Anagrams of names: Uslessly wishy-washy, smug vanity. Try this one on, as kinetic poetry it will invoke either desire or loathing:
Nova coin tinker,
(Akin to conniver!)
Can’t invoke iron?
Crave ion, not ink:
A rock invention.
See? Feel it? That ain’t desire. Shall we try for something more esthetic? Something static, that we might arrest our minds (put a pin in that!) just enough to feel ourselves freely rising above desire and loathing without fear of floating away. Words that say you are mine, the world is mine.
You are mine. The world is mine.
The world is mined. You are mined.
You are mind. The world is mind.
Too Stanislaw Lem? Perhaps we should stick to mental poetry, otherwise we are not gods but tinkers.
Give me four minutes, and you’ll have your fire. There is an art in lighting a fire, and attention to how you make ready the place of sacrifice should be the true object of any creator: that is one of the secrets. The beauty of any holocaust, no matter how slight your agenbite of inwit, must always be within the purification of your own intent. That’s where we will find beauty. I said we. There’s creation. There’s union. So what is it we are burning today? What did you bring?
Write for me, you lazy idle little schemer. Write something with balls. Put us all into it and damn its soul. Write it all out and damn it, we won’t but admire you for it. Write something for me, something to bite me. Slice us up with it. Can you make us nervous? You can do it. I can see it in you, lazy idle loafer, I see it in your face. Blow a gale through us, use all the talents, literature, the press, the law, the classics. Advertise it and make it sing. Give it a fresh of breath air. Leave the gate open and let us in, let us all inside you. We will be bold and unheeding and we will stare. We want you. It will be the smartest piece of inspiration of genius. Give it to us on a hot plate. Bulldoze us with it. you are an idler of course, a born idler, a lazy idle little schemer. I see schemer in your face. But I want you to write something with bite, with balls. I want you to make us like the immortals, and may you never die till we shoot you. And I want you to tell anybody who calls to go to hell. Lazy eyed schemer.
My dad says he doesn’t believe in being a stern father and he makes a point of talking to me as a friend and an even bigger point of telling everybody he talks to me as a friend. Wants to be my brother, but my big brother who can still eclipse me and be the better man for it. Or fade me out like he is the sun and I’m a shadow that doesn’t stand a chance. He’s like that. Likes to think he’s so badass he’s everybody’s daddy. Lazy bitch. He called me that once. We’re as old as we feel he says and he is feeling my age. Buck called me Japhet in search of a father, looking for atonement. Iapetos more like. The Greek version of Japhet fits the bill a bit better I’d say. Iapetos the god of the mortal life span, who with his brothers the other Time gods turned their father into a bitch. Their mother Gaia, the earth, started it. She wanted a divorce. An old school divorce. Their father Uranus was an asshole of mythic proportions. He would hide the brothers in the earth once they were born just to keep them down. You can be a man, sure, but not as good a one as me. Mama Gaia got sick of this, as you can imagine, and made a plan. Then she gave Kronos a sickle. Now Kronos is the god of all-devouring Time so Mama’s plan fed right into his destructive side and he hopped on board fast as lightning. The rest of us needed little persuasion. Krios, my brother who runs the measurement of the year felt ripe for it, and Hyperion with his days and months always wanted to be a part of whatever Krios did, so he came along too. It took just a little longer for Koios to come around. He is the god of the axis of heaven and even though he said he saw it coming he couldn’t decide what was in it for him. Sheesh, you’d think the world revolves around him. He’s the one married to Omphalos, that blowhard, you know her? She’s full of hot air. Anyway, the only one of us who didn’t want to get one up on the old man was Okeanos, but he’s just in charge of moving of the planets and he does a piss poor job of it too apparently, with them going backwards whenever they want. What does he know about Time? So here’s what we did. We knew Uranus was on his way to sleep with our mother (the less I describe about that the better, don’t want this thing to start sounding like a Greek tragedy) and just as he was spreading himself all over the top of her, Krios, Koios, and Hyperion each grabbed a corner of daddy dearest and I grabbed the fourth. Then Kronos, who had hidden himself somewhere near the omphalos, jumped up fast and cut his dick right off. Just like that. One slice. Balls too. He howled so much you can still hear it now. Listen, hear that? Blood splashed all over the place like Carrie at the prom and a whole lot of shit happened after that, but that’s another story. The upshot is there was no atonement; it was an ambush plain and simple and now dad sings soprano. And Kronos still likes carrying that sickle around. He’s working as a travel agent these days. Wait. Hold on. Who is telling this story?
Molly likes me to bring her breakfast to her in bed. The old brass on it jingling like pavlov’s bell and she salivates for tea with her cream, sugar, four pieces of bread with butter. And still you hold our longing gaze with languorous look and lavish limb.
Buck thinks he is a stand up guy, speaking without a filter about everything, bleeding me for money too He wants me to get some money out of Haines but I can’t stand the thought of bowing down to him. I will not serve. And if Buck thinks I’m a bit sinister for my beliefs so be it. Better friends than he have questioned my disbeliefs. My mother asked me to pray for her while she was dying but I still cannot pay a false homage even to the most logical and coherent of absurdities. That may shock Buck’s Aunt, but I will stick with my usual defenses. Cunning. Exile. And this time silence.