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Part III - Through the Sphere of Light [The Fire Sermon]

Ah broke out ma banjo and plucked out an ole tuna. Sure it is broken. Ah broke it, hee hee. Set me free now, off the grocery store with ma woe man, sing it while ahm gone:

Doo dit do dit do doo
Doo diddly dit dit
Doo doo doo
Diddly? Dat!
Doodly? Dat!
Doo dit do dit do? Dat.

This wood guitar singing like that sweet song of such sweet times, run softly, run on, until ... yes, until, such a word there, letting itself stumble over all sorts of associations playing for me in the repetition of everyday trivialities, all playing for keeps, in one incarnation or another, just send me off and I will go, is what I have heard and heard again in sweet times, for that is what all, no most, part, of this is about clashing in the near destruct ruct rupturing in a heartbeat's accordion, fasing, phasing, slowly into a wild sequence about how self referential so many things have become of late tomato blossoms of friends gone and gone again, undone and yes I mean undone, ripped up by the roots of it falling once again from flying moments, where we laid down with our backs of our shirts wet from the grass, the tall whispering grass by the water, down there with the lotus and the lily hand in hand, playing childish Lao-Tsu games with mythical morals and rhyming intentions, preventions, conventions, contentions, I once had, like you and some of us held on as the water began to really sail past, clipping the bow like a panting dog's saliva beads upon the tattooed flesh and now we are into repetition, but what are you into really?


Like I'm into airplane slip streams, wet dreams, slow screams right into the core of metal, lurching out of fifth gear, you knew the baby had it, hangin' you said, but still you got wasted, so here I am again, laying it all out, talking to myself, tumbling myself into eight year old somersaults, spinning quietly in my pattern, mandala, la la, wa wa, walla walla, shimmy shimmy, voodoo, Legba Dambala loas wrapping around you even when you thought you were asleep, and here comes the question back around again, Shit, I hope that my brain is in the right place, back there, or at least, someone's back there, typing away while I sit in here and think, but wait, who's that looking in? The Cow's Tail! I can only escape my four legs and snout for so long, out here suntanning with lots of lotion, in a rockin motion potion ocean like lake, with the world all below you somewhere and the temperature is like one hundred and six of seven of some insane triple winner that can play it slow from the beginning and then wonders how hard is would be to get back into it all again, NOT HARD, actually he's enjoying it over a glass of pink guitar riffs, listening to Sweet Times, river tides, aching ... And departed, I too, leave no address, just a quaint picture postcard of what I once was. BAMM NOWW just got you when you relaxed to try and understand. Now Stop!

Diet Coke blues
Cut my wrists on a pop top
Daddy paid my dues
Cut my wrists on a pop top
Diet Coke blues

After three years of that sort of run I was empty and ready to, you know, I'm sure, like totally, but here we're back and redefining vector coordinates of intentionality and post conscious pre ter nat king rual cole duh out here without the cover of night, down here where all the rivers come to cry and fall, again fall, false planned and damned to suffer a jet lag into layover me honey, so softly, side to side, gliding, Poi Dog Pondering and being so utterly fascinated by simple little tunes in my head falling, falling, granting backwards favors to my ego, EGO!? No, he's not here, not really, adverbial extensions of archaic poetry, Poe uses it nevermore and there, for thy own pantingnessosity and utter, udder, rightbrightbiteyouintheassousnessosity. Thump!

Drilling out right now on a gleaming twist of a meta for you, awful punny, cool, cole, cole oh quee y1all, Damn bit Bone diddly wee haw, Bird flying in a post coital willing trumpet boogie that echoes off my cornea in dolphin rainbows of complete agony, I am the mustard squeezing out the radio in static rhymes, crying over the blasphemy of blasting in an attempt to once again recover some sense of weedling rhythms of waves falling, calling in oxymoronic happening trying to jump upon the back of real objects like giant lumbering dinosaurs, binging with that insane ringing correction still not quite there, going back and retranslating, yeah, go cat go, jam doozie, yung yung yung goes the automatic door like magic, whoosh goes the head as it flashes away into infinity like a Kodak bear leaping for the stars, its constellation of hazy pride, sort of a soft cotton fog, in which we could hear the river sluging, slurging, slurching in approximate grace, what a touch, one touch and you go ping.

Anyway, there we were lying in the vegetation and here comes this rat, crawling like James Joyce on his belly, the one eyed love, snaking between you and eye, the one I lub rue Kate, gently now, gently upon those keys playing time's winged chariot like a piano smile, spreading out the blanket of synchronicity in illicit mistress distress, come on, lay down and I'll spray you with the lotion of the halcyon love, king fisher on the clarinet, playing like the Edenic mambo, I think that's what it was there as the waters crept by like a one and a half twist into this pure consciousness of still aching consciousness that dreams in quiet booms upon the mountain trees that swing apeneck across the water of So Da, dum dum, racing with the psychotic backbeat of time hurrying into the pornographic booths and beatin, Iscuse me, eating one another in ritualistic compensation for their primordial lonelitude, living off the juice, white and creamy like those nightingale thighs upon the soft pink lips of California, that is my mistress' name, if you must know, and I suppose that nothing is worse than that star factory out there humping the American Scream into the black whirl of the diety's sandy blond hair, what a scare that was too, there with our bones playing that game down by the river's tent, throwing knuckles to predict the outcome of the king's malady, if his sword would ever heal, if you get my drift, there between purity and lust, rechanelled into the higher chakras of existence, above the transcendent bass beat of Shivala groovy drum, doing the cheerleader there in the castle of the unconscious, a place very very cool and cozy, where innocence might roam in too young attitudes and latitudes of hyperactivity, collectively, protectively, introspectively, lively, hiding in the riding mobile, but his rude voice lulled her into prostration at his feet, to massage the guru of the hindoo, hear me David Henry, such a dizzy atmosphere, pushing it in against her will, juggin juggin tuggin sluggin it into her deeply, feeding upon her eyes, like lies flies turning in a albatross tornado in the cold arctic intensity of her youth, so rudely forced. Jug, right into the sphere of light. Listen: you can almost hear the sound of her children in the cupola.

Paranoid pulsations riding the white horses of Fuseli impressed dogma, still hiding in the chest of our second transformations, breathing out, in, out, in, out in the boon docks, where the ships leaving for Greece emerge out of the slippers of Aprodite's penis throbbing softly as a soul syndicate, lately there have been several blue clouds hovering like solid slabs of dripping meat, stocking in eighty nine times across the boathouse where the catfish king was sleeping in shallow water. I caught him in my fingers but got cut and poisoned with the ecstasy of the childhood insight into nature, trees whispering prayers and forming circles in the moonlight.

Oh such screams I had when I was a young cowboy riding the white Greyhound into the myth of the American Nuclear Awakening, there upon the white sands of the devil's own reckoning singing in harmonic daydreams all the songs of the nursery and vacillations of total disturbing crescendos that dropped from the low slung ranches of the Golden Bough, and the stories there, about all the dogs that reversed themselves and held themselves stretched out upon the Procrustrian waterbeds, swimming into the Aegean to plug up all the volcanoes of hermaphroditic love, there in the cum encrusted hole of glory, winding down the high mountains ways, seeing all, knowing all, feeling all, even myself and I didn't care to suffer such pleasures but had to involve myself in some sort of empathy, there in the Citadel of Memories with Valthek and Byron doing it to each other, strung with golden chains and ripped green boughs that shone golden in the Gotterdammerun of the setting Irish laughter, like a billion vermillion minnows all churning in the froth of her arrival, her she comes, around the mountain, with Babe the blue ox, fording the years of slow arrival with Gothic density, tearing down the primal mounds designed to cover up the insanity of our peculiarly pathological condition that rings in arboreal reductions like the western wind praying into her rich fleshy folds, anal and expanding, he took me without my knowledge there in the Magic Theatre of middle class morality, he took me straight through, and I watched how he did it through the cut sphere of light, throbbing in eight millimeter flicker of weird dramatic sex loops, only waiting for the climactic moment, when he might spray it into me, actually in through the sphere, draped with languorous tongue appendages, open and gasping then gulping in the liquid light, down into the acid drenched interior of god's thick belly, still the reel is shimmering and, I can hear its clattering clittering slicking as the frames advance to form for is some illusion of connection, some idea of self, transmitting through the light, the dreams that we might too be there with her, with him, there upon the screen, stained and dripping, with the fertility of all the degenerate Delphic oracles orifices opening to receive the pythons nine or ten inches of freedom and possibility, Skinnerian reflections of man and world notwithstanding, I turn my eyes upward from my desk and look straight into the hole of all my persecution and I too know of the throbbing, waiting, splitting into an infinity of pleasures, inside a single tear of pain, feeling me off with hard oily hands, reptilian and torn, scaly raptures never ceasing, here in the promised land of milk and honey, and honey oozing out of nuts, and a pile of red bones in the sterility of the shower, and here comes the young man carbuncular to have a faux and unmanifested trip upon the phallic fungus of ancient Mexico. Come on in, sit with us out here beside the wall, we are chanting poems with all or bones, gnawed from the insectile rages of rotting decadence, sing with us, and explode your soft shelled sensibilities, for we know your game now, and we will melt your brain in the Clear Light of poetry.

I lick your raven lips
With cackles until you cry
Rivers of rapid madness
That kiss the dangles of my feet
Hanging in erect splendor
From the moment we last kissed
And I groped along the stairway
Stumbling and unlit

Don't you just wish that the dogs would explode in balloon frenzies of rabid masturbatory gleams that brush your teeth every night without one thought of how absolutely Zen the experience is, how much we forget and how little we remember of our sour existences chugging up on midnight trout lines across the lakes of or genetic pools degradations? Don't you, as you gnaw raggedly upon you own teeth, the cow's magical tail never coming through in the stimulus and response of you sorrowful lovemaking, waiting for the sun tangentially, slowly parading the enormous float of your latent infertility upon the fire wrought pavement of your unknowable Freudian complex caught within the realm of the second chakra? Don't you, you true blue fool of little serious intent, not even knowing the director's name of the B movie of your soul molding and holding the unfolding intention of the Skinner box, rusting in the concentric spirals of Walden's hidden message? Henry David I bow to thee and break up the fine table of you rebirth, splintering the center of every mandala until I find the tender worm of self, slowly growing and going everywhere.

She placed the disc upon the summit of her desire and lets the music play her breaking water, still creeping, her river tent broken, spoken in harsh dialects, as a token to the mystical heat of her underwater passivity. Looking in the mirror, she sees nothing and two dull piranas waiting for the monthly blood bath, never coming and smiling in fetal envy of the Clear Light of the Zone, it was there but she was too fucking ignorant to even notice beyond her finely polished nails. Legendary stuff here.

Anyway, this music starts sounding like the smacking effect of her two pendulous dugs slapping together as the swing to and fro in a hokey pokey ecstasy of badly dubbed attraction, slap slap thump, slap clump, thump, and a big furry foot puts itself in and slides in balletic twists down into her lint filled navel, outwardly swaying like a cockroaches antennae in the A/C sterility, still though, there was something of a song there. It went something like this:

The rover sweets and earl in a bar got so incredibly drunk that he climbed on the back of a nyaa nyaa hooey and slumbered off into the quiggly glombrous droom, still I could hear him tittling rivishly as the blamblam bottom hitt runnings fell like silence into the prompitronnies of the sun. My God! I think that I've finally found the ring!

But really, it's not all that funny. This blue eyed pop sings into the core of smashed noise ringing with neato songs ectasy, a woman's voice in the headphones saying where are you now, where are, you know, do you know, where you might be, wear it like a tiger's symmetry, and cry just cry into the beginning, and I swear that I am just barely hanging on, even though to you it must seem like years since I've been gone, to me it's only an instant, and that had to be written as such as this does so that at least something would be understood, as the sound of wind from so far away, in the mountains of Van Gogh waltzing simply across the computer printout with the shadow of hot metal death over his shoulder singing:

Hey na nee ho
Wee la lee lee
This river sweats

Rushes and falls
Rises like the bright
Red barges out by the
Isle of Dogs. The George
And Dragon off the way
By the Green Witch walk
Under the black current
Of the Thames, where I paid the daughter
For an extra hour
Close to dawn.
Hey na nee low
Low la lee wee
Weialala leia.

This untroubled pool
Quivering with insanity
As I flow over the edge
Into my own face
Whistling like a mountain stream
Softly over all the day
Like a blanket of grey clouds
Suspended mystically in the sky
And falling into an ocean of rain
To only rise like ghosts
Later off the steaming streets
That run like neural pathways
Through the neighborhood of my self

Upon this cold beach
I have no connections
Except that which is joined
Through the Void
God pouring into God
Pouring into God
Into God into God
And I tear my fingernails

Away trying to climb
The shear incline of my thoughts
Oh God, give this race vision
Into their emptiness
Into you into nothing

I am on fire with possibility, roaming the vast stretches that expand between the realms of love and mentation looming like the prurient moon over all that we see and be and free from our soft cocoon of intention, there and bright with the messianic depositions that proclaim our Universal reversals into guilt's hidden waves, paying out the furies with chunks and torn shards of South Asian betrayal, inculcating itself into the horror of the American paradise, growing up cold and lonely, in the rain and in the snow, where your only way out is fire, to ignite one's self in a blaze of sensation, wanting more and more and more and more and not ever getting enough, so that the pestilence of the Middle ages, hovers above us all in our individual splendours like a giant razor fan, turning and turning around the wheel of becoming in a spasm of blood blooming explosions, all reincarnated dream ending up frying in their unholy fires along the assembly of the next McDonald's Quarter Pounder.

And I am burning I tell you in the Augustinian bon fie of the immaculate soul, sold into slavery, of the rebirth downgrade and with no brakes at all, only friction, heating up along the mystical second law of thermo nuclear dynamics, still turning over a healthy profit in this year's dragon market, breathing in the fetid odor of our collective unconscious sublimations, simmering slowly in the coagulated oils of Columbus's post coital dream, where all the indians die itching and pissing white pus tinged with green, and dying, and, yes, burning. Oh, Saint Augustine, give me thirty three years of sins to feel the fire purge me of my cycles of becoming, or a cave in the desert of rusted

Cadilacs and Pontiacs and petit mort, more for my own sense of dead ja vu, lu, bu, and true.

Yes, OK, burning burning burning, pluckest me out too, like a rose on fire with light, take me out, take me in, through the sphere of light, through the sphere of light, through the sphere of light.

 Part IV: With Hands Open