By namaya
A. INKA
Standing on the Edge of Time
Standing on
the edge of time
feel my soul
just
slipping away.
Standing
on
the edge of life
feel my soul
just
slipping away.
Dancing
on
the edge of a rhyme
If time could fly,
love to heal &
words to mend
I would be a shadow
marching amongst
the may mad fields.
Would you dance?
Would you dance
in the light of a
May bright moon
where love,
redemption
and
fire
dance,
a tango
with
sultry
evanescent
steps
of
desire?
Standing on
the edge of time
feel my soul
just
slipping away.
Less attached to the daily current of life. Leaping inside a thought, a word that changes shape by the moment, a hint of color that slips inside an emotion, and then vanishes in a turn. A word that dances in a provocative minuet, the shape of a note that twists and turns inside, a shallow well that we draw inspiration from, and when I drop the bucket, splashing down deep over fifty meters or more I hit the cold springs of memory.
Revelation held in a puddle of water, my hands part the image, and the drops fall one by one. Each year of my life held in a thimble then tossed to the sky that seems to laugh at my presumptions of knowing.
How could you leave? She asked. And the madness? What of the madness? How is desire revealed?
X. di N ka
Ichabod said, I’m a mystic made of dark Belgian chocolate who melts desires on your tongue.
Ibidy bibbid di bop! said the moon to the sky.
Ink a dinka – dink a do! said Mrs. Kalibash to the burlesque dancer Lars on loan from the Swedish ballet, but glad to offer a lap dance in exchange for a morsel of love.
Staying is returning close to memory and memories are shadows that drown all of our recollections. I’ve seen the shadows dancing figures trace their death defying images on the walls. A corridor that leads to a long passageway turns to the left: It was a left even though it turned round and came back to the beginning
IV. Do you remember – how words fell off the blackboard?
First, it was a simple matter of a single letter that seemed to slip off the blackboard – Was it a T?
A, “T”?
Yes, that’s my name. And so your name fell away!
Exactly!
Then what did you do?
I found a mate, an accompanying and accommodating note – not a long note – but a B flat found at the bottom of a horn, that sounded like the wailing cry of a loon, the echoing song of an epiphany by the name of, Iphigenia the half sister of Eros who was a tranny queen who worked by the Williamsburg Bridge.
Ωإ۔
If love could cure and angels would be redeemed. Where the shadows appear and disappear, where the night falters, and love finds its way home. Shall I find you among the shadows?
Then you left? How could you leave when the memory of time was so compelling?
No, it’s the memory of a lie, you idiot!
The memory of a lie echoed like a round resonate note in the culvert pipe by Santa Monica Boulevard. We played bee bop there when the river was dry and the rolling notes of a saxophone would orgiastically exhale. The full burning embers of the hookah pipe glowed in a simmering burn, an E minor sizzled on the grilled.
Sunny-side up! called out the bandleader. Soon enough! said the drummer as he gave tingling snip snap brush of the snare.
The culvert, yes that one, the drain storm, as big as a worm hole by the planet Andar. That one that we slip easily between the realms of here and there. The journey is not so difficult, it begins, generally with the e minor bee bop rift, in a II, VI, IX progression that Charlie Parker wrote on the back of a napkin. Then he nodded off and never finished the ballad.
Do you remember the night of dreams?
Ż
Turning back she faced the oval mirror by the pasture and looked at the winter scene as snow devoured the land. Night’s shadows returned. At midnight the moon was so luminescent the snow was burning white as our ski tracks disappeared in the wake.
The drunken sailor from Leeds said, “An Irish funeral?”
“Christ sakes… this is a literary adventure, turns, twists of the plot, little graveyards if you will, but wakes …. damn, lad, why such a literalist you could be mistaken for an English teacher!
If love could lead, if a song could heal, if our words could leap beyond shadows, would we find ourselves at the end of the day in a room much like our imagination? Would the night falter or would it open gloriously wide like virgin lovers.
“Leeds United!” screamed the lad as he poured out of the door and tucked into the waiting arms of a drag queen who was only too happy for a sea food snack. Barracudas circle closer and closer… less real, more vivacious, and alluring.
Less attached to reality, less attached to the nuance of day to day, less, less, less. Unable to navigate between the faces and desires, the lurid expectations, the small etchings of shadows, a stark jagged line that appears and disappears, the late breeze of summer blows across fields of lilacs and daisies, luscious yellow sun saturated blossoms, and the porch window was left ajar – enough for a bee to saunter into the room – searching between the magnetic points, the reference point of alpha to omega and all the train stops between, in the fields of poppies – lascivious reds overflowing with memory- the hummingbird feeder filled with the succulent ruby juice of fire
Here’s this journey which is obscure but filled with clues like bread crumbs along the trail, nothing is obscure in this journey backwards to home, always to home, the revelation of self.
Spinning
in the enchanting
choir of love’s
enchanted fire.
Hold me close
while time
fades away
Standing on
the edge of time
By namaya
Koagulation of Love in a Minor Key of Redemption:
Will the K Fok of Corn Flakes be Announced:
Ku once to the 3rd and diminished in a minor 7 relative
to the instigation of love itself:
Or merely
dig
dug
to the transcendent Ku.
1. A Pagan’s Te Deum
The scene of the crime always littered with clues.
Some may even considered the brain scatting high wire flagellation of love in guise of a poem to be the paragon of permutations – a mind twisting – instigation of jAz po ology.
The jAz poem by the jAz Mu ologist Neorotica Namaya was displayed at the Gallery, the oohs and ahhhs of his verbal and textual prestidigitation was unprecedented, no creases, no folds or wrinkles, it was a smooth canvas sail of images tightly stretched by the nor easter of his ever fulminating fulminations. Gaseous some might say! Flatulent! Though Namaya, ever a transcendentalist, engaged in the trance and the dance of Ku, kwa, ki kooo bop and the other 56 and a half colors of the phonic lexicon of the keys of Love.
Clanging, changling, chingling, and the gate keepers in the guise of a tranny with a predeliction for leather opened the room.
I thought she was an angel, said the poet. Then she ravished me, lubed me with every ounce of lasciviousness, but not an iota of concern for my virile beauty, instead she squeezed ever errant Mu, Ku, Kwa, Ki, and vagrant diode of phonic assonance from my soul. I was flopping fish milked for my eggs – Or in this case for my pearls of Mu, Ku, Kwa, and Ki.
She had a little stove in the corner, changed into a cliché of a French maid, pumps, aprons and all – whipped up a soufflé of vowels and purring permutations of luscious lilac fragranced reveries.
I was bound by straps. Naked, on a bed of broken dreams, if I turned too far to the right or left, one shard dug into my side, a thorn, as he was pierced with the Roman’s spear, eyes to heaven, realizing the terror – no god, no past, no redemption,
and though glass can be recycled – our humanness demands ash to bone, earth, mingled in the refuse, broken, but in that moment… Belzubah dressed as the whore tossed the soufflé with the caress of a mother to a new born child.
The moment we are born we are torn from the womb of the dreaming ocean.
We are killing the dreaming ocean – Gaia mother – dreaming – love—and lying naked.
She knelt down and fed me a spoonful of water. Vegetable brain soup, indeed.
The concordance of love in the concupiscent intersection of time. E M I T alluring T I ME turned backwards is a beam to E M I IT to EMOTE – E Tome. Strange that an E
Tome is a tone poem.
Drunk with ku in an insidious state of nu, entre nu, a perfectly intimate state. On the stage alone with my words, that seem to have separated into their own reverie
The terror of love is a far more compelling argument
2. More Arguments with God
god and I were making passionate hip stirring, soul vibrating eXtatic love as the pink blue light rose across the Eastern sky. we were shacked up and nestled between two palm trees on the north shore of Kauai. The hammock was rocking and swaying in the morning wind.
Though she looked from all appearance as an island girl, beneath the foaming waves of concupiscence and love divine, in our wordless Ontological rocking, seeking the union of
Shiva and Shakti,
“Shimmy shake and co co bop, my love.
But she was wordless in the conventional sense; nevertheless, all my arguments with god, the audacity to question, was subsumed as the morning rose across the ocean.
We laid back in the hammock nestled into each others arms and watched the storms and clouds and burgeoning sun argue with each other
I need to kick in the gates of heaven. Instead found consonance in our love making by the ocean
Consonance.
3. Art and the invincibility of Love:
Art that soothes and comforts.
Oral Sex in a hammock, a Maraguerita in one hand, the languid dreams of July are rolling by in a cloud, a yellowing sumac leaf seems to stay aloft forever.
The slow climaxing of two virgins in heat rock the hammock. We roll down the grassy slope to the pond. In the high grass we made love with savage hopefulness, 69 as the transcendent value, if that is not the quintessential prime number, then we are not a culture engaged in revelation.
Fuk sake! The poet maybe finally on to something. Is that clock broken again? Twice a day – right again – more than Bush in 8 years savage bungling.
A culture not engaged in revelation, eXtasy and the journey to the dog god Sirrus disguised as God.
A culture that is not engaged in eXtacy is one that is engaged in its own annihilation.
In a solitary orgasm, clitoris erect, moist with expectation, salvation
Two lovers, long legs splayed akimbo to the sun, rolling and tussling while the sun and shadow played amongst the maple trees.
We keep waiting for God, hoping that she will step off of the cross town bus.
4. Brothers and sisters:
Crazy! Fuk no!
YOU ARE THE OUTLIERS. YOU ARE DREAMERS. YOU ARE THE EXTATIC POETS. YOU ARE HYPERACTICVE> UNABLE TO FIT INTO THE NORMATIVE WORLD>
They will give me disability for hearing voices.
But they won’t give me a monthly stipend as poet.
They will pay me to keep the voices medicated.
I will gladly take your money, pretend that my divine attunement, my attention to the language of angels and demons is a disability. It is not, I simply need to pay attention when I cross the road. Look right and left. And that is ALL perfectly wonderful. To wind up as a grease spot on the grill of a dodge truck is as ordinary as Gaudi was divine in his vision. He should have been more attentive.
God spoke. He listened. The carriage was conversing with the road.
5. eXtacy: The Journey Again
I am an eXtatic person living in a non eX Tatic world. A world, rightly or wrongly, more concerned about static cling and the statistical necessity of war.
X marks the spot, right there in the space of your deepest longing.
The Stasi were the East German secret police. Heavily starched briefs gives the needed support to the state power structure, but the STATE of POETICS killed by its own narcissism, addiction to prosody, verse, nicities— well starched BVDs and poems in America have a growing commonality: Well creased and ironed. Augusto Pinochet poured into his uniform every day
I don’t flog the conformist, though they should be, I’m too busy — enchanted and eXtatic. My pain is my separation from the dreaming ocean of reverie
Academic verse, is eXtacy in reverse, screaming fearful, obese, flatulent and waddling towards oblivion.
Quack said the clack with obsequious genuflection. Car insurance and personal assurance, has a greater ascendant value than the language of eXtacy and revelation
Imagine living without fear?
Imagine attuned to the whispering of the divine?
A stalk of green dreaming the earth, piercing the earth, thirsty for the sun and the imperative for air?
Watching a line of cars caught in a traffic jam for several miles on Monday morning, each person tuned in to a radio, cd, cellphone, planning the day, SUV with two hundred horse power ready to roar in the opposite direction of eXtatic revelation. So many beautiful men and women, children too, collared into the uniformity of social control and making that Do Re Mi.
Rake in the dough. Buy more shit. Deeper in debt. Rake in more dough. Watch ` the yeasty condition rise in the dough pan. More fat, more dough.
Fat people do not make revolutions. Michael Moore aside. Fat people can’t waddle eXtatically and storm the gates of heaven
I will always storm the gates of heavens
Keep the pernicious vices to a mild roar. The vices that bring you true eXstacy
liberal doses
Okay, so what if you’re not attuned to a cosmic frequency?
Take one minute to watch a flower growing in the garden?
Rip off your shirt and stand under a downpour.
Allow a piece of dark Belgian chocolate to melt on your tongue?
Walk naked through the garden of your imagination.
Howl with glee at the new dawning moon.
Or turn off every noise, beeping buzzing intrusion, and listen to the quietude.
Astonish your soul!
Jiggle. Wiggle. Piggle and Po
Tuuuu. Pooooo. Zozzzzz. Zeeezzz and Xhen.
In the Kingdom of Xanadu where King of Ku
ku blai khan was the hippest koolest cat
who was kogitating on K ching!
The euphonious rifting of
KC and the Sunshine band.
More love and hope, more redemption than window pane, blotter acid,
or Sunshine itself.
Oswald the Magic Hatter willing to kick open the doors of Paradise – well, at least
to allow a ray of light through the bathroom window.
6. War Against eXtacy
A tribe called Love
In the West the creeping pernicious insanity is the war against the exTatic celebration. Not just the giddy, shaking your booty, and dancing naked in your mad love for the divine; but the
e XortatioN
eXALTATION
to live your life with a profound intentionality.
Unblocked by fear of the X tatic what would you create in your life?
What would be the extraordinary instigation of madness that would suffuse and inspire the soul
p.s.
my soul is opening a window
