Writing as Resistance

“The Goal: an era of investigative poesy wherein one can be controversial, radical, and not have the civilization rise up to smite down the bard. To establish and to maintain it. POETS MAY REMAIN IN THE RADIX, UNCOMPROMISING, REVOLUTIONARY, SEDITIOUS, ABSOLUTE.”
—Ed Sanders, 1976

Canto V


Supposing you had to go down for an ideal
Take a fall for the underworld, well, better if
For love. I suspect eternity gets lonesome—
Especially after those first couple hundred
Years of worshipping the same old guy.
Better creation takes on a life of its own.
Better to float free of authorial designs.
Better to avoid deifying our egos.
Remove sin and guilt from the tyrannical urge;
For what other purpose do they piggyback on
Our divinest impulse, evolved to innovate
If not to arrest that joyous aspect in death,
When carnality adds as much flavor to life
As corporality does form to the formless.


Rather there’s something more logically effortless
In that kind of understanding which draws the brain
To reason, just as any complimentary
Substance has within its own nature to attract.
Seemingly distinctive components in swirling
Into a selfsame substance dually united,
Betray no metaphysical boundary through which
Existence seeks atonement for the creation
Of itself. But rather steeped inside this process
Emanate from that same bottomless origin
Seeded in everything. For reasons which doubtless
Seem underwhelming to the technocratic mind
Conditioned by religious and scientific
Doctrines to discriminate all dark from all light.


Analyzing spirit out of the material
Or reducing incarnation into such dirt,
Demanding an extravagant, convoluted
Explication of what becomes on the one hand
Man-forged fantasies we frame in rejection of
The natural world; on the other—only that—slabs
To be drawn into quarters underneath sterile
Machinery, systematically dissected
By rational, unfeeling objectivity.
Our strange existence actually seems much stranger
Than any one unifying theory permits,
Therefore passing fluid through all rigid dogmas,
Perplexes in regards to absolute certainty


Being funneled in one progressive direction.
Infinity multifaceted regresses
Forward exponentially like a crystalline
Mandala weaving threads of an epic romance
Hybridity of mysticism and physics,
The overlap where matter mixes with spirit
Reducible to some determined principle
Yet validating illogic in the process.
This way human creatures are made wild by love
Prone to its fits. Even sacrificing for it
Self, what’s to perpetuate in our genetics
Life for life’s sake. A classic literary bind—
The undying devotion to a force in flux.
Divine fools willingly walking into ruin
All for love alone. Even for only the thought


Fighting the elements in an uphill battle,
Not at all for power or money or glory
Or for holy retribution, or salvation
Or patriotism, creed or revolution,
But for something more like lust crossed with chivalry,
Aesthetic sensitivity mixed with hardness.
The camaraderie of cosmic mates in combat—
Interdependent love between poet and muse,
That is to say, my interpretation of it—
Understanding all is one giant performance
After another, through which we express our means
Towards cultivating significance by the end,
Making out of the primordial chaos our art
Noblest of which is purely to love for love’s sake.


I am floored considering the number of times
Instances of following my heart down into
This abyss recurred, simultaneous pillars
Of awe, terror, enlightenment, insanity
And bliss implying spiritual anarchism,
But how just enough time elapses in between
For the liberated mind to be pried open
Again for colonization by consensus
Like the material of extrasensory
Vision was after all erroneous data,
However being irreducible, compounds
Confusion over how best to be skeptical,
Therefore binding interminably the seeking
Faculty to fruitless ping-ponging in a void.


What other choice did we have but to carry on
Lubricating a system enforcing stasis
To push forward these same differentiations
Constructing the vehicles of our own contempt
Until what time was exactly no longer drove
In fear born of death’s irreversibility,
Dated arbitrarily for structural claims
To authority over what ebbs solidly,
As formlessly organized as the ocean mass
But yielded, through synchronic experiences
Enough concretely strange evidence to suggest
That what we once granted as commonsense notions
About the nature of things in particular
Excludes this important caveat: namely we
All have the power to construct reality.


The way things are, objective reality, is
By no means as fixed a concept as the powers
That be need people to believe; yet surely a
Positivist, or conservative thinker tends
To mock such assertions as idealistic
Posturing from more stoical perspectives to
Extol the threat of revolutionary change,
Desperate for reinforcing positions that all
Must operate according to rarified laws,
Otherwise our decadent, animal nature
Will be unleashed; what is now only held at bay
By tenuous complicity with governments
Thus making of pious allegiance to rulers
A noble virtue of the most high. Of course a
Corner stone of power serving propaganda,


A tenet of slave morality. Intellect
Becomes as much a tool of the powerful as
Ignorance when authoritative argument
Persuades us of the value of hierarchies,
Seeking to secure our conviction in the lie
By appeal to a belief in superiors;
To fear anarchism, direct democracy;
Essentially to fear legitimate freedom
But maintain a fetishistic love of elites. . .
Don’t assume however that you will benefit
From understanding this, as the sad fact is, some
Truths are clearly unprofitable. They will be
Squashed by those who, in order to maintain power,
Never invest in the power to liberate


All of humanity. The idea of freedom
Across the board, no longer exclusive to one
Lucky nation, or demographic or elect,
But to the world over is called utopian
By establishment critics who denigrate with
This pejorative term the possibility,
Favoring instead a fear infested worldview
Enabling of the lesser of two evils bid
For tyranny. When in truth, at the root of both
Evils, lies a two headed snake with its body
In the shadows, whereby the direction of light
Is controlled, and its propagandistic tendrils
Confuse the mind into believing each head was
But a separate phenomenon in the first place.


In addition to these preconditions of fear
Pathologically inclined to be arrogant
We build up towering egoist monuments
Reflective of our slavish, schismatic fusions
Of certainty with doubt. Obscuring the whole of
Infinity through individualizing
Aspects into collectivized stacks; disconnect
Becoming an impenetrable shade of mist
Constructing the slums of more truthful perspectives
Facing ridicule, outside of the official
Domain; or are strangled in conceptual bed,
Those ideas impressed with radical, seeking sense
Dying premature, ignoble deaths upon social
Platforms. Insignificant among other more
Pertinent, superficially designed moments
Discontenting everyone in happy darkness.