AE Reiff

 Forward Blue Superposition I

One thing the ice giants had going was the noise of the highway. That is to say, don’t wait it out in Weimar or hide under Dresden in the roar. Things could get worse. Vapor of chemtrails flee your Judean fields. Every apocalypse is accompanied by such thoughts.  Best advice, go quietly. Better to hear and know and not understand than to hear and understand. The upstart can’t hear the noise of its own approach. Hero though you may be or somebody maintains, this was already the best of all possible worlds.  Which is possible to deny. Unconscious in those veins to survive about sea and land. Gravity is my muse. It sums the fish in tanks.

  • You will be wanting an explanation for these events in words but how can that be? The ass was a lion, the ass was a bear, the ass was anything but itself among the hog horde of wolves. Fire pigs stripped like tigers burned bright. RPGs came out of their mouths. Hot foam from their nostrils put out the fires. The ass revolt compared with cows of bear feet and dragon tails, feedlot breath so sulphurous it set the roofs on fire.  You think it bad until you hear about the dogs, one eyed three legged lengths  of Cadmus and Actaeon and Geryon, the Cephalus dog biting, and the foxes who broke into banks and chicken coops, raided S&L safes, ate fried customer accounts. Myth? I say nothing of the cats that  infest house and barn, the well-to-do wonder cock that changed with the sheep, incandescent  blue, gold, scarlet with sun in the yard when the rooster took wing. These eclogues burning were Virgil all over again. Check the progress in the sycamore rotting twenty feet up of carpenter bees, big black buzzers in the cracks of hallowed stumps, and burrows dug in a mausoleum lawn. You might imagine hundreds, thousands in air and on ground, which is a comfort of which you should be warned. Authorities of this world had either escaped or died. Monster bands wandered the commons.  We do well to wander. Cocks, asses, pigs changed shape with the sheep. Some turned black as you recall, but thousands made owls over with iron feathers. Flies en mass did frogs some good. It was beautiful if you like the sort. I tell you I’m waiting for scorpions, caterpillars, ants to turn peacock. There are no names left for the human, samurai behind the back, elbow in a chair, knee to the left, shoulders right, entities of Mind across the stars. It’s not about arriving at the state from which one fled, horns in the middle of heads. A stranger can see salvation in one ounce packs, the same for those on the bottom as on top. The ass was a cow and the cow was a bear, the cow was a lion, the cow was anything but itself, but nothing compared to the hog hordes. Rebellious ass-long years turned up their horns from the middle of foreheads and blew, which did not exactly give heart either.

I think I am angry about it. I planned to tell the crimes accompanied by rushing thoughts, thunderstorms and wind, recognize the roar of the flood and the rush of the trees. Giants are not the prophets they once believed.  Among the race at war in the abyss, love not the world, government theologues prophesy extinction-denuded planets, supernatural intercourse, corruptions. Adobe walls and housetop worlds of badger, tortoise, yarrow, blood moons and airy creatures of earth superior to this, were traded to the Red Rock Giants.

They gave a speech for the stone cats to visage faery heads upon us, who threw torpedoes and flares on the tracks.  Black and white paintings of tunnels and roads fit a landscape undermined with coal, as if they lined up on the rails where we lived along hillsides, if you have a sense of humor. Whoever knew the future by staying in the lines didn’t balance on the rails, shoot out insulators, walk the tracks with a gun. “Sink a shaft far from the inhabited surface, go down swinging to and fro, hanging by rope.”  Are there eyes at the bottom of the sea, supposing I descend? Those Endless stairs where the future swims in outline? Whose name is this, this name and this? Claus von Münchow built a time portal in Afghanistan and in The Twin Kingdoms of the Euphrates. Three Kingdom agents said they could mutate fifteen dimensions. Proponents hid their mad intent under a show of balance.  Münchow wanted the patent for world gridlines to time tunnel hyperspace. We colonists were of different minds 1) whether to acknowledge the collective at all, or to think we were autonomous, that our minds were our own, which you can see is a cave psychology filling in the entrance, a thin layer of hard earth on top with loose soil further down. Stone letters written below shale in these creeks, factories held on by wax, leaves blown into letters on the street. Sea pictures in sand so obvious. Forest fires burning trees into sentences. I cast the molds into the bath. That’s where I washed the letters off.  “You have seen many things, but pay no attention; your ears are open, but you hear nothing.” Reverse bark edges, needle grass.Colonists seek to convert darkness, comfort annihilation. Every effort of control to domesticate freedom, the more we have, the less we understand. To have a thing but not  know it, do a thing but not do it. Guten noir.

Just because this goes on does not mean we know it. Something has been placed between ourselves. What is it? You going to kick and scream to hear these triplings are broadcast waves? Masses were ruled with collective control from 1927. World population tripppled to 8 billion.  Buildings exteriorized exactly at the moment this paragraph was written formed zivilization. Further discension, genetic tinkerers in the Colonies, Pleiadian or not, engineered a protohuman state, Ur fell by nature and exteriorized in a man on a life raft who sent verse into the sea. Don’t pretend the middle is between these two. The middle is the collective. Billions absorbed mind battle great against small, all against one who questions taking part for the mouse or human against cosmos.

1) They did not acknowledge the collective,

2) They thought they were autonomous, that their minds were our own.

 Such exaggerations upset freedom and information.

Through all these discords of psuedonymity there was ventriloquism, not of a puppet master, though we should consider it, but a speaking through remote of the past, Rosenroth through Jung alchemy, who can always change their remolting feathers, remolding images, words themselves. Messiah would be the last and first philosopher to deduce from language, says Scholem, which doesn’t sound nearly enough when by the breath of His Mouth whole worlds made the solid earth of beings latent, excavated into quarries with water at the bottom, strata showing blocks of marble, dirt, stones, and underneath, caves networking echoes of a hundred sounds, places, voices. So what was solid became hollow, empty, vacuous…and what? Of course flesh is not stone, not dug with steam shovels and picks but desiccated, shrunk, contracted to reveal hidden springs when all that mass is taken, hidden springs and tree roots and strata, so it’s hard to think itself unique, making a resonant chamber, the soul each day down to the sea with a little bucket of sand and another of water back up the shore to mold castles and shapes of the moon, if such a thing has shape. Each day without end, to change the tack, time brings its little bucket down to the soul, time or experience say, and digs out a little more solid, shaping the while, to imagine in a hundred years, or accelerated, destined, predestined times and persons, that the internal is  resonating in a chamber. Where is it located? Nowhere at all there exists consciousness, shape of a resonant cavity and what is it, none other than the chamber of the mouth, inside of the throat, whose caves, and nasal beauties above, the upper chamber, where the odor of beauty lives and all the sounds, vowels, stops, take their seats in production of relation.

Consider the aftermath, not over at the finish. Then we begin. Aftermath is all. Prove this last. Then you know the fathers and mothers. I count the personal effects strip mined from watersheds. The closing of the Colleges for experimental drugs, the Freeway uprooted, coal, steel reputations by those surrendered, Shakespeare unmoved and the mountains carried into the midst of the sea. Collar and Artillery refute the stars with Maimonides. This underground fairly called colonist, berm burrows a kind of sleep, badger day labors, Mouse, Rat, day sleep burrow below trees in rock veined cairns, the reality of hunger laying low, so says “poor silly Mole, that thou should’st love to be, / Where thou, nor Sun, nor Moon, nor Stars can see.” He takes a chair under the garden oak where women bathe in  afternoon. Smoother than basketballs below the hill, fulfilling opposites a thousand generations. The great delusion over books and civilizations’ purpose, to prevent the revelation, one to cause it, the other to find solution, disconnect, to make a word of it. Opposites form the new creature. Not the way it was, but is. Clay says to the center, a spirit not of the world and put it in? I was a poet myself on this planet. The first time I slept naked, already a couple times in that dulce seaport of breads and parrots, cockroaches, harbors and violence, I spoke behind a pulpit, addressed suffering to a dozen infirm saved. Affliction had brought me from the colony of Pastorius.

It wasn’t Caliban who wrote the brochure. It wasn’t a god either, even if they were doing bad things. Phrases from The Revelation started to appear on buildings: Shape of the Locust, Fall of Wormwood, Untimely Figs, Balaam To Balak! A complete list could be had for twenty bucks. Things were moving.  Severed from culture and the past, mentality mastered el pure humano. New reptilian intelligence paid to live 5000 years. Didn’t technology double every two? Civilization silver dollars rolling across the floor. Not grotesque even, that Distortion was superior. Tidal influence reaches 15 km inland from the sea, interchangeable cogs of pen and ink fish. Small fish pour out of the mouth of large beached fish like small words out of a big. Land and water overrun by fish, dictionaries and academies overrun, a two-legged fish walks up with a fish in its mouth. A one handed fish quacks.  A fish bird flies with a fish head up a fish tree. A word dug into a mound turned up as a head under a verb. Mind mountains and dust fractals. maximum. Who eats with them? This was colonial with a shriek, a nice gesture of Otaku to implode and distort. Whether reflection of force is destruction itself, or avalanches, landslides, eruptive waves, mind waves in distortion according to no law. Is the mind natural? No. It thinks. Nature is innocent compared. Things crank. Mabinog colonists  hang out down by the water, their backs to the land, gazing out to sea, holograms behind them at Dulce Port. They sit on jetty stones and fix reveries on Ocean. Hundreds of feet above the water, cargo containers, not a man in sight. Too new upon the land even if they carry succubi in their hands, eyes keypads while their ears hear the roar. In the smell of salt sea they wait for leviathan to come up the shore.