A Seed Beneath the Show


The Endurance of Naught

States if not fluid entities
grow frigid into tyranny,
for in requiring that essential
substance of power—
the people—at once both
collectivizations, singularity,
cannot withstand this rigid
hierarchy. It will not be assured
of its dominion were just one
of us grains of sand refusing
to stack up. They must be
meritorious if States are
to exist at all. A sturdy
ladder built rung by rung
by each and every soul on earth.
No closed circuit club of the
eternally fortunate but a tree
sprung from the most benign
seed and of the hardest bark.
How else could it be if the leaves
at the top were perpetually
segregated from the roots below?
For how long could one
penultimate limb exploit
the foundation it subsists upon?
How else shall the cannibalistic organism
meet its end? In surely being severed
from its base. In being swarmed by the
decomposing counter agents
its own totalitarian
system creates!

Knight Vision

Mind is my weapon.
Thought a cutting edge,
One side of which,
Creativity, slices through
Life’s rigid dogmas;
Explodes lies about as much
as it authors myths,
Carving meaning out
of obscure substances.
The other, theory,
Threads together these
pieces the other side
chops this material
world up into;
Weaving significantly
beautiful tapestries
out of unbounded things.
When you think about it,
Thinking over precisely
the same fields of conflict
again and again,
Dressing in general
the war machine
down to primary causes,
Every war in human
history has been fought
principally in the mind.
An idea that begins
with its culmination;
already over in a sense
once the concept is realized.
The word game begins
funnily enough,
Until proceeding with
the war game;
the mechanics of which
Depends upon the schism.
When our Lords have
convinced us that Word
and World are but the
same illusion; sold us
the perpetual war delusion,
They will have erected the
penultimate keystone
of our human cage. So
let our collective mind
become an arsenal. One
ocean wave of the hand,
State propaganda eroding
into tatters; disciplined
meditations penetrating
deeply into ideological
stews through which the
mind severs with radical
passions its inception
rotted to the root.
Take up the hilt now
Stirring in the cosmos;
the immortal power of what
could be were only we to see
that it already is.
Let your own mind be
the final illumination.
Brothers and sisters
take up your swords.

This Spherical Block

The responsible liberation from
Persona is a form of submission,
Or harmonizing with the flow
Of a feckless helmsman which dethrones the ego
And yet, by way of waving all controls
Has nevertheless remained the sole
Arbiter of values from the start;
By turning the self into a work of art
Isomorphic to this wild ride but
Worthless in the sense that pride
Is a far cry from dominance,
Or how the civilizing impetus betrays impermanence.
It’s the ataraxia of wearing a mask
That defines the role emptiness plays for the cask;
Made by the power of zero, buoyant as
Receptivity charges up the voyant.
How to find balance without the tiniest pest?
Is it a kind of Orphean hubris?
Piping out memes to a Grecian bodhisattva,
The form of formless beauty that one seeks
Hides forever after in the raw
Like force is made strong through deference to the weak.

Kyber Nation

There was cataclysm.
Fear of going up
            in flames all along
The information highway flooded,
            where Gutenberg like Oannes
                        fashioned our minds
            out of pulp
Like space.
It wasn’t real, but what
            really was reality? A gate
                        keeping core of science
            priests have always been eager to tell us
What exactly.
How many leagues before one reaches
            ultimate Thule?
All revolutions end in tyranny when
            one enlightened crew exerts
Complete control over the lodestar,
            and Democracy becomes
                        a fully automated internet
An egregore.

Hypostatized desiring machines
            we constructed
Our lives in an aquarium
            out of obsessive need
To be perceived,
            gravitating toward those
Most heavily invested in
            images for the sake
Of convenience; bought
            into the cycle of money
                        is debt
Is time
            is a perpetual hedge maze
                        of servitude
            or flows into capital,
A five-pointed star
            inverted that circumscribes the globe,
                        subjugating in unicursal designs
            East to West,
                        and South to North.


The charlatan is in a sense a practitioner
            of the black arts.
The propagandist
            like a sorcerer weaves
                        a spell of disinformation,
And when this has become
            a permanent fixture of institutionalized
                        state power,
Culminating in an all out assault
            on meaning itself,
This element of design roots out conspiracies
            to reveal conspiracies of purposeful behavior!

Indeed a key value of the human mind
            is that element of design,
And where else is the logic
            of a rhyme, but in
The happenstance of thought?
            After all what is
The difference between prose & poetry?
The privileging of facts
            over imagination
May lead to progress,
            but just as soon
                        may turn
Reactionary. Can no one imagine
            a better world
                        than this? Or
            have we been so taken
                        by the sin of prejudice,
Invested in a heretofore unparalleled
            warmongering civilization?
                        Maybe we find the
Greater metaphysical offense
            is actually the profound impiety
                        of disobedience
            rather than conscious
Ignorance of vast injustice.

The ecumene,
            a matrix of value
Draws and quarters
            by projection
Like a divining rod,
            one that I reckon
                        functions best
            where held in common.
The archetypal world of a global shaman
            indigenous to every human
                        context provides
            a plurality of meanings;
                        a pleroma within which
            all may throw it around and play,
And see through the inner eye
            it shatter at last
                        the lenses dictating
            the totalitarian cinema
Of postmodern life.

To know
            the power which lies
                        at the heart
            of all movements
                        & meaning isn’t
            prescribed or
But a domain of your own.


But when every single one of us
            is capable of becoming
A soothsayer of biblical proportions
            at this historical juncture,
It’s time to wake up!

High Definition

“. . .why can’t we be what we want to be?
We want to be free. . . [. . .] Three o’clock
roadblock / And hey, Mr. Cop! Ain’t got
no. . . birth certificate on me now.”
-Bob Marley-

One can’t speak precisely
of the way that things are besides
in a form of metaphor,
So when the grammar of violence
prescribes a regime in your brain,
May we let silence reign.

And may we understand
the correctness of an idea can
be confirmed only by its repetition in time.
But because something gets repeated doesn’t
necessarily mean that it’s correct,
and hence we have at root,
the problem of propaganda.
Hence no lie is truly a lie
before it imposes on us as true;
No propaganda would actually exist without this
key distinction between fiction and journalism.

For there’s no speaking precisely
of the way that things are besides
in a form of metaphor.
No communication without this device
which elevates reality by way of the imagination,
Although the concept of reality itself is
a device that subjugates the imaginary.

Where’s the precise distinction
between a cosmic sea turtle and Newtonian physics
but merely in the reflection of metaphorical accuracy?
It’s really so ludicrous to perceive of Time
as acting in a sense like deoxyribonucleic acid,
twisted in shape—
raveling and unraveling
for the sake of continuity,

When at the point of origin lies
recurrence; an unmasking of the essential
inversion by genesis, contriving illusionary
Dichotomies out of beginnings and ends?

For truth is in truth, more or less a bottomless depth,
Destined like the volcanoes of prehistory
To break on through its finite latitude and
Rain down upon our minds the vast emptiness of sky
Self-contained within a Klein Bottle topography.

Captured no more in the glass
cage of certainty, we discover
the unknown is freedom to create,
through sheer will alone, knowledge itself.
Granting power to the people everywhere
to know themselves; and to define
their own destinies. Rather than to insist
on dividing up a line infinitesimally,
On inventing newer and newer ways
of repeating the same old thing.