Archive for June, 2014

Restoring Nothing’s Good Name

Tolstoy thinks that when the meaning of life devolves to nothing one should commence believing the lies about something.

The simple problem here is that “nothing” is a thing that we know nothing about. It is the stuff that exists when our ability to sense, and develop instruments to sense, fail to sense anything. “Nothing”, then, may be comprised of a single particle type OR of an entire new universe of particle types that form into ever larger globs of stuff we cannot sense and serve the final purpose of keeping everything we can sense from mashing together in one giant preter-post-primordial stew that has no edges – anywhere – ever!

Nothing may well consist exclusively of edges, surfaces and time.

The important thing to note here is that there is a great deal more nothing than there is everything else. nothing is the major component of everything. Nothing may be the fundamental element of life. We know little of it. Pay it no note. Gloss over it on the way to the various somethings. So it may well be the secret ingredient that, when studied and understood completely, answers all the unanswered questions we have asked.


His chalance erupted into the cave with lips and tongue spewing fire;
belly- a cauldron boiling with virulent, explosive flammability and eyes;
glowing yellow-red, intense tunnels into the molten core of his volcanic rage –
He Was Alive!
And for that they would all pay!!!.

The Young Prolitariati

What makes this poet speak so?
“The fence throwing down a spray of shadow on which blue and orange birds parade and feed. ”
“it is a hobby of the North American to notice everything that doesn’t work.”
“the sorrow bird singing in the mangrove swamp. Slogans painted on the sewer pipe, sprayed on the mayor’s house: land and sun and ownership and God the conqueror who comes in a raised and gilded throne lifted by the children he had cured.”
“Ecstasy and rapture of the sun.”
“Hey, mister! This is a hand raised up for change: photographed, and taken home.”

what is it he sees in such detail?
the occasional missed “tock” that presages the cosmic clocks final unwind
The edge of the blackest pit of impending doom?
or just the bottom side of the imaginatrix he uses for careful self-awareness and identifying himself to himself, himself.

testing his soul to be certain that it is sufficiently numb before he ventures forth with his senses exposed.

the poet ,in his dank cellar or musty book-insulated library, looking out at the world through a long, lens-capped pipe, focusing on the unanointed, under washed, beneath-pitiful, ennui-inducing, sub-realities; to record stultifying detail in dismal abundance – enough to infuse deep subtext, ambiguity, misdirection and distracting analysis. (I weep therefore I am)

and one day, when the poet finds himself without the pebble in his shoe he will write a greeting card instead of his usual polemic dirge, bending his artful prolix to the task of making Pippa proud and mothers everywhere weep… and finish the laundry.



What, in fact, surrounds me is specifically not me. I am the figure, it is the ground.

What I am not represents the solid, negative space in which I am the hole.
Carved out of only the not-else, everything left is me!

I am the sum of notness, the pinnacle of ain’t and precipitated lees of uh-uh.

And there is so very much of it that I must begin each day with a decision of what part of that vast notness will I focus on being today. If I wish to be the very best that I can be, I’ll need to accentuate the positive elements of not being those things over which my cognitive lens scans.

when you subtract everything that I am not from the universe that remains, the dregs, the muck at the very bottom of that barrel – is me!! The worlds best bad example. the one you can point at and say: “he sure ain’t no Patsy Cline or galvanized drool bucket! well he’s alright but not nearly the carbon fiber popsicle stick I had hoped for. yes but, can he make penuche cotton candy with his nose? can he fart the bossa nova or whistle up a ball bearing hat ring?”

Solipsismal meanderings aside, I am not even me! Me, you see, is a pronoun and I am not a pronoun. I’m not the subject of this sentence, hungry, angry, tumescent, prepubescent, phosphorescent or anhedonic.

If I exhibit bilabialness without being bilabial, I’m sure you’ll understand, It is just my nature.

Another Likelihood

The Sculptor’s Word

gradually, in your mind, i will render it –
carve away all the words i do not choose,
twist your mouth into a classic irony
with regetful filling up the eyes lower lids,
and shape the full-born essence of this grand figure
for you to touch and see.

The collection of shapes
made from the whole cloth
of concepts in my mind
and humanized,
in the scope of the poet’s stone,
into the magnum opus – statuary
now forming in your imagination.

Without the power of the word
            there is no god.
without the force of the imagination
            there is no word.
without the purest sense of self
            there is no imagination.

it is imagination that creates and sustains me.
i fold back into the energy force of the cosmos but, for it.
an eddy current backwashed into a quiet continuum pool,
an incidental spark of will gradually coalescing
its latency into an accidental order,
one fundamental coherency; akin to the formation of a galaxy,
nebula, sun, planet, rock, ocean, plankton…

Not from one overbearing power but,
from one singular “Always”.
The rock-solid “never-has-not-been”
from which all things emerge –
into which all things evanesce.

© 2018 What's That On the Road – A Head
Magic Vision | Design: NET-TEC of Nahrungsergänzung. Coding: Aloe Vera of Damenmode.