the verse of Gibran
    Oracle of Day, Holy Moses, rocket of Kahlil

    We go to the New Stars, Heavens Reverse
    All foretold and Pointed, Reverse Engineered
    The Worlds Prepared Before and Inhabited Too
    Nothing left to Starve or Bewitch from the Dew
    Unfathomable Promise, Time without End,
    The Count of Sand or Heather and Mountains Portend

    A new day perhaps, of immeasurable tin, sound of din
    A hurricane noise, a thrall of riotous cuts, although thin
    The blood-curdle choke of rage from before
    Now purchased like plasma from the needle store
    Go fuck yourself, If you want my dick, you vampire whore
    You've had enough since the Garden, Lillith, you'll not get more

    Now the ratio between human, vampire, dragon and other dead
    Has been cast with fair radiant echo against the nuclear thread
    A shroud sewn with Alcubierre's hand and Teller's eye
    Will re-write the laws of your time to die
    Not forced by the forced prison of your local priest
    Or enticed by Babylon to take part in it's wicked feast

    The work that was promised to Adam and re-framed unto Cain
    To un-curse the valley, glen and land: to filter Acid from Rain
    With thorns o- the rose coming loose from the Bush
    And snakes running hither or thither in scintillate Rush
    The Oracle of Satan found new charms to spread in perfect Cube
    Could be the shape of Sound Maynard or Max's Cubic Rube

    The Time of Orwell Now and Jobs spelling Apple at his Side
    And Sting writing programs for the Cops, whom along for the Ride
    the Bladerunner checkin for humans among the technical horde
    Huxley detected the separate spirit, lobotimized souls, Model T Fords
    And Harrison checked again with electric sleep on the Brain
    A tear for Summer, or a vision for Canticles, a wave almost Inane

    With countless ages past since the Dust of Sumer lent
    It's hell-bound rasp of gutteral destruction spent
    The awful wave of gas, a riotous nuclear blast
    In the once Green land where sage grew fast
    The dim spectre of time has given up the ghost
    With markets bazar and material plenty, yet consider the cost

    From Alabaster bone the Ocean's a-shallow
    The Mermaids remember the times that were fallow
    Year upon year the bi-peds walked without aim or deed
    That could count for fullness, even yet upon steed
    Even in those ages of lore when upon horse they'd trot
    Or with Gasoline chariot to the park like Mel Ot

    None could account for the empty space of land
    Or like Kieth Stone, bend down and till without turning into sand
    The eidolons of time, immemorable: drooping, eternal clocks
    An echo of murmurs, drogue and sorrow, indifferent as the rocks
    Whom would not cry out, with refusal of price
    None could garner their strength or bleed them twice

    'Nevermore' should have been sketched into water by Salvador Dali
    Quickly running a message up a high mast in Mali
    Or Michaelangelo might have cut a lady less forlorn
    With a savior already finished with work and free from scorn
    Oddyseus' raft might have hurried home
    Had it not been for the Sirens' mercurial foam

    Everyman distracted, with each passing year
    And epoch of pain pouring tear upon tear
    Without discerning the rhyme or the reason
    Or gaining knowable time season upon season
    Always the lure of fruitless eternity insipid
    The body and mind empty: blood, bone and lipid

    When fools or king's would rush in where others feared
    Bombs fired all around and their people were seared
    In jest, a plague of doubt, a feast for Decameron's clowns
    In love, the firing flesh of sin falling down
    In war, the rage of the people aimed at shadows' night
    In peace, moments too few to count, the treasure slight

    Wherefore the incessant loss and vainglory
    From what source the endless folly
    With each generation aimless proceeding
    And substantial hope forever receding
    How this vague sense of emptiness and sorrow
    And no real horizon to fill one's soul tomorrow

    Each city above ground falling in on itself
    A cascading destruction from the continental shelf [river]
    All built upon empty dreams, from false stories past
    Or emptied like a dream, when the brain wakes fast
    Awake to the shuddering quake of earth below
    Or perhaps Earth itself, blowing up in a glow

    Just like Rome to fall away at the end of time
    to pass the cup, to self-destruct on the vine
    From Aeneas came the Trojan horde
    Yet he ate his tables instead of fall on his sword
    While some chanced Paris instead
    Without casting runes or checking their head

    To hence or from where it could not matter
    On the fat of the lamb each gentile growing fatter
    Over the centuries, the meaning of things or remorse
    Grew dim and stolid, owning a garden or grooming a horse
    With all of the sparkling treasure and treats so kind
    None could fathom true nature's curse, or pay it any mind

    Running this way and that, in search of some adventure new
    The roads ran their course with flatirons the ruts not few
    Over hill, mountain, river, valley, flood, glen and dale
    To the open sea with long, sandy beaches and cut-up shale
    To found a village here or there or town or port to call
    Imports to the harbor, markets to open, and stores to maul

    With Able's fruit---either high or low--- yielding no good life
    The towns looked above to stave away constant strife
    With no blossom, the towns built upward to store some treasure
    The good ol' boys breaking stocks to gain some measure
    Breaking stocks not bread, with yield upon yield
    Or bricks into actions, building high away from the fields

    And the New Babylon, like F. Scott predicted in prose
    Where nothing feels decent or good and nothing ever grows
    Has grown higher, perhaps, than even ancient Sumer could
    And his books out of print, out of font, are not printed in wood
    All that remains of his stories, east egg and west
    Are programmers building forms from programs, no longer missed

    The lonely feeling of afternoon apperitifs or stiff strong drink
    Even the sparklin' ladies in their feather, plush and mink
    Soar beyond the lay of the skyline if not the lay of the bed
    With nothing but wonder, inclination, nothing but dread
    How much emptiness this massive wealth can buy
    Without really any curious gal or curious guy

    The world's tallest buildings reaching beyond the globe, into 'thereal night
    And lights flashing pale towards hovering spacecraft above whose flight
    Orbits the continents, oceans, floodplains, and polar caps
    When pressing on towards Venus or Neptune will open their flaps
    Look outward beyond towards other planets near and far
    Within the Solar Domain, and without, to those that set and those that wander

    And those astronauts in future, and from before, will never know why they came
    to this planet Earth, since---most likely---they have left with nothing less than blame
    Blame to exist, exist to blame, never settling here or anywhere
    Where the grass is the stars beyond bluer than blue, or crystal stairs
    With melted hearts, like sugar lumps, full of air, full of plump
    Bumpin' up slow, passin' Dante on the left--or Janice Bishop's rump

    And stashed with programs recorded, which condensed on universal files
    Will tell them very little of what they don't know and may never know
    In this life time or the next ................................................;in this orbit or the next
    All the treasure from this Earth loaded up on classical chips, some kind of text
    Even the quantum loads with memory mimetic, made to mimic the brane
    Will lead you no where's at all, empty, with your mind well past insane

    For what else or beyond could be so crazy as to part from this precious earth
    Without ever having known it's cost, price, work, measure or stint of worth
    And clearly, those who leave, when they leave, will not have known one grain
    Of sand or soil, mud or toil: all dusty plows pluming billow-clouds into rain
    Run on gasoline or stocks of mules, donkey, horse, or ram, shepperd's hand
    Fields from lost fields, turning wheat from grass, rice from blue water land

    The mystery of death, growth, and birth still a mystery; life a mere reminiscence
    Without any real light here or plant photometry, they will go for luminescence
    Imagine leaving this planet without every having known it's rhythm
    Going to some other world set in it's own path, it's Keplerian hum
  3. Overtake the shore-lit glow of eternity
    Transubstantiative* and incorporeal:
    Cornucopia of Swan Song, Unsung except in memory
    Cyphering the impermeable membrane through holographic codes
    The Kingdom of Elohihohi; immovable............ ............ //or/and at best......... diurnal
    Keys of misting eyes,
    Paean of dust: tragedy of light, fecundity of life, implosive force of the beginning
    If I can see you, then I am saved
    Strings of hummingbird, sustaining stretched cordolette
    Vociferous gestures of Cezanne,
    stumbling with Proust in hand
    or perhaps vicious Baudelaire
    Without detection of your heavenly gift-crimson poet-
    I would suffer in svelt intoxication,
    Forever enclosed in Hyacinth
    I would merely suffer the pain of abstraction,
    I must be damned to the Inferno
    Beatrice: Where is Your Path leading Me
    Into the Garden or Beyond?
  4. falling bag of poison
    go away from the parade
    of eager spectators
    watching for hercules
    to land on his shoulder
    of concrete
    somewhere near
    this fissure of oracle gas
    intoxicating the crowd aghast with laughter
    almost crying with massive, hysterical hysteria
    without a clue, who will come next
    where will it? come from
  5. Rhyme-back my slap attack,
    a page of verse in charade
    a dimlit parade
    an inglorious vanity

    Your hair, the red of Siquoa Bark
    Shred in skate light
    Burn Weed on the Front Porch
    Dial the Sheppard s Lawn

    Those words from before
    never uttered in truth
    only prophetic remorse
    The sadness of the worlds

    The joy is in direction away
    Not in staying in this drab place
    Hold on no longer to these trees
    Let go the body

    My Vortex will Crush you beyond lavender
    Beyond the pale of memory
    Where your soul, not your body,
    Will be sprinkled from the dust of her Cloud -Ss/

    Easy to learn what is new
    Yet from your own work only
    The blessing of liberty; sweet fucking liberty
    Like 96 hours of relief from drill sergeants