Tuesday, January 24, 2012

2am

Rain


RAIN



  I am a raindrop... and I fell crystallized one gray winter morning, in the yesterday of your life... it was cold... so very cold... but the year was new and you had plans... and dreams of warm places... you drew their pictures in the frost... and I froze them into your memory... It was January... such a long time ago.

  And I glistened at the tip of an icicle as you climbed the hill with your sled... And when you raced down the long icy path, I stung your nose with tiny needles of snow... and dripped from your overshoes when you stood in the doorway that evening... It was February, and you were cold and tired... and hungry.

  And you looked through me one afternoon as I ran slowly down your window pane. The winds were high and your new newspaper kite was ready... but the sun was gone and I was there... making you wait until tomorrow... It was March, and you were impatient.

  And I followed the two of you into the woods one gray-green day... but when I touched her face, you ran to hide from me... I watched from a leaf as you kissed her... gently... and she kissed you back...It was April... and you were in love... for the first time.

  And I mixed with your tears as you said goodbye to your grandmother... And when the prayer had been said... and her song had been sung... I tried to tell you that crying is good... For how can one know happiness until one has felt sorrow...? It was May... and the flowers were coming up again.

  And I was dew, sparkling in the grass as the sun came up one summer morning...and you had a day to remember...It was June and everything was right with your world... and the child you’d just brought into it.

  And I stayed away in a cloud one night and let you lie on your back and look up at the stars... It was July, the air was clear and you realized at last, what a joyous thing it is ... to be alive.

  I am only a rain drop... but I created the snow on the mountains you climbed... I made the rainbow you saw... I started the rivers you crossed and I filled the oceans you sailed... It was August and you and I were somewhere... doing our thing.

  And I ran as a brook in a meadow as you walked beside me one sunny, golden day... I listened as you told your son about the mysteries of nature, and the realities of life... It was September... and the stream of time had begun to flow a little faster...

  And as I danced with the leaves through their last mad whirl... you gathered together... family and friends... to honor your son... and his bride... it was a time for festival... and a farewell toast to the brilliance of autumn. It was October, and winter would soon be here.

  ...And when my sisters clung to the thin bare branches of the trees outside your window... you sat by the fire and looked at the fading pictures... and tiny scraps of life that had been saved for such a day... It was November... and the days were getting shorter...

  I am a raindrop... and I fell slowly one night... changing to snow... covering the earth with a soft white blanket... and as you watched the lights twinkling in the evergreen boughs, I heard your heart say you were happy... because you knew that if one light should fail, the others would still burn bright... It was December... and you were sleepy...





  May you and yours be blessed this year and for all those yet to come, with all your hearts desires.



                                                                                                                                                Love,



                                                                                                                                      ADRIAN ALEXIS

                                                                                                                                                                   Yule-20011-12



 

                                                                                                                                                                                                       



   

Friday, January 20, 2012

ALadInsane?


ALadInsane?



  Love the quick profit (prophet),  the annual raise, vacation with pay. Want more of everything ready-made. Be afraid to know your neighbors and to die, and you will have a window in your head my friend. Not even your future will be a mystery anymore. Your mind will be programmed on a disk and shut away in a little drawer. When they want you to buy something they will call you. When they want you to die for profit (prophet) they will let you know.

  So dear friend, everyday do something that won’t compute. Love the world, work for nothing, take all that you have and give it away and be poor. Love someone who does not deserve it. Denounce the government and embrace the flag. Hope to live in that free republic for which it stands. Give approval to all you cannot understand. Praise ignorance, for what man or woman has not encountered they have not destroyed. Ask questions that have no answers. Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias. Say that your main crop is the forest that you did not plant, that you will not live to harvest. Say that the leaves are harvested when they have rotted to mold. Call that profit. Prophecy such returns. Put faith in the two inches of humus that will build under the trees every thousand years. Listen to carrion, put your ear close and hear the faint chattering of the songs that are to come. Expect the end of the world. Laugh, laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful even though you have considered all the facts. Ask yourself, will this satisfy a woman satisfied to bear a child? Will this disturb the sleep of a woman near to giving birth? Go with your love to the fields. Lie easy in the shade and rest your head in his or her lap. Swear allegiance to what is nighest your thoughts.

  As soon as the generals and the politicians can predict the motions of your mind, lose it. Leave it as a sign to mark a false trail, the way you didn’t go. Be like the fox that makes more tracks than necessary, some in the wrong direction.

 Practice resurrection.

                                                       
                                                                                                                       A.'. A.'.     

Monday, January 16, 2012

SIDEWALK SAVIOUR


-SIDEWALK SAVIOUR-



His eyes looked longingly to the east,

As his soul howled forth the echoes of reflection.

This white glove conceals an open hand,

as his bones which tread softly shudder in the wind.

The child of misery is baptized into tears,

whose yesterdays look backward with the face of despair.

Listen, hear, eddies of silence.

As darkness casts no shadow.

Senses cutting sight,

Eternity's flashed are remembered in the moment.

A twisted scream, a vivid dream,

reach out, Oh child, reach out.



-UNHOLY EMANATION-



Now I plunge my pen against the page and scribble toward a purpose unperceived. For here within my fragile fractured frame, I am no more a poet than a rose; and though the visions I do view, bid beauty to my meaning (my muse is busied elsewhere, nursing other selves). Therefore unfailingly I fall into shadow, baptized by merciless melancholy. Enabled to imbue with silhouette of shadow a bit of martyred matter, from so faint a slate as this, I would label it as mine (ostensibly): mine to brag of, mine to burn; but when I feature feelings from the fire, they float away from me, like writing on the water.



-UNREAL-



The solemn soul rages, the unfeeling feel.

With the veiled vehemence of the unreal.

So I, in the idea of your minds unwon.

Am as the real in the unreal undone.



Let thy light so shine that all may see, visions of immortality.



Whatever it means it matters,

And most of it is true.

And I loved everyone of them,

And all of them were you.



Let thy light so shine that all may see, visions of immortality.

                                                                                                              
                                                                                                        A.'. A.'.
                                                                                                    





Sunday, January 15, 2012

Victim


                                           -Victim-


  I feel the motion of the car before I open my eyes. The air is blue-black, brown-black, black-black. Smell of gas, oil, animals. I’m in the trunk. My wrists and ankles tied. Tape over my mouth it almost covers my nose but I can breathe barely. I must have been here for hours, everything’s stiff and my head throbs like someone’s drumming on china. The car stops. He turns off the motor- but there are no traffic sounds. No people sounds, no wind. What place has no wind? I turn my head toward the sounds like people watch radios when something terrible happens. My palms are sweating. Where am I? The trunk squeaks as he lifts it up and the sun blinds me. He almost looks like a faceless Jesus surrounded by light. He pulls me out of the trunk and bangs my head against the door. I try to cry out, but it comes out like a hum. He drags me, half-standing, along a dirt road into a house. I can’t see any other houses and it looks like a farm. The screen door bangs behind me and I feel a deep, deep pressure inside. All the rules have changed here.
 I’m dragged down a hall like a bag and I look for a phone, other doors. Nothing but bare floors and brown boxes in small rooms. He pulls me onto the floor. Tilts his head to the side and gazes at me as if I was a pet then walks out. I’m lying there for a long time, trying to get the tape off of me. My eyes are tearing. I don’t make a sound. I can’t get up and I keep rolling from side to side, trying not to make noise. I’ve got to get him to talk to me. If I can get this thing off my face I can talk to him.  I’ll tell him my name. Have you killed other women in here? I’m thinking you’ve got hundreds of them nailed down, hung on walls, hanging from the ceiling dead in the summer heat. Why did you pick me? If I had stayed to finish at the library I would have been there twenty minutes longer maybe I’d have been O.K. Would have rushed into the house, books piled up in my arms like a baby, and blurted explanations why I was sorry. So sorry I’m late everyone. Would you have waited for me anyway? Would you have picked another woman?  Would I have read about her in the paper and said oh my god, I was there that night…and called all my friends in a panic. Telling them then how much I loved them as if I’d never have the chance again. I wonder what everyone is doing now? Putting up signs? Showing my picture on the evening news? Calling old friends? Maybe I’m not even considered missing yet. The family will fall apart and my parents will go crazy, slowly. My brother will be so quite at the funeral and insist that the casket be closed. I never even told anyone what kind of funeral I wanted when I died. Maybe years from now they’ll find my skeleton on the floor here and they’ll have to use my dental records to identify me. My family will say:  “At least we know now. We always hoped she was alive somewhere. We just hope she’s in peace.” When I sleep my dreams are crazy. I’m flying over fields.” I don’t think I sleep for more than twenty minutes and when I wake up, it feels like I’m under a heavy blanket. I’m still here. As I wake up I hear a dog barking in the distance and I think I’m in my parent’s house in South Carolina. When I open my eyes, there’s a shotgun pressed between them. I’ll never get married. I’ll never have kids. I’ll never go to Europe. I’ll never learn to play the piano. I’ll never write a book. The last thing I hear is a click.

Written by Adrian Alexis


                                                 A No-Walls Production
                                                                       All Rights Reserved













                



                                              

Revolutions


-REVOLUTIONS-

A BANQUET OF VARIOUS HEADS IN PARIS, FRANCE


Those who piously...

Those who copiously...

Those who wave the flag

Those who inaugurate

Those who believe

Those who believe they believe

Those who when they speak might as well go caw, caw, caw

Those who dress in fancy feathers without a flaw

Those who spare neither tooth nor claw

Those who orate

Those who gunboatate

Those who punctuate,

Those who keep perfect time

Those who polish until whatever it is sparkles and shines

Those who throw out their bellies in their pride

Those who avoid your eyes

Those who are not afraid to take the bull by the balls, when he's dead

Those who've grown bald on the inside of their heads

Those who give their blessings to all the churning masses

Those who distribute the kick in the asses

Those who prop up the dead with their great regret

Those who use bayonet

Those who let their children play with guns

Those who let guns play with their children

Those who float and refuse to ever sink

Those who believe the best of all mankind, though here and there some few may stink

Those whose gigantic wings alone prevent them from superhuman flight

Those whose only dream is sticking pieces of broken bottle on the top of the Great Wall of China at midnight

Those who cover up their faces in wolves-heads when chewing on a lamb chop

Those who make off with the eggs but refuse to take the responsibility for whipping up the omelette

Those who own four thousand eight hundred and ten square yards of Mount Blanc, three hundred of the Eiffel Tower, twenty-five centimeters of chest expansion and what's more, those who are proud of it

Those who suckle at the bosom of a nation

those who do the running, the raiding, and the revenging on our behalf, the whole mob of them, and a lot more besides, who proudly enter the President's Residence, crunching along the gravel road, all pushing and shoving, all hurrying each other along, because there is going to be a great banquet of heads right now and everyone can choose the head that best fits his or her taste.

One head the head of a clay pipe, the other the head of an English Admiral; as a side dish there are heads made out of bombs, the heads of Galliffet, the heads of gentle beasts with bad headaches, Auguste Comte-heads, Rouget de Lisle heads, Saint Theresa-heads, heads made out of heads of headcheese, even heads of feet, heads of men of the cloth, milkmen heads. Some of them, just for a laugh, carried on their shoulders delightful little calf-faces, and these faces were so lovely and so sad-with little sprigs of parsley sticking out of their ears like seaweed sprouting from the reefs deep beneath the seas-that nobody even noticed them.

A mother wearing a dead skull's head smilingly presented her daughter wearing an orphan's head to the venerable old diplomat friend of the family who had on the head of Soleilland.

It was truly deliciously charming and all in such perfect taste that when the President arrived wearing an overstuffed Columbus-egg head everybody went absolutely crazy.

"Actually, the idea was quite simple; the whole trick was in being the first to think of it," announced the President unfolding his napkin; and before the spectacle of so much simplicity and malice the guests could no longer overcome their emotions: through the cardboard crocodile-eyes a fat factory owner let flow a few tears of uncontrollable joy, a slightly smaller industrialist nibbled on the table legs, all the pretty ladies jiggled their tits a bit and the Admiral, carried away by his own enthusiasm, tipped his champagne glass in the wrong direction, broke off the stem in doing so, and died of a ruptured appendix just standing there, feet locked on the arms of his chair, shrieking: "Women and children first"

By strange coincidence, the seafarer's widow-on the advice of her maid-had that very morning concocted a striking war-widow's head, with two long lines of pain running down from either side of the mouth part, and two neat little pockets of grief, touches of gray beneath blue eyes.

Standing on the seat of her chair, she addresses the President, howling at the top of her lungs to demand increases in war-widows' pensions and the right to wear as a brooch, crosswise on her bosom of her evening gown, the deceased's favourite sextant.

Finally, slightly calmer now, she lets her lonely widow's gaze wander over the table, and, spying among the hor d'oeuvres a plate of filets of herring, sobbing, she gobbles down several, one after another, like a machine; then she swallows up the rest, in the memory of the Admiral who "seldom indulged himself during his long lifetime," but who "nevertheless did love them so very much." Interruption: The Minister of Protocol is requesting that everyone stop eating, since the President is about to speak.

The President has arisen, you can see that he's just broken the top of his cranial egg with his knife because he prefers it a bit less warm, only just a modicum less warm...

Now he is speaking and the silence is suddenly such that you can hear the flies in flight and suddenly such that you can hear them flying so distinctly that you can't hear the President speaking anymore which is really quite regrettable because it's specifically about flies he's speaking, about flies and their incontestable usefulness in every area of life and the realm of colonial activities in particular.

"...For without flies, we would be without fly-swatters, without fly-swatters there would be no Governor-General of Algiers, no French Consulate...no insults to revenge, no olive-trees, in fact no more Algeria, which means no more hot spells, Gentlemen, and those bracing heat waves in the desert, Gentlemen, aren't they the very health of the weary traveler, and besides..."

But when the flies become bored they die, and all the stories of past glories, all these statistics of ours fill them with the full weight of sadness, so that first they lower one foot from the ceiling, then the next and then they fall, as flies will do, in our dinner plates...all over our clean white shirt-fronts, dead as the songs say.

"The most noble conquest of man is the horse," the President was announcing, "and were there but one horse left in the entire world, I would want to be him."

The speech is over; and like an overripe orange flung against a wall with all his might by a badly brought-up child, the Marseillaise explodes and the entire audience, dazzled by the stunning brilliance bouncing off the copper band instruments, rises as one to its feet, choked up, drunken, just at the thought of the history of France and that of the illustrious Pontet-Canet.

Everyone is standing, except for the man with the head of Rouget deLisle who takes all this in his stride and who is of the opinion that the performance was well executed indeed and then, gradually, the music dies down and then the next thing you know the mother with the corpse-head has taken advantage of this peaceful moment to push her little orphan-headed daughter toward the President's table.

Flowers in her hand, the child begins her memorized speech: "Monsieur President, Sir..." But her emotions, plus the heat, plus the flies are such that she keels over and falls with her face flat in the flowers, teeth snapped tight as the jaws on a pair of nail-clippers.

The man with the head made out of a truss and the man with the head completely formed from an abscess fling themselves forth, and the little thing is borne up, subjected to an autopsy, and disowned by her mother who discovered on the child's card listing dancing-partners certain poodles of an unspeakable obscenity-wouldn't even dream for a single moment that the one who had amused himself that way was the family's dear old diplomat friend upon whom the father's job depends.

Concealing the paper in her dress, she stabs at her bosom with a stub of white chalk while giving out a loud shriek and her grief is painful to behold for all those who think that this is the genuine article, the actual grief of a mother just deprived of her child.

Delighted to be the center of attention, she lets herself go, she really lets them have it, she moans and groans, singing out: "Where oh where is my little daughter, oh where oh where can she be/who threw grass to the rabbits, and rabbits to the dogs..."

But the President, whose first experience with a lost child this is certainly not, makes a certain practiced gesture with his hand, and the banquet goes on.

And those who had come to peddle coal and wheat peddle coal and wheat and also certain large green islands entirely surrounded by water; lush lands with pneumatic trees and metal pianos exquisitely crafted so that your ears need not be assaulted by the outcries of the natives around the plantations when the good-natured fun-loving colonialists go for target practice after dinner.



With one bird on his shoulder, another inside his pants so he can prepare roast fowl while he waits, sits the oddest duck of all, at whose house later on the poets would go, talking of Michael Angelo.

"This is really," one was saying to another, "I mean really quite a success."

But then, in the glare of a spotlight, the Minister of Protocol is caught in flagrante delecto, eating a plate of chocolate ice-cream with a coffee-spoon.

"That there should be no special spoon for chocolate ice-cream is insane when you stop to think about it," the Governor was saying, "it's unimaginable in fact-after all, the dentist has his drills, the paper its proper scissors, and even red radishes, as opposed to white, have their appropriate radish dish."

But suddenly everyone starts to tremble with fear, because a man wearing a mans head just entered, a man nobody there seems to have invited and who sets down atop the table, in a basket, the head of Louis the Sixteenth.

It's really the horror of horrors: its teeth, the old men and the doors all chatter with fear.

"Were done for, they've done in the locksmith," screamed the burghers of Calais in their shirts all gray as Cap Gris-Nez, as they slid away down the banisters.

The overwhelming terror, the tumult, the feeling of despair, the straw that broke the camel's back, the state of siege and outside, in full-dress uniform, with blackened hands beneath white gloves, the sentry who sees blood gushing forth from the gutters and a bug in his tunic realizes events have taken a turn for the worse and that now it's time to go, while the going's still good.

"I had intended," announces a smiling man, "to bring you the ashes of the royal family, who are rumoured to be buried in the 'Caucasian Vault' somewhere beneath the Rue Pigalle, but those crazy Cassacks who keep weeping and sighing over there, dancing the Kazatsky and buying each other drinks, keep quite a close watch over all the dead men they protect.

"Still, you can't have everything, I'm no Ruy Blas, nor am I Cagliostro, I'm no crystal ball, I'm no mess of coffee grounds. No, I'm not one to keep a collection of prophets' beards in cotton wadding. Certainly, I love an occasional laugh with a few friends, but I'm speaking here for the shut-ins, I monologue for the long-shoremen, I broadcast for the magnificent idiots in the suburbs and it's only by accident that I'm paying a visit to your little world.

"First to say, 'Oh cut the crap! Is as good as dead. But you're all silent-too bad, I was kidding all along.

"Yes, you have a little laughter in your life so if you want, I'll take you on a guided tour into the heart of town but of course I realize that you're a little afraid of traveling, you know what you know, which is to say that the Tower of Pisa is crooked and that vertigo overcomes a man when he leans over for a look. Yes, that applies to you over there on the terraces of those cafe's.

"Still, you'd have a good time for yourself, just like the President when he goes down to inspect a mine, just like Rudolf down at the tavern when he sits around with the local cut-throat, just like it was when you were but a child and they took you to the Municipal Zoo for a look at the great Anteater.

"You'd have been able to see beggars with no skid row, lepers without begging bowls and shirtless men stretched out along the benches, stretched out abbreviatedly, however, in view of the fact that it's illegal.

"You'd have seen men in flophouses making the sign of the cross in exchange for a bed and families with eight children in a 'one-room dwelling' and-if you'd really behaved yourself, you'd have had the opportunity and the privilege of seeing this: The father who arises with a case of shakes, the mother expiring with worry over the last of her babies, the surviving members of the family escaping on the run and taking a blood-covered road to escape the pain.

"You just must see believe me, it's a sight for sore eyes-you just must behold the moment when the Good Shepherd leads his sheep to the slaughterhouse, the moment when the eldest son with a resigned sigh throws in his lot with the junkies, the moment when children bored to tears switch beds in their room, you just absolutely must see the man lying in his bed surrounded by it's bars just as the alarm-clock is preparing itself to go off in his ear.

"Look at him now, listen to that snoring, he's dreaming, he's dreaming he's going on a long journey, dreaming that everything is going smoothly, that he has a reserved seat in a private compartment... but the hand on the clock collides with the light on the train and the awakened man soaks his head in a sink full of cold water if it's winter-or hot water, if it's summer.

"Look at him hurrying along, gulping down his morning coffee, entering the shop for work, except that he's still not awake, the alarm didn't ring loudly enough or the coffee wasn't strong enough, he's still dreaming that a comfy place on the train is waiting for him, except that he leans out a little too far and falls headfirst into a garden, then tumbles straight into a cemetery, awakes and screams like a bloody animal, two fingers are missing, the machine tried to eat him alive but he wasn't hired to dream away the day, was he, and just the way you're thinking now-he got what he deserved.

"You're thinking also that after all a thing like that doesn't happen too often and that one swallow doesn't make a spring or anything, you're logic-king it out that an earth quake in New Guinea can't stop the grapes from growing in the province, much less cheeses from aging or the earth itself from turning.

"But I wasn't asking you to logic; I was asking you to look, to listen, to accustom yourself, so as not to be too surprised when you hear your cue-ball brains breaking open when the elephants come around, looking to take back their ivory.

"Because this half-dead head of yours, the one you keep mostly buried under dead cardboard, these bleached brains behind their amusing pasteboard masks, this head with all it's lines and wrinkles, with all its practiced grimaces-some day with all your detachment you'll shake this head clean off its little connecting link, and as it goes tumbling off, rolling away in the sawdust, you won't even cry out, won't even cry out yes, it's O.K.!; much less no.

"And if it actually isn't your very own, it will be one of your friends' heads, because you know the old tales well enough, with there shepherds and their dogs; no, as far as having a really good, solid head on your shoulders, you needn't be the ones to worry...

"I'm still kidding, of course, but after all, as people say, a butterfly's wings are enough to change the course of human history. A little guncotton instead of surgical cotton in the ear of an ailing King and couldn't the King himself just explode... the Queen rushes to his bedside, but there is no more bedside anymore: there is no more palace anymore. All there is, is in ruins, and draped in mourning. The Queen feels her mind going. To relax her a bit, a stranger with a nice smile gives her a cup of strong coffee. The Queen drinks it, the Queen dies from it, and the servants begin pasting labels on the children's luggage. The man with the nice smile returns, opens the largest trunk, shoves all the little princes inside, snaps the padlock on the trunk, checks the trunk at the baggage-room at the station and walks off rubbing his hands.

"And when I speak, Monsieur le President, Mesdames, Messieurs, of the 'the King, the Queen, and the little Princes,' you understand of course that it's only to disguise things a little, since you can't logically blame regicides who haven't a King around if they make use of their talents with respect to those in the immediate environs, can you?

"Particularly that is with respect to people who think that a handful of rice is more than enough to keep a family of oriental peons going for eons.

"Or with respect to people who snicker at International World's Fairs because a black women is carrying a black child on her back just the way they've been carrying in their white insides a pale-as-death white child for six or seven months.

"Or with respect to 30,000 reasonable people actually supposed to consist of both a body and a soul who march to the rally on the sixth of March in Brussels, military music leading them on, parading before the statue erected to the memory of the self-sacrificing Carrier-Pigeon Soldier and with respect to those who will march tomorrow in places, with names like Brave-the-Dauntless, Rose-the Rosy-Cheeks, or Carpa-the-Jewess before the monument' to the innocent young sailor-teenager who died in the war as a representative symbol of..."

But a coffeepot thrown from some distance by an indignant our-strength-is-in-might advocate lands on the head of the man who was telling a group of people how useful a sense of humour can sometimes be. He falls flat. The Soldier-Pigeon is revenged. The official cardboard-heads trample the head of the smiling man with a rain of kicks, and the young woman, I mean the one over there dipping the tip of her umbrella into the blood for a souvenir, bursts into a tiny tinkle of laughter. The music begins again.

The head of the man is all red now, like an overripe tomato, one eye dangles at the end of a single vein, but all over the demolished face, the remaining living eye-the left one-goes on beaming like a flashlight in the ruins.

"Transport him hence," says the President; and the man, who is outstretched on a stretcher with his face covered by a police-captain's raincoat, marches off horizontally out of the President's Residence, one man in front of him, another close behind.

"You have to have a good laugh now and then, don't you?" he mumbles to the sentry on duty at the door and the sentry watches him being carried away with the same stunned expression you sometimes see a good man adopt when faced with the presence of pure malignancy.

But now, penetrating the shutters before the plate-glass windows of the pharmacie shines a bright star of hope and, like wise men who fail to recognize Christ Jesus when they see him, all the butcher-boys, itinerant bed-linen salesmen and other men of good will observe the star which tells them that the man they saw inside, that the man isn't quite dead yet, that perhaps they are about to nurse him back to health back in there; and so everyone awaits his re-emergence, in the hope of doing him in once and for all.

They wait; and soon, on all fours because of the narrowness of the opening below the shutters, the chief magistrate creeps into the little shop, the druggist helps him to his feet and shows him the supposed dead man, head propped up on a baby-scale.

And the judge demands to know, and the druggist looks at the judge in return, wondering whether this isn't actually the very same joker who threw confetti on that General's coffin a little while ago and who, even earlier than that, planted the time bomb in Napoleon's path.

And then they chit-chat about this and that, about their children, and their various coughs and colds; day breaks and the curtains are drawn back at the President's Residence.

Outside, it's spring, with animals, with flowers, and in the nearby park one can hear the sound of children's laughter; yes, it's spring all right, the needle goes crazy in the compass, the metal flange scampers about beneath the drill- press, and the magnificent dolichocephalic once more falls on her ass on the chaise lounge and plays the fool.

It's getting warmer now. It's spring, with lovers like safety matches rubbing each other a little along their striking surfaces, with adolescent acne cases on the increase; and here we have the sultan's daughter and the mandrake-root reader, here we have pelicans, the most beautiful season of the year is upon us.

The sun shines for all mankind, except of course for prisoners and miners, and also for-

those who scale fish

those who eat the spoiled meat

those who turn out hairpin after hairpin

those who blow glass bottles that others will drink from

those who slice their bread with pocketknives

those who vacation at their workbenches or their desks

those who never quite know what to say

those who milk your cows yet who never drink their milk

those you won't find anesthetized at the dentist's

those who cough out their lungs in the subway

those who down in various holes turn out the pens with which others in the open air will write something to the effect that everything turns out for the best

those whose labours are never over

those who haven't labours

those who water your horses

those who watch their own dogs dying

those whose daily bread is available on a more or less weekly schedule

those who go to church to keep warm in their winter

those whom Swiss Guards send outdoors to keep warm

those who simply rot

those who enjoy the luxury of eating

those who travel beneath your wheels

those who stare at the Seine flowing by

those whom you hire, to who you express your deepest thanks, whom you are charitable toward, whom you deprive, whom you manipulate, whom you step on .whom you crush

those from whom even fingerprints are taken

those whom you order to break ranks at random and shoot down quite methodically

those who go on forced marches beneath the Arch of Triumph

those who don't know how to fall in with the custom of the country or any place on earth

those who never see the sea

those who always smell of fresh linen because they weave the sheets you lie on

those without running water

those whose goal is eternally the blue horizon

those who scatter salt on the snow in all directions in order to collect a ridiculous salary

those whose life expectancy is a lot shorter than yours is

those who die of boredom on Sunday afternoon because they see Monday morning coming and also Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday and Saturday too and the next Sunday afternoon as well.


                                                                  Santuary Place              

REVOLUTIONS- A banquet of various heads in Paris, France

                     Written by Adrian Alexis a.k.a.-a smiling man.



No-Walls Studio Production

     All Rights Reserved

Friday, January 13, 2012

God's Perfection.





-God’s Perfection-



 In Brooklyn, New York, Chush is a school that caters to learning-disabled children. Some children remain in Chush for their entire school career, while others can be mainstreamed into conventional schools. At a Chush fundraiser dinner, the father of a Chush child delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he cried out, “Where is the perfection in my son, Shaya? Everything God does is done with perfection. But my child cannot understand things as other children do. My child cannot remember facts and figures as other children do. Where is God’s perfection?” The audience was shocked by the question, pained by the father’s anguish, and stilled by the piercing query.

  “I believe,” the father answered, “that when God brings a child like this into the world, the perfection that he seeks is in the way people react to this child.” He then told the following story about his son, Shaya.

  One afternoon Shaya and his father walked past a park where some boys Shaya knew were playing baseball. Shaya asked, “Do you think they’ll let me play?” Shaya’s father knew that his son was not at all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team. But Shaya’s father understood that if his son was chosen to play, it would give him a sense of belonging. Shaya’s father approached one of the boys on the field and asked if Shaya could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his teammates. Getting none he took matters into his own hands and said, “Were losing by six runs, and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team, and we’ll try to put him up to bat in the ninth inning.”

  Shaya’s father was ecstatic as Shaya smiled broadly. Shaya was told to put on a glove and go out to play in center field. In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shaya’s team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shaya’s team scored again, and now had two outs and the bases loaded, with the potential winning run on base, Shaya was scheduled to be up. Would the team actually let Shaya bat at this juncture and give away their chance to win the game?

  Surprisingly, Shaya was given the bat. Everyone knew that it was all but impossible because Shaya didn’t even know how to hold the bat properly, let alone hit with it. However, as Shaya stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shaya could at least be able to make contact. The first pitch came in, and Shaya swung clumsily and missed. One of Shaya’s teammates came up to Shaya, and together they held the bat and faced the pitcher waiting for the next pitch. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Shaya. As the pitch came in, Shaya and his teammate swung at the bat, and together they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher. The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shaya would have been out and that would have ended the game. Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw it on a high arc to right field far beyond the reach of the first baseman. Everyone started yelling, “Shaya, run to first. Run to first.” Never in his life had Shaya run to first. He scampered down the baseline wide-eyed and startled. By the time he reached first base, the right-fielder had the ball. He could have thrown the ball to the second baseman who would tag out Shaya, who was still running.

  But the right-fielder understood what the pitcher’s intentions were, so he threw the ball high and far over the third baseman’s head. Everyone yelled, “Run to second, run to second.” Shaya ran toward second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases toward home. As Shaya reached second base, the opposing shortstop ran to him, turned him in the direction of third base, and shouted, “Run to third.” As Shaya rounded third, the boys from both teams ran behind him screaming, “Shaya, run home.” Shaya ran home, stepped on home plate, and all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders and made him the hero, as he had just hit a “grand slam” and won the game for his team.

  “That day,” said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, “those 18 boys reached their level of God’s perfection.”



   Love,
              Adrian Alexis


                                   No-Walls Studio Production

                                              All Rights Reserved 

And the Prophet Said:


And the prophet said :



                 When you make the two one, and when you make the inner as the outer and the outer as the inner and the above as below, and when you make the male and the female into a single one, so that the male will not be male and the female not be female, when you make eyes in the place of an eye, and hands in the place of a hand, and feet in the place of a foot, and images in the places of the unimaginable, then shall you enter the Kingdom of God.

    

           

            Each night I meet him. King with crown. Each night we battle. Why must he kill me? No. I shall not die. I can be smaller than a pinhead, harder than a diamond. Suddenly, how gentle he is! One of his tricks. Off with his crown! Strike. Bash in his skull. Face streams of blood. Tears? Perhaps. Too late!  Off with his head!  Pith the spine!  Die now, O King!

    

   Vision moves slowly across bedroom wall. Not horrible, not evil. Acceptance. Another one appears and another. Ugh! No, too much.

 Kill.

   Suddenly it was a birth, so frail, so beautiful; now, twitching in death agony. What have I done? But why play such a game on me? Why grow so threatening? It’s your fault, your fault.





 Noon. Traffic jam. At first I can’t make out why. Then I see. A small dog is wandering in aimless circles across the road. It wanders closer to my car. I begin to realize that there is something terribly wrong about it. Yes, back broken, and as it veers round, the left side of it’s face comes into view-bashed in, bloody, formless mess, on which its eye lies some-how intact, looking at me, with no socket, just by itself, alone, detached. A crowd has gathered, laughing, jeering, at the ridiculous behavior of this wounded creature. Motorists hoot their horns and shout at it to get out of the way. Shop girls have come out of their shops and laugh together.

 Can I be that dog and those angry motorists and those laughing shop girls?

 Is Christ forgiving me for crucifying Him?



  Book-shop planet earth. Usual copy of The Horizon. The last one!

   “ It’s closing time now in the Gardens of the West. From now on a writer will be judged by the resonance’s of his silence and the quality of his despair.”

  All right-you did not have a circulation of more than eighty thousand. You ran out of money. But you bastard, speak for yourself. Write The Horizon off and you wish yourself off. Don’t write me off. I’ll be judged by my music not by my silence and by the quality of whatever pathetic shreds of faith, hope and charity still cling to me.

 

 He was ten years of age and had hydrocephalus due to an inoperable tumor the size of a very small pea, just at the right place to stop his cerebrospinal fluid from getting out of his head, which is to say that he had water on the brain, that was bursting his head, so that the brain and  his skull bones were becoming stretched out into a thin rim. He was in excruciating and unremitting pain.

  One of my jobs was to put a long sharp needle into this ever increasing fluid to let it out. I had to do this twice a day, and the so-clear fluid that was killing him would leap out at me from his massive ten-year-old-head, rising in a brief column to several feet, sometimes hitting my face.

  Cases like this are usually less distressing than they might be because they are often heavily sedated, they partially lose their faculties, sometimes an operation helps. He had had several, but the new canal that was made didn’t work.

  The condition can sometimes be stabilized at the level of being a chronic vegetable for indefinite years-so that the person

finally does not seem to suffer. (Do not despair, the soul dies long before the body.)

  But this little boy unmistakably endured agony. He would quietly cry in pain. If he would only have shrieked or complained…And he knew he was going to die.

 He had started reading The Bible. The one thing he asked God for, he told me, was that he be allowed to finish His book before he died.

  He died before it was half-finished.



   J.R. was a bloody pest at the mental hospital because he went around shouting back at his voices. We could only hear one end of the conversation, of course, but the other end could be inferred in general terms at least from: “Away to hell you evil minded bastards…”

  It was decided at one and the same time to alleviate his distress and ours, by giving him the benefit of modern medicine.

  An improvement in his condition was noted.

  After the injections he no longer went around shouting abuse at his voices, but, “ What’s that? Say that again! Speak up ye buggers, I can’t hear ye!”



  We had been attending a childbirth and it dragged on and off for sixteen hours. Finally it started to come-gray, slimy, cold-out it came-a large human brain-an encephalic monster, no neck, no head, with eyes, nose, frog like mouth, long arms.

  This creature was born at 12:59 a.m. on a stormy April morning. Maybe it was still alive. We didn’t want to know. We wrapped it in newspaper-and with this bundle under my arm to take back to the pathology lab, that seemed to cry out for all the answerable answers that I ever asked, I walked in the rain along dead end street two hours later.

  I was thirsty. I went into a shop, put the bundle on the table. Suddenly the desire, to unwrap it, hold it up for all to see, a ghastly Gorgon’s head, to turn the world to stone.



  Two men sit facing each other and both of them are me. Quietly, meticulously, systematically, they are blowing out each other’s brains, with pistols. They look perfectly intact. Inside devastation.



  I look around a New Town. What a pity about those viscera and abortions littering the new clean gutters. This one looks like a heart. It is pulsating. It starts to move on four little legs. It is disgusting and grotesque. child-like abortion of raw red flesh, and yet alive. Stupid, flayed, abortive child still persisting in living. Yet all it asks after all is that I let it love me, and not even that.

  Astonished heart, loving unloved heart, heart of a heartless world, crazy heart of a dying world.



Playing the game of reality with no real cards in one’s hand.



  Body mangled, torn into shreds, ground down to powder, limbs aching, heart lost, bones pulverized, empty nausea in dust. Wanting to vomit up my lungs. Everywhere blood, tissues, muscles, bones, are wild frantic. Outwardly all is quite, calm, as ever. Sleep. Death. I look all right.

  That wild silent shriek in the night. And what if I were to tear my hair and run naked and screaming through the suburban night. I would wake up a few tired people and get myself committed to a mental hospital. To what purpose?



  5:00 a.m. Death waits patiently outside my door.



  Majestic forest, hot summer’s day. Proud trees, well rooted in the earth, scraping heaven, tall powerful. A forest at its grandest.

   The woodcutters come. They saw and hack down the trees. Who can endure or escape the agony of those saws? The trees are felled-processed in sawmills, sawed down and down and down, finally to sawdust, finer and finer grained, less and less and less, dissolving into the stuff of all the world.

  The Lotus opens. Movement from earth, through water, from fire to air. Out and in beyond life and death now, beyond inner and outer, sense and non-sense, meaning and futility, male and female, being and non-being, light and darkness, void and full. Beyond all duality, or  non-duality,

beyond and beyond. Disincarnation. I breathe again.



  The farther in, large or small, the more and less there is, more and more nothing, further into the atom, further out into space, nothing. The portal of the Last Judgment and the center of an atom are identical. Jumping Jesus. Ecstasy. Cosmic froth and bubbles of perpetual movement of Creation Redemption Resurrection Judgment  Last and First and Ultimate Beginning and End are One Mandala of Atom Flower of Christ. The eye of the needle is here and now. Two heartbeats enlace infinity. What we know is froth and bubbles.

  Light. Light of the world, that irradiates me and shines through my eyes. Inner sun that emblazons me, brighter than ten thousand suns.

  Terror of being blinded, frizzle up, destroyed. Clutch at myself. Fall. Fall away from light to darkness, from the Kingdom into exile, from Eternity to time, from Heaven to earth. Away, away, away and out, down and out, through and past winds of other worlds, spiral energy dance-through and past galaxies of stars, colors, gems, through and past the beginnings of contentions. The fingers of the one hand begin to fight one another. Beginning of the gods- each level of being longing now for the lower-gods fighting and fucking themselves into incarnation. Demigods, heroes, mortal men. Carnage. Butchery of spirit in final horror of incarnation. Blood. Agony. Exhaustion of the spirit. Struggle between death and rebirth, enervation and regeneration.

  Cosmic vomit, sperm, smegma, diarrhea, sweat-at all events, an insignificant particle on the way out…

  The vision has ended, I am starting to dream again. Concussed. Fragmented scraps of memory. Poor raw, smashed Egghead. A time hemorrhage in the body of Eternity.

  Beginning to think again-to grasp, to connect, to put together, to remember…

  Only to remember to remember, or at least remember you have forgotten…

 Each forgetting a dismembering.

  I must never forget again. All that searching and re-searching those false signposts, the terrible danger of forgetting that one has forgotten. It’s too awful.

  Behind above beyond and in human-kind the war rages on, Man, Woman, me and you, we are not the only site of the battle, but we are one region of it. Mind and body are torn, ripped, shredded, ravaged, exhausted by these Powers and Principalities in their cosmic conflict that we cannot even identify.

  We are shattered, tattered, demented remnants of a once glorious army. Among us are Princes and captains of Armies, Lords of Battles, amnesic, aphasic, ataxic, jerkily trying to recall what was the battle sounds of which still ring in our ears-is the battle still raging? If we could only make contact with Headquarters, only make our way back to join the main body of the Army…

  A soldier on the Wall at the furthest reaches of the Empire-looking out towards the darkness and danger. The next nearest comrade is out of sight. I must not desert-I will be recalled to the Capital in good time.

  Gropings, orientations, crumbs, fragments, bits of the jigsaw, a few demented ravings that may help the reconstruction of the lost message. I am just beginning to regain my memory, just beginning to realize I am lost, just getting faint sounds of old familiar music’s-snatches of old tunes, moments of d’eja’ vu a reawakening of a long numbed agony an unendurable realization of what a disaster  it was, what a shambles, what betrayal, horror, stupidity, ignorance, cowardice, craven lust, wretched greed. Faint recall of a raving nostalgia, for the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory, Paradise Lost…

  We tramps have so lost our wits we do not know what to steal, or even how to beg. We are bereft. Derelicts.

  Fishes, washed up and out in their death throes twitching, rubbing themselves together for their own slime. Don’t be a shy fish. This is no time  for dignity or heroics. Our best hope is in cowardice and treachery.

  Mid-ocean. Shipwreck. Survivors are being picked up. The crew is saved but not the Captain-Governor-The Boss. The rescue ship moves away from the scene. Empty, still, desolate ocean. Slow track over surface. Suddenly, like a bird, I swoop down. There is the Captain. Is he dead? A sodden doll just afloat and no more. If he is not already dead, it seems he will certainly drown soon. Suddenly he is washed up at a fishing village. The fishermen don’t know whether he is alive or dead, a captain or a doll or a queer fish. A doctor comes along, guts him open like a fish, or rips him open like a doll. There is a sodden, gray little man inside. Artificial respiration. He moves. He reddens with blood. Maybe he will make it.

  How careful I must be! What a near thing! If only this really is the King coming back again. The Captain come to take command. Now I can start up again. Putting things in order. Repairs, reconstruction’s, projects. Plans. Campaigns. O Yes.

  There is another region of the soul called America.

  It is impossible to express America. That last night was quite something a highly intelligent gathering so very white so very Jewish I began to realize I was sat beside a bust in something like terra cotta of perhaps a Buddha. It was calm and still saying nothing doing nothing I further began to realize that there was a light coming from the top of its head a sixty watt electric bulb indeed I kid you not it was a lamp stand.

  What the fuck are you doing with a Buddha as a lamp stand?

·         that’s not a Buddha that’s some high goddess or other.

·           There presides over America a female effete laughing Buddha-fat beyond reason or imagination-creased with myriad folds and convolutions. The fat is on the turn. This she-Buddha is compounded of some cosmic muck, and that is now fibrillating with monstrous lustful desire, Millions of men fall on her to fuck away her unspeakable and insatiable obscene itch. They all get lost in the endless, greasy, fatty morass of her rancid recesses.

·           This writing is not exempt. It remains like all writing an absurd and revolting effort to make an impression on a world that will remain as unmoved as it is avid. If I could turn you on, if I could drive you out of your wretched minds, if I could tell you: I would.

·           Who is not engaged in trying to impress, to leave a mark, to engrave his or her image on the others and the world-graven images held more dear than life itself? We wish to die leaving our imprints burned into the hearts of the others. What would life be if there were no one to remember us, to think of us when we are absent, to keep us alive when we are dead? And when we are dead, suddenly or gradually, our presence, scattered in ten or ten thousand hearts, will fade and disappear. How many candles in how many hearts?  Of such stuff is our hope and our despair.

·           How do you plug a void plugging a void? How to inject nothing into fuck all? How to come into a gone world? No piss, shit, smegma, come, mucoid, viscoid, soft or hard, or even tears of eyes, ears, arse, cunt, cock, nostrils, done to any T minus ten and counting, man, woman, animal, fish, son or daughter, will plug the hole. It’s gone past all that, that, all that last desperate clutch. Come into gone. I assure you. The Dreadful has already happened.

·           Debris

·           The old style

·           All those endearing…



          I want you to taste and smell me, want to be palpable, to get under your skin, to be an itch in your brain and in your guts that you can’t scratch out and that you can’t relieve, that will corrupt and destroy you and drive you mad. Who can write entirely unadulterated compassion? All prose, all poetry, to the extent that it is not compassion, Is failure.

  Watch it. Care. Calm. Caution. Don’t try it on too much, don’t exploit it. Just keep your place, just don’t ask for trouble. Remember your hands have blood on them, just don’t be too cheeky or too greedy. Don’t puff yourself up too much. Remember your place in the hierarchy, don’t try to come it, don’t shout about. Don’t posture, don’t give yourself airs, don’t think you’re going to get away with it, you’ve had a bit of piss taken out of you, don’t make excuses. Don’t kick it around. Who are you trying to kid? A little humility, a fraction of love, a grain of trust, you’ve been told as much as you need to know, you’ve had quite your fare share, don’t try the patience of the gods. Shut up and get on with it. Remember. There’s not much time left. The flood and the fire are upon us.



  Yes, there are moments

  Sometimes

    there is magic



  Wince with a smile

  Nothing so becomes us



  That forlorn faiblesse

  That gentle nostalgia



  Ich grolle nicht



  Tenderness too is possible

  Ah tenderness



  Wandering

  Suddenly I come upon one of my many childhood’s

  Preserved in forgetfulness

  For this  moment when it was most required





  A sad little tune

  Its fingers so tentatively reach out towards our untouchable happiness

  Its very gentle smile so tactfully offers

  Consolation we do not ask for.



  SHE: My heart is full of  sackcloth and ashes.

  HE:  Do not go to far away.

  SHE:  I shall only go into myself. You will always find me there.

  HE:  If I loved the whole world as I love you, I would die.



  Forests and cataracts of intricate interstitial

     landscapes

  Cascades and waterfalls through and past

      elbows to promontories of fingers,

  Stars of nerves, arteries of champagne,

  Her image tingles my fingertips,

  Uncoils my recoiling flesh,

  Touches a lost nerve of courage,

  Entices an uncertain gesture of delight

  To adventure into being.



  The dance begins. Worms underneath fingertips, lips beginning to pulse, heartache and throat-catch. All slightly out of step and out of key, each its own tempo and rhythm. Slowly, connections. Lip to lip, heart to heart, finding self in other, dreadfully, tentatively, burning…notes finding themselves in chords, chords in sequence, cacophony turning to polyphonous contrapuntal chorus, a diapason of celebration.

  Dancing waves of fluent highs and lows of lips and nipples, fingers, spines, thighs, laughing, intertwining, intermingling, fusing, and somewhere touched, an ultimate joy and gladness, lovely light-full life diffusing an ever newer fiercer freshness. Yes this is possible, where from or where to no more need to ask, him or her, you and me, become us-more than a moment of us and a not too despairing decline. What more is there to ask?

  Tidal wave one million miles high moving at the speed of light. Impossible to go above or beneath, to run away, to get round to left or right. The Government fires the land with massive flame throwers, earth to desert, to absorb the water. Fire against Water. Don’t panic.

  Tessellated marble at gate of Sixth Heaven may be mistaken for water.

  Garden. Cat at bird. Shoo off nasty cat, and catch bird. How elusive she is, and I am turning into a cat myself. Stop. Cat is a cat is a bird is a non-bird of ineffably frail space suddenly spreading in parabolic grace of authority. How foolish to worry, to try to save her, or grasp her. Perhaps the cat was trying to save her. Let it be. Cat and bird. The truth I am trying to grasp is the grasp that is trying to grasp it.

  I have seen the Bird of Paradise, she has spread herself before me, and I shall never be the same again.

  There is nothing to be afraid of. Nothing.

  Exactly.

  The Life I am trying to grasp is the me that is trying to grasp it.



  There is really nothing more to say when we come back to that beginning of all beginnings that is nothing at all. Only when you begin to lose that Alpha and Omega do you want to start to talk and to write, and then there is no end to it, words, words, words. At best and most they are perhaps in memoriam, evocations, conjuration’s, incantations, emanations, shimmering, iridescent flares in the sky of darkness, a just still feasible tact, indiscretions, perhaps forgivable…



  City lights at night, from the air, receding, like these words, atoms each containing its own world and every other world. Each a fuse to set you off…

  If I could turn you on, if I could drive you out of your wretched minds, if I could tell you:  I would.




And The Prophet Said: ( Some Words In The Life.)

  Written by Adrian Alexis.
                                                    Misplaced Messiah


                                                                                                     
                                                                             This is a No-Walls Production.

                                                                                   All Rights Preserved