wordlings

how does bony christmas behave
in a world of blowjobs and gladiolas?

in the soft and starlit night I told Jennifer of the billions
we sat in the boat in the middle of the lake where the starlight fell hard
have you seen a place in the sun? I asked: no.
I told her how that was funny, she spocked me, fixed me with a look of spockish disdain

on the day Arthur C. Clarke died, the most energetic gamma-ray burst in human history exploded in the sky
it was 7.5 billion light years away and could be seen with the unaided eye
the most distant object human beings have ever witnessed
it actually happened, this gamma ray burst, 7.5 billion years ago
before we were even here at all

it's better than the bears
it's better than pie in space
or a tablet of oxygen in the sky
a capsule of oxygen for Emilianos

I finally realize -- mix story chunks in with everything else
use story bits as chunks in a savory porridge
not the main fuckin course
the only gold is epics
we don't all got that marathon build
some of us are tweetlers, like finches,
or mocking birds

mikingbirds. milkingbirds. takes a lot of birds just to fill one cup.

teeny's optical sunflower
malkingbirds
talkingbirds
tockingbirds

clockingbirds. the clockbirds

the slap of thongs on the step, alerts me to Clare's hot dog brown legs and wild-woman hair, like a leopard-skinned something creeping through an old metal video

it's caspian voodoo
the slip of a sarong on a wooden day
stunned and treasured by her hair

streasured by her hair on a clip clop day, when the horses nicker on the cobbles

she's voodoo in a sarong
strangled on the cobbles
her hair in a wooden clip
attended by blackbirds

teeny's tropical sunflower
blackbirds at a clip
bear off the nectar
down broken legs and old

time's in his colored socks

dark doggie

dark tentacle clones

twilight's colored socks

construed by her hair on a softclip day
on a softlip day when twilight whispers

on a fatlip day, we see stars
and the smell of Betadine

revelers, loaded down
the smell of cordite in the air

coconut oil and strawberry
starwberry beer

tingle in his colored socks
tropical chipbird cornflower
cornflower canaries
are sold at the docks

along with all the human gamma rays
the human gamma soldiers

time's solid soldiers
time's soldered soldiers

all the human gamma hulks
the parable of your going mad
anger gives you power
lets you demolish your enemies
who are legion when they see your anger
oops, it all feeds on itself!
if only Dr. Banner got a good job
and stopped fucking with people
but no, he's a drifter, a grifter
a meddler

he's a grifter, the hulk
he's playing the long con

and this is better than pears in space

The Writer had visited a lot of places, culminating with the distant planet Farth and its many new places to visit. But his favorite place he carried with him no matter where he was, and it was a familiar place full of strange new things.

It was easy to find, and sometimes maddeningly obscure, for reasons he didn't quite understand. He thought its obscurity lay in the fact that sometimes he had an notion of what to find there, and expected he ought to be able to find it, and was frustrated. Other times he expected nothing and was rewarded with many twisting bright new visions. Humorous dialogue, Homerous dialogue, blurprints of new mythology, lost and forgotten writings from ancient times and timelines, fragments of future masterpieces, the murmurings of gods, angels, demons, channelings from impossible beings, luminous visions from the spiritus universii.

Or, perhaps it wasn't an intellectual process at all. Now and again the planet of genesis orbited far away, and was simply unreachable. Or was encircled by an iron haze, unbreachable clouds of mercury and baryons, ionized hydrogen and nitrogen. And the Writer without a space capsule!

He had to wait until the planet rotated back, returned to the usual calms, hung in the warm black blue of space, the brilliantine ultramarine of ocean evenings -- when the genesis planet shrunk and waited, hanging just beyond the palms, and he could leap on it, straddle its curving hull and be carried off on its inscrutable, fascinating navigations.

He was also frustrated by his seeming inability to commoditize these inspirations of his. He had his sights set on something new and unusual, a new kind of writing, a new kind of book, the next generation of the novel, poetry without poetry's o'erweening callow mechanisms. The poetry that was the language spoken by reality, by relativity, the syllables that made objects and living things. Those syllables also formed ingots and lozenges of writing, silvry gold writing, minty bright writing. Writing from a pre-formative place, writing from a zone of uninventable rules. Writing spoken by extinct bards around cold ancient watchfires, sung by long dumb minstrels to ears that had long since decomposed, on lyres and guitars long since dust, in some zone of universal ruins.

They had, the Writer believed, those songs & stories had, a vibration that remained imprinted on the warp of the universe, remained stored in the universe's many compartments. This vibration was what he felt for, listened for. The more definite the expectation, the more signal being broadcast outward by him, the less hope he had of finding what he was looking for. The more you're broadcastin, the less you're receivin, as they say. He might as well then give up and write merely from his accumulated knowledge and learning, write from the crusty topsoil of his topmost mind, if that was going to be the case.

Writing. Shit. "Writing" wasn't the point anyway -- writing was a mathematical formula for emotional products, bland predictable notes for psychic psymphonies. The name of the game wasn't writing, but creating. What was created wasn't writing, but the traces of a new universe, recorded on the psysmograph, a tantalizing signal, radar trace, a bit of map to lead someone else to the same new unknown territory. Writing, the act, had to be second nature, like glasses to the art of seeing. Sure, it was artifice, but underneath were genuine imagination journeys to genuine nonphysical places and encounters with genuine immaterial people, recorded imperfectly in the words.

Writing as discovery! Writing as exploration beyond the frontiers of the mind, at the margin of within. Squatting on the shore of the galactic ocean, peeling off your shirt in the warm breeze. Plowing an organizing module through the vaporous symbols of the universal, magnetizing symbolic bits in the process, dragging out chains of relativistic linkage. Pulling forth, returning with these dangling accretions of magnetic symbolix to the everyday courtyards, there to interpret what remained of the shifted, metamorphosed bits.

Why, I have been updating at:

www.thewordlingsproject.wordpress.com

Lots of interesting content, along with two ongoing stories updated on Thursdays and Fridays! I know, right? Don't worry -- they are slapdash, spontaneous and raw and may even contain actual errors, discontinuities and other indications of actual living writing. They call to you!

she was loaded as a gun, matilda
liable to go off any minute
volatile loaded, that one,
nitro-glycerine in a highball glass

she sweatered out the fever, matilda
matilda sweated out her horrors
with a shot of quinine and some cocoa
irish it up for me, willya Sean?

matilda valentine imbalanced
whole annexes of museums rely
on what she does out here, drunken
drunkard's walk to new mayan pyramids!

Matilda, loaded, led us to a new Mayan pyramid. She was in search of a bunny at the time. We could have noted there were no bunnies in the jungles of Guatemala, but we had learned years ago not to disturb her in these states. When she drank enough jungle-still hooch to kill a brazilian zebra or amazonian pig-knuckle -- her blackouts became divinely inspired states in which, lost in a world of jibber-jabber, she channeled geomancy via her very muscles, and, otherwise occupied on any number of risque, bizarre or downright insane junkets, she would nonetheless lead us to richly rewarding treasure. And had, countless times.