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Translinguistic Poetica
THE POET IS A SCIENTIST DO NOT UNDERSTAND. BECOME UNDERSTAND.
Friday, February 09, 2007
MY PINNACLE
"The Thetamatheia" (thetikos{positive} amatheia{ignorance})
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The poet, which kept by his annectant and peloric and niveous station throughout the complete protension of his knowings and doings is invested of the eurhipidurous and inermous firmament, or the bird's pterylae and apteria or the configuration of his plumage and upon all the carolitic and nidamental and epornitic edifice of the world's chrysanthemum which is proper for nesting; and which are those loving faces, verses, and bodies of some trochilidine and oscinian gentility, commands himself and is drawn hitherto by some interests retained of things like that most splendid Altamira Cave, and it's intellectual paintings of bison, deer, and pigs; for it is most attracted to that art which is derived from biology, and zoology, and history: mythology, and architecture- and most especially geology, archeology, and paleontology: to encourage the knowledge of porphyry, laccolith, granite, and breccia and all those tramontane winds which are like some divinity's halitus and cord; as that diacrinous station which by some incurrent and labent inundation of the poetry which is inclineth by those acroceraunian peaks of Albania and which performs by the resolution of psilopaedic and altricial birds of the first coming down, which by Summanus and Jupiter were graced; inspires the likes of Horace, and hitherto constitutes a new class of creator gods in that Intercessor of what most men are as a solvent through hemeralopia, or the failure to see with effectiveness in the brighter lights: the periapsis of our pittance- which are like reading and scribbling poems, some inconsequent fleas of ours- if flees were as aligerous, of course, or capable of flying and might elevate themselves occasionally from their host. But, if all men were acquainted with the taste of their pomarious hypocarpium, their newborn undergrowths, and first coming downs; the procumbent-fruits, which behind them always tread: those fleas, those disregarded portions of our daily effort which, by no common nature, might ever impede relationship with us. I have a funny little notion that the poet is as annotinous and untried, as I am by an infinitely durable despondency committed to assume some honest condolences on behalf of that poor dog Laika, the most venerable stray of Moscow, hence I am as encumbered of our sensitivity to be, as one would say, experienced. The poets, I have often noted of in my own nomenclatures, are likely as erubescent and timorous pygmies when firstly approached- that is to say, in the manner of some natural animal; a species yet occasioned with a man's conferences they require a certain degree of a "getting used to you, as a new pet of sorts." You could see that emotional conflagration of "The Rape of the Sabine Women" in Nicolas Poussin and Jacques-Louis David's work, but the poetic class does it better, forthwith justice to presume our word, the part of us most dominant in identity. We visit the Aventine Hill, of which, rather then King Aventitus of the aboriginal Italians, I choose to believe is named under those birds which nested there after rising from the Tiber. As poets are of the wares of Mount Pentelicus, which was near Athens, and celebrated for the white marble quarries from which the Parthenon is built. O, we might also admit gratitude upon that particular scientist Louis Pasteur with regards to his means of annealing those, by the token of mutual benefit; haemocoelic and epontic nutriments of the cow: flowering lately, with the vegetarian method in our society- how it might provide a milk as the the Himalayan goji berry and Hemp seed; which by the Hindus is recognized as some Holy sustentacle, into those fires of the Hearth of Hestia and Vesta; thus ensuring it's quality as pure as Acheulean tool culture; and so why not thank the poet, concerning his means of preventing the souring of language, and art into the great lakes and forests of Masuria which, in the manner of milk, is like a continual, illimitable, nectary?- Etruria in Italy, of which D.H. Lawrence makes of in "Etruscan Places" might have expressed to a more distinguished taste of history that import of the growing of grapes, and the making of wine, also several architectural styles- and the Olympian Gods to the republic of Rome, but alas, the poet supplies us with such greater things, as those whom are to acquaint themselves with poiesis are of the Silurian era made, the first of the convalescent animals upon which the air made conferences with. IN what was that frondescent field becomes by the impestus of verses, which is some pycnaspidean and heliconian bird of the milks of the river Styx and like tempered metals by the hands of the great Hephaestus himself; what is that inchoate and crepusculous instance of peloria, that manufacturing process of the annealing soul upon which entomostracan and impennous angels rest in their weightless flying, as the Copepoda, or Daphnia. To write poetry is to vindicate nature, as Chukwa the ancient turtle whom supports the Earth, and happens further to perform his natation by Ksheera Sagara, that thalline ocean of milk from which all the organs of the universe are derived. And, like a testudineous and chelonian and remontant seminality, there is by the respectuous endorsement of a propensity which, by an olamic function; dwelling as some rudimentary organ within that marcescent and insipid testa of every man, an incipient Homunculus which is titled as being poetry, and which from that most obdurate seed permissively consents to be known a definite humility, and a particular species of Amaranth that is called perhaps, a poem- that diaspora which is that symbol of the inocciduous comport that is, with regards to the city-life, forever banished by the necessity of it's attractively insouciant conviction which causes to be equated in uneven proportions the scheme of differences between correctness and rightfulness, of labor and having experienced work: and from that hodiernal station one amongst many takes up his residence as osculant and appreciative of the cumulative dust; that most pruinous poet attains in modest increments what he is so disposed to, with immoderate passion, exemplify in the repertitious germ of the Holy which is his "pileus," and the statue of cernuous Man and his Universe- that plangent and abirritative contraction of the eternal heart, territoried by the edacity for those most spirituous liquors of the "asthenia" of reputation and document and profile which absolve one to this comfort- to this particular velleity of placid amusements, as the watching of those things which hold interest from a distance that can immortalize the moment only in it's self, as it was before being dilapidated in the participations of one's own verecundious amateurism- alas; this enlivening rhythm must be rendered into our principle homiletics as the implement of a certain diaphanous natation for our prayers and hymns, which by pluvial natures collect, and thusly upon the public be conferred for it's alimentative proreption; and the halituous and premunitive firmament that it rightly contains, beyond old - that inocciduous "systole and diastole" and "Euripus and Ampotis" of God himself- those infinitely veritable interpretations of the moment whose suppurative involution is foreordained to be made and remade indefinitely throughout the cantative parturition of inhalation and exhalation as produced of the Universe's "Coryphaeus" which is that susurrant ephemeron whom is called Poet, who is so disposed to develop his opus when no one in particular is paying him any degree of consideration- which, complacently manufactured in the operations of those most accomptable Monarchs of toreutic and encaustic versifiying, that is the delicacy of infusing the subtlety- which provided in their arundineous hermitage, possess of that most tenuous proclivity of hammering these most phalerate, or ornamented forms of wisdom in the metal brands of men's speech; alas, for it is so complimentative of vendition and industry and thusly unfit for that nemorous velum of dense woodland and backcountry which the poet encourages to precipitate from it in torpid and gradual appeasement, to then by various hortensial commitments becometh as some timeless, lapidescent constructures before God's own verdures and opulent fruit gardens- stone and open to the considerations of the age, and no longer partial; lambent impermanence of beauty- and fit for the tempering of that opertaneous commiseration, which by the employments of the poet can be revealed as some enchoric germs which are always complementing of the office of some vestigial layer of the man contemplating halcyon, and which is disseminated and in it's patulous body or ostium of transient creations possesses a various cosmogony of dematiaceous fungi and vegetation; segmented or meristic in the having of such a plenty of those somites of temporality which shine iridescent, setting alight the empty skies of being living; had inclineth the poet to resume his place amongst man as arborescent refuge, like an atavistic Tree to provide shelter, food, firewood, and more for merely the transient surveyors, which by various generation, migrate to that pulmonate adnascentia belonging to it in the hopes of determining some adient milks: which is readily able to digest both productions of a common element- as some earthworms prefer this delicatessen which the poet has attuned his dietary regime by as well, dependently within some sempiternal pensiveness and dexterity; for the day itself and the poet die together, so they are as commorient brothers. It is from this acclimation with the sanctity and poetic utility of the immediate, from which the poet- in subtle relevance like an amasthenic focus- uniting the chemical rays of light, embarks upon the considerations of his peculiar metamorphosis. What of that, which inspires the red in blood? The poet is like some alchemy to cause to change the element of nature into something able to be appreciated by those unacquainted with it's sense- some haematinic encouraging the pigments of the immediate and momentary. Call him also a shore-inhabiting fellow, or that limicoline bird that prefers some intermediate status in nature, and whom scouts out the various interstices of land and water and air. I often find that most hypenemian and emmenic station of "Euripus and Ampotis" in myself between the Boeotia and the Negroponte that I have, suggesting to me about how all philosophy and all that mesmeric corpus, entrepôt, or oriflamme of poetry- which kept by diameter of the greatest appraisable goods, are merely these limpid cliff notes, simplifications, and the commentaries of exceptional peoples; hence that sui generis, that inculpable region which is our personal lives and concurrently, those relationships with with we describe and circumscribe our meanings, our taciturn prerogatives. I hold true, the notion that solitude sharpens the wit and toughens the mind- this is unable to be disputed, and observed by most accomptable philosophers. But, the intellect is such a thing that it, by the recrementitious obvention of our daily experience, associates itself with beauties that must ultimately be communicated, even if only partially and by inchoate expressions. Those most conticent latitudes of our meditations, considerations, ponderous gradients: like incipient embryos, they open up and command themselves but in consequence of the power of intellect of which they bless us with, by our improved reason they must be consolidated of their distribution- they must be as dead upon the exceeding of their function. Man is mirror, man is propagator, man is voice when there is no voice. The philosophy of solipsism is the cruelest, the most inane of content and the quickest to devise ways of upsetting that allodial station. I feel the poet, with the most intimidating standard, characterizes this human necessity of love and talk, those things which above all are of value to us. The poet, from his alimonious and crenitic entertainments, who from time's impartial contract is exempt as the watchman Moai or the Gods of Mount Nemrut, or any pomarious ideal for that matter and of whom I understand were representative of their people's deceased ancestors, Gods, and living chiefs as, again, the poet: born of the Syrtis bogs and those munificent notations of Pippa; had he Ecnephia Sceptre; hence he inclineth the likes of the fruitfulness of obvention expressed in the manner of childhood: behaved in all it's procellous puerility, in all it's unsettled sediment as the plants Elecampane and Amrita conferring vitality, of the impediments of any sort he, in absentia, performs his commentary by noninvasive carriage as if he might have acquainted himself with the art of Ephialtes, and is so disposed to do so with the retention of being able to distinguish beauty, routine, life, and faith apart from one another. Life and the poem are, executed indistinguishably, as concerted synoecious and erinous upon each other; disproportionately inseparable like two prickly roses intertwined in growing. What person, betrayed of his own requisite proclivity, can not or would not engage them privately and force himself to withstand their separation, in the attendment of each thorn by consecutive thorn? Like Aeolus' Bath or Prothalamion Spring: withheld and matriculated to the air as Hyblaean Bees; these seeds skip all of time's various remark as a Neaera's trammel does, into those lengthy progenies of the ancestral Titan Iapetus; Father of Atlas, Epimetheus, and Prometheus: and like ongoing standards, the poet aspires to determine himself in circles of sacred quality such as these ones(1).
We poets, being as unblinking and capable as the tarsier monkey; that smallest yet most provincially adept hunter by which the Asian arbor is conquered, that when accepted by the occupation of a cage means to dispose of itself in wont of repose- by the improvement of our phaneri and aphlebia; by that humble inclination of our etaerio and sepicola: We, as ripened berries one-by-one disposing themselves from the bunch by will of an individual fruition, emerge hitherto from the aurelian and perlarius Hibernaculum from which the phlogiston yet circulated and there is yet sleeping a various wildlife; that Earthen "parenchyma" as those Titanotheres and Creodonta, comprising some of the Earth's oldest and most diverse; before the cat, no! Before the lion! Before the tiger! Before the dog! Before the wolf, preceding all the common texture of creation those ancient animals, by a death yet fit with a greater depth then that of even an accomptable king, a most esteemed poet; or any singular entity for that matter, suggest by the extinction of an entire ream of life a certain experimental quality in nature, perhaps even a curiousness of some sort, as Typhoeus beneath that most sepelible Mount Etna, of which has been dissolved over time more and more and more into our human strains. We, whom are most insular, depend upon each other lest we be without the comfortable shadow of being known, the closest thing of which love can be compared; which is when common struggle in our entertainment performs the atretus that is our being together distanced, like those animals, from the living people from which is harbored in some strange familiarness with us they share: twas' to be a poet.
All the language of nature, by an endemic pretense, becomes to ripple ectad like "aqua regia" in the solvency of golds and other metals of similar degree and expands it's effect by a common seed as the Creodonts and Miacidae from which dog, cat- tiger, lion and wolf are derivative, by wont of intruding the various cavity of the mind, from it's most initial point, and thusly establishing the principal of transference by which all things are most necessarily bound. Nietzsche understood that all things must complete themselves, and Heraclitus understood that all opposites exhibit convergence in the logos from which to be distributed the sepiments of the various fauna of description, etc. All the variant forms of creation must necessarily accomplish themselves in their opposites; the non living must eventually make the transference upon which they enter the animate sphere and from which upon they are guaranteed a recovery of the acquaintanceship with which their former elements did incubate unperturbed, unperformed. The universe must by these degrees transfer itself, forever talking about itself- extrapolating it's content that it might find itself able to maintain it's health and form; from rock to flesh, from star to dust. Life appeared because formerly there was no life, and the universe appeared because formerly there was no universe. The common systole; it is this perfect mantra that we might know the axis from which we are most intimately concerned. Existence itself is like a sponge, hence all things within it are as a various pigment or atrament which bleed through the sponge, changing in all qualities and sometimes even precipitating into each other. It is this particularity of natural evolution that ensures the immortality of any created thing. It is this inertia; that instead of potential linearity, the universe maintains it's condition by a most prevalent exaggeration of it's body in Transference that, by subtle gradualism, causes to change one thing into it's opposite thing. It is this transference that denies the pretensions of which most living things occupy themselves with, when considering the elements of the universe, rocks, and the like. But all the strains we firstly discriminate as being immanent and inherent to life are to be enumerated as being in the procession of a various activity in the deepest, deadest regions of our space. Carnivorous survival is merely an echo of universal inertia, and human love is merely consoling next to the attractions of the chemicals, the lineaments of the body and that microbial life from which it is interpolated.
Within every man, by the asynartetic portion of the sovereignties determining him for the public there is the poetic vision; which is the obsolescent hypolimnion, that tenuitas or attenuating of his stock in sodality and the the flesh-pots of Egypt, and like that prospect from the geographer's Ultima Thule- that northernmost region of the world, it's peak: like the benignant aegis of a less-obstructed view of something lovely. Might we adjust ourselves to stiller depths and attune our relationships with a still-calmer subtlety, colder waters, our benthal germs; for is not the labor incurred in simply getting there, by nature of having to comprehend such ordal, worth as much- as to improve the character, or rather the durability of the character? For to retain that deepest portion of one's self which is poetry one must undergo, by some protracted iterations, the instance of his recollections, imaginations, intellects, and reasons. The durability of the character, that is the effectiveness of the consecution of one's more intimate nature and honesty, is consequent of the expression of the individual. And who is master of his expression; both the employer and developer of his word? Who can, with such an idoneous sincerity, proclaim to be the derelict keeper of his expression? To be forever misunderstood, from that day hence: no matter his manner of speaking, or his context. Who is that poet, with the Syconia, reclining beneath the fig? I heard him say he could relate himself to the insouciant prince of swine herders Eumaeus and felt something missing in antonomasia, or the use of epithets and proper names and, with the respective attitudes refused to acknowledge dignities, offices, and the like. Though he only respected the personal names, and the personal lives that much more. It is because the poet is by the employment of no adulterated cultures termed and otherwise free to become of the intermixing with a various stock that their is that homochiral relationship, or freedom of enatiomers and reflections between the adelphous poet and nature as much that he presides representative of the experimental antecedence of that nature, that is because he finds by the determination of his similarity to that oldest and more animal concern of living, he becomes the animal that speaks and that Amarant of historicity who's coalescent filaments are intermixed with the world's to which we travel to, upon the compunctions to renew our ancestries. The poet whom is that Saadia belonging to the common stock and as Tasso put it, performing as the syrens of the ditch, or rather they are the Levant and the Ponent winds to be as outwardly unappealing and disregarded treasures; those Phoenician frogs and traders and navigators. The Egyptians treated frogs as the symbols of fertility, as to their appearances concordantly with the inundation of the Nile.
The poet, whom might recall nature itself for us within some cinereous dust, is carried aloft by some sort of anamnestic magic to recite a star and who is sustained by those most reliable nests and the pinions of the vespertilian night-dwellers which persuade it to operation; like those bats observant to the world through a depth, deeper then sight and whom also are more likely to be the "Varuna" and "Argus Panoptes" of the animal kingdom- he whom performs indefinitely in concurrence with the instrumentality of eternal prudence; that judgmentally aperitive and ephoral citizen- kept by the common weeds and gramineous verdure, and by the pavonian and tumescent brain of nature from which he recites the poisonous vapors of Avernus and like Serbonis of Egypt, appears solid- but, is not. For it is to be said; the only human being which might illustrate the parturitive canticles of motherhood, is the poet- whom might come to enjoy and pasture his works and their equivalent seminals to odd degree, as if they were as some natal piglets by necessity fixed upon a fresh teat with stringent optation. There are but two creatures that give birth; they are the woman, and the poet- and all men must by interminable standard respect their natural ability to create with principle, instead of the "a priori" of artificial reproductions. The poet's writings, touch and tickle his soul, as the child to it's mother.
Take for instance, that pantheon of the Hindus which curiously draws such a considerable portion of the intellect to it, comprising the Gods as Ganesh, Shiva: or by that similar lineament, the Buddhist devices of reincarnation, karma and zen, and the like- I take these all as metaphorical constructures that are, as you might be inclined to put it, brought to life or "animated" by the mediums of: Iconography, Language, Interpretation, and Symbology- which are all those subjects mastered by the poets, so you might be able to find in them more divine fundamentality then in any priest or Brahman. The poets wrote those histories of the Gods, and the ancient metaphors of the Hellenic spheres, the unknown authors of the Vedic Testament were thus a class of them, the aboriginals of the tectonic enlightenments of our historically forgotten- these poets, wrote the Gods and the essential histories of our kind, which comes to us without terms and in these living Gods and Goddesses. The most intimate history was spoken or enumerated out of poets, it was not objectively documented by them, rather, it is the background substrate of history and is a part of them, thus to become a poet is to become history and uphold humanity as a living reckoning of it's various saecula.
Complacently, the succinous and auletic and nemoral Bards peregrinate their asterismal lands and rather curious moratoriums of experience, or ponder their insular genius; expressing the highest sphere of noematical meditation and the retention of knowledges by prudent comportment. To determine their relation to "terra incognita" they prescribe themselves to the rumination upon their own limited acquisitions of understanding, prolonging an intent consideration of their own aphelions, and in them relishing their indelible destiny; which is to wonder in constancy and to avoid the central evil, which is oscitant hunger, the stains of boredom which prohibit the ambulant spirit which has pardoned itself from rustic experience, the verdure, and baccaceous impletion on behalf of the being filled with meat, wine, and some odd-proportioned entertainments. These men, in some adequate performances, live as the shrew is so disposed to live. Some of those most considerable shrews, in their own common propensities, include the operation of the trees and acquaint themselves with higher altitudes, and some are yet inclined to take beneath the soil and rebuke the light and the surface Earth, from their own experiences. Even more so, some might comprehend venom as the snakes do, to execute a degree of superiority in killing and therefor, among their kindred, revolve themselves with best fulfillment of their nature in the thickness of combat and defense-, and some might, in manner of the bats and wales, perform a certain echolocation- employing the means, as we do, to describe amendments for a various demarcation, of sorts. A strange, constant hunger assumes itself to impel them towards restless lives, and even more interesting, they retain ten percent of their body mass in their brains, a rather odd proportion for such a thing as this creature. These versatilities assume, in my mind, a poetic expression for man.
The marshes do, with an honesty and volition, occupy themselves with poets, providing them conjointly those trenchant osculations with land and water that, when considered by humans, accommodate some temulentive babblings and distanced lore. Truly, that paludinous plane of the poet is not so hospitable towards it's auxiliaries, but someone told me once, of how a dictionary was something more then a document of reference, that it was some plenitudinous region of submonition for the poet and his histories to draw from; thus I have to think when writing and reading of some higher procedure of the universe.
Somewhere distant living there is this panoistic firmament reproducing itself by the noble heath of immaturity; it is this horotelic regularity of form and expression, of sorts; this sort of ichneumonidan and epornitic and oscinian "Koan," or "Terma" of which we might acquaint ourselves with, to examine hitherto that purulent manner of our thinking without the idea that, our self is retained in the residual effects of which our influences upon others has produced. All things which reside in the ear relate themselves to those epithumetic and sanguine birds, as the worms do. I recall now, with a great satisfaction, that I know less now then I did before I could read. He who participates in philosophy should at some point retain in himself no answers, yet know all the manifold potentiality of questions. Thus by this extension, I believe that the goal of philosophy, is to in subtle gradualism, inclineth the mind into the questioning of things to attune the point in which the mind is possessed no longer of anything, save questions; and hitherto let not the agonistical wisdoms prevail. It is suitable for the philosopher to question, and better to question those natures which are of the immediate class. Those philosophical spheres alternate the veritable intelligentsia in varying and reproducible conditions of prejudices, so as to perform the sublating of one from the world, and away from intellectual servility. The goal of the philosopher is to, in himself, contradict the world and present to it the inadequacies of those pertinent reasonings which attempt to obscure it's various discrepancy. He claims some respectable station for himself in that vespertine and galeate firmament, exacting his own stalwart running sticks through a chelonian and testudineous enclave of answers and resolution, for they are most orectic, or inspiring to the appetite; and they do not penetrate his shell, and the diminution of his seriousness exalts him perfectly, as the tortoise and hedgehog.
How vapid answers are in developing the ends, how hebetate is man in those senses! How succulent is that meat of a good and acataleptic inquiry, or that enterprising temerity of some overly-curious interloper, which in any conceivable case we might regard as the philosopher. That affordability, of the multiple expression of meaning and promotes a certain commodious reclination, to which on behalf of the Soul's involution might be reserved with the exchangeability of ideas. Those formal objectifies; those whom desire answers, I tell them; the answers of which you concern yourself with afford no discussion, for they are impersonal and concrete. The temporal products of philosophy and poetry, these hermeneutic devices merely exaggerate one's acquaintance with himself and becometh congeries, and strengthens the bonds he shares with his world respectively because it has encouraged the growth of the common seed(1).
Tame wild, Orbaneia's bird: Ichneumon's qualm when Muse, by orient shell, inclineth by it's thural Strain; Al Cauther as fragrant waters reign, all softer: so well the sense, the organ, moved to swell Chloris' vernal, vestal: the endearment, Gale. To hyaline brain, to that Dulcarnon Jail watching outside dim Cupid's Dulcinea needing; obstinate pulses, chained around long vernal hull- Long vernal pull, long vernal withdrawal; through that Farina meal devout parallel crawl. Écorcheurs-looted, stripped of vogue-fashion; Lerna, that mendacity betwixt all. Stolen from, Pagoda rationed and pawned, instead for this- My Phaedria lake, from which I absconded wanton to a crawling along some niveous diadems, as Haemos proves strong, that boreal throng. Petrels, Fulmars, Shearwaters; procellarian magnate! It is that bird, who's musing and coalescent pinions and him performing that assortment of caprioles above the open seas improves, ineluctably, my tempers as Encelados' apertions, gaping unlike Lachesis contract but that poet: priest of Canopus, a living depth- exceptional waters. His Mam Tor ague as Italy's merino; soft, as your on Campania's plains, but unlike the world in being as some plainer currencies, or that sort; as having escaped that circulation of impeccable and succinous truths; the sepelible poet engages himself to preserve the ages- to immure within himself that inquilinous and palustral One; marking the innominate, indefinite, soul. The atramentaceous Om which sings to himself in another's tomb and ceremonies, and bleeds like portative and aurigal Sun- hitherto describe Age in immortal communication- which hence constituted a maturation in our lineaments. I speak of, when that performer of society became, and was the Poet. Good society; he renewed himself to on behalf of, and to the administration of his caste- he began hence the development of all his prejudices, his tastes. But, in that lacking affordability of his complicit participations, with that ecumenic order, distances performed to limit his various correspondences with his subject; and like that lover, permitted never the poimenic calculations of the body of his love, he was made to becometh as plaintive and disconsolate.
The memory is the illimitable artery of the self; and the appendages of the self, and thusly retains any quantity of philosophy for the individual, and deserves to be treated within a degree of spirituality and reverence, as it possesses the individual-self. The insensible perspiration to which the diapnoic and ablutionary apertures of meditation; wherein properly executed in the manner of testamentary canonicity and scripture, animate our rudimentary organs has hence inclineth me towards a goal; to internally retain some architecture of my writing and philosophy, to effectively compartmentalize some chronology of my own religion, such to devise an anamnestic poetry of sorts. I understand the particular method to which I employ to be of a Latin origin, accounted for in the "Rhetorica ad Herennium." The author, unknown had composed the work around 85 BC. Cicero in his "De Oratore" also yields references to this, and it was adapted by incipient and ancient monks to be used as a tool in various meditation upon their sacred texts, such to infuse within themselves their prayers. The consistence of the craft is of a most copacetic and imputative effectiveness, for one might; in the manner of someone composing, or reviewing a film or book, come to meander about in an infinite manner of directions, and patterns, in his manifold of recitation. As opposed to rote learning, which might go simply in some preconditioned formulas, this method of memorization predominantly encourages the rhetorician. One takes the Loci; which is a section of a mentally projected room or location, and associates it with distinct sections of his speech, thus affording him ample flexibility upon reciting it, allowing him to shuffle it and ponder, as if turning chapters in a book. My poetry is this place in my head. One might even extrapolate the possibilities of this, using “Locis” in the form of ancient temples, castles, monasteries, etc. This dimensionality of scripture has attracted me, and implemented me so as to share it's composures with my reader.
That personal life of ours, is amuletic and eremean and vimineous; as the various pilgrimage from life to death revolves in it's campodean and aposematic signatures, we wear them as a collection of Holy periapts and ornamental garb. The intellectual, by any given nature, will in opulent credulity, concern himself with nothing but the immediate, and the inexpedient remoteness of the applications of telestic contemplation tend to fail in the soothing of his appetency for various knowledges, which is insolvent and paraenetic in it's expression. For you have serenaded this world, to look upon it in these particular ways; that vacillant and aporetic uncertainty which affords the soul of a man a certain solacement in that tabescent and anemic erudition of Earthly wisdoms, which affords him a certain remordency and color in that unconsoling verisimilitude and epigaeous truth, who's fruits ripen best beneath the ground, unchecked by the higher utilities of the human soul.
It is most certainly true; that every particular age, in it's own extensive body, possesses a various assemblage of elite, figures, or representatives, and that these bodies of individual men serve to be therein attributed to the vocabulary of the various spectrum of our mortal expression and effort. Though, these men are certainly great, I have been inclined by no manner of evidence, as to believe that they were any more great then ourselves. It is the fault of that society, that it lacks the capacity to acknowledge the opulent fullness of it's constituency, and invests itself to the task of enumerating it's stock within a lazy stupor. The given society might incorporate only a limited portion of it's greatness to the historical canon, and so, the most worthy experience of humanity; which is the individual life, must go for the most part as some plangent yet recondite poetry, as "Ovid's Metamorphoses". That society is weak of mind, for it can only recall itself in miniature forms. Above all that I have seen, I appreciate; the meaningless, the meager, the incorrect, the imperfect, the abstract, the personal, and the illogical, the unanswerable, and those creatures unburdened with names; which are all the things which inhabit "Parnassus."
The lacustrine margin; if one were so disposed, as to take the world in manner of symbols, he might relate himself to that sative cadence. Standing, overlooking, the nitid lake; the individual corresponds in his branching, or ramellose citizenship with that sempiternal petrichor that forever; in it's papilionaceous and etesian and pactolian estate, amuses and assures the human spirit of it's supremacy in nature; as sure as God favors the unshaven man. All the vine of historicity, like an echinate and ampelideous spine, runs through and interminably connects these tribuloid and prothallial and epigean vastitudes of personality, so that history itself has invested in it's own identity, and in the case of the lake; I feel as though they are some sort of patulous opinion of sorts, correspondent with this Human. All action is immortal and converges eventually.
The poet, by that epeiric and tribuloid and ampelideous flower of Cataonia, engages a various piscatorial lifestyle as indefinitely sailing; becoming that essorant and provisionary intercessor that he is- wings spread, about to fly; but alas, that instance of flight has not yet been so as to occur upon this cachaemic creature who has inclineth his perichaetous body, or briary and lotic form to the various tentation of open water, as opposed to; open sky, though he still retains that hypaethral firmament to the skies for when it might be needed, this implement of flight. The poet is that sanguine and trenchant sumpter, or pack-animal; that aleatoric and elaphine audience of sorts, beholding the world in it's Styx by various pycnaspidean birds. The poimenic and homiletical beatitudes of which he invests himself in, tend to enrapture their beholders, encouraging a certain submission in them towards strange and stranger religions. He delivers his effulgent sermon like no other adept of "Paideia" or the refinement of Man into his more honest natures. This is the poet, and the parameter of his ardent vocation is in the adjective. He is a Stag which, by the proportion of chance you are met with.
I think that the hedgehog is the greatest, most virtuous and noble animal and that of the fishes the supreme rulers are most certainly the perches. I recall capturing lighting bugs as a child, and I have reserved myself to live; merely to ponder those thoughts again and revolve their kindness in my lonesome plazas, like a failing light in my breast. I recall the constellations of lambent vendors along the beaches, of which I last observed as some distant child. I recall when my parents were healthy. I recall when I was healthy. Alas, even so I recollect, I can only approximate these secular creations in the invasive blindness of my iniquity, incompassionately rendered on my account on various occasion, and I am by that insularism punished by myself, so that I have relieved God of his most operose work.
There is that implement of philosophy which we call "agnoiology;" that doctrine which deals with a sort of requisite and apodictic nescience; the rumination or studying of ignorance, and the now quite noticeable antithesis of that certain, indecent temulance, or being drunken of "unknowing" which has been quite rudely subjected to some sort of miscalculated prejudice, which I would presume to correct hitherto. I have my own introductory, or propaedeutical agnoiology, or this treatise on ignorance, of sorts; of the concerns with the various horticulture of artistic expression, which is that timeless and amaranthine evocation that is SOLELY dependent upon some thing your likely to not expect. Ignorance is that rudimental necessity of the poet and the artist; if their craft is indeed the study of appreciation, yet they act with this periculous thing unlike a more common man. Imagination affords him with that full capacity of human understanding, which is set by the terminal and desinent boundaries of; linger, like nominal mice to some opulence of cheese, like babes with their own astrology of sidereal arcanum; like the dust of a homiletic and pruinose asterism. The Count might have told us to maintain our postponements in the likes of some sort of vespertine esperance, though I feel my own modification suits my personal tastes a bit better. Genius is the compound of a configuration of ignorance and imagination, and it is that ignorance that affords poetry it's spirit, the wonder that breathes the halituous and animastic stuff of the song, is resultant from this uncomprehendingly rendered magic, or anoetic and sementine alloy of imagination and ignorance. But ignorance, it is the congeries of poetry!
How many hours, by that facile comportment invested in my pen, have hence come to unfold in such a way as to leave me divorced from the world? How many days prescribed to my way of this, insular apomecometry, have conducted me into unfamiliar currents, which in their own copasetic celerity and diligence, have obscured me from my fellow peoples and my family? Nay, it is this paying my respect from afar, that has prepared me for more estimable argumentation on the behalf of my various cause, and of which has prepared me in more worthy a reverence then that which I might have occupied my parents and friends with, in earlier times. I give my thanks to whatever God has commanded me thus far, for I do not know him. If I knew him at one time, I have hence forgotten his name, which is now disregarded to the place wherein oblivion and internecion diverge; no longer possessed of his acts, but rather their meanings, I know now what matters; not the truth, for it has been broken under the meaning. Not the math, not the science, and most certainly; not logic. I now recall something Bacon said, that a taste of contemplation betrays the man for atheism, but a full experience of philosophy inclines the student to direct himself in various, Godly ways, and thus returns the man to some peculiar Theosis of his own.
I believe, in part due to the leporid accentuation of my own anthophilous and ecbatic campanology, that the ethical and religious verity of our life might be forever restricted, to that eclectic and hermeneutic life; that life disposed to interpret and imagine, rather then to define and conquer. The world is concerned not with the interval of it's incipient constituents, but those will undoubtedly be the things that change it. That we move with these vast philosophies which are but parochial extrapolations, we become that plaintive amaritude of which through it's odd unfamiliarity and bitterness infinitely impresses the world. The twilight and the twilight only reveals the poet in various, cosmogyral peregrinations. To what recesses of that terminal and inane world will you go, to verify that element of which has no place therein to begin with, as you might live that crepusculous and tramontane life of the poet? For certainly, human life constitutes a class of it's own, forever having no participation in that essomenic and eclectic parsimony and "amarulence" of logical reasoning, instead the enumerating of it's own cambial rings and various ornamentations will tend to suffice, will tend to fulfill; in a greater effectiveness, the plangent and inquisitorial appetency of human nature. The ends of it are of no concern to me, the in betweens which are our lives, our epiphenomenons, are more valuable to me.
We read poems and live with dogs, only to configure our proportions with society. The man whom has not been accustomed to very many loyal fellows will seek for himself a dog, into which the commensal nurturing he has adopted for it might come to compensate for the work and time that, once invested in unassailable relationships of the likes of the "Argonauts", tend to unfold in premiant manners. Standing at the edges; at the membranes of society, is that Poet. He is Nature's vendor, his work his service, his love his blessings, his greatest possession, the greatest gift. The proceleusmatic and trochilidine scenery, the encouragement of the little birds and squirrels, the epulotic and aperient luminosity, the poet's ablutions from that annealing of his soul; the illimitable vocabulary of that heaven unfolds in his immaculate cartographies.
To tell you the truth, I believe that the anoetic seminal is forever common in all things. I believe that the zenith of experience is in that. I think, that if Raw Poetry, Raw Hate, Raw Ignorance and Incivility, Raw Love, Raw Time, The raw and aporetic acrimony of Atheism, and Raw Desire; were to all confront each other in one noumenal ampitheatre, that none of them would find themselves able to resolve the other. The poet is that paraenetic and cunctative admonition of various supplicatory canticles; the dissepimental and peirastic consortium of our ablutions, of a various quality and type; especially those of the parallactical "semiotics" of our mythologies and poetic works, we behold what it is that I hold as the volitient and supernal "Empyrean" or heavenly orbicle, upon which the surface of that resplendent sphere: the neanic fleshment of it's confederate pantheon, of a various consort- nomothetic and inenerrable is this suppliant company of unstudied Nuts, Berries, Birds, Men, Children, holethnic Poets and Philosophers, and amicable Dogs.
I have often made reference of a certain "sui genereis" or inculpable sanctity of the personal experience and all that is relative to the observer as like some incipient plant of wont to nourishment, and I'd like to think there are some nucumentaceous and tribuloid and adelphous fruits and berries there, or what may be that enchorial and incondite faculty therein enclosed as some sort of superficial vestibule of sorts; of the benefiting correspondence to some olamic antiquity or prototype of which the Universe, in it's picayune and nut-gathering creatures, to through that stochastic, or random utility of our lives demonstrate a correspondence in our souls through some contingency or random occurrence that might osculate the insular honesty of our singular experience, the forsaken verity of our relationship; penetrating that hypogaean and halituous integument of the hidden truths of our daily activity, for whatever reasons. The inconsequent oddities of our subtle relevance, these are our more pertinent connections to the universe, these are that entomical and autotelic constructure of the firmament which is the verisimilitudinous, or "practically true" undercurrent of our purpose. The voice of God is Irony; for that is the residues of his patrimonial seminality and presence. We must begin to acknowledge miracles as what they are! For coincidence is impossible! There is some higher and more valuable sphere of intellectualism then logic; esemplastic and concatenative in it's utility, unifying and elemental in it's various nomenclature, of which when traced through it's jovial and insouciant genealogies can be observed to allow the past to communicate with the future, of which can be observed to prioritize a various language of poetry; as each mythology stands as a singularly great poem.
What might we name that feeling of irony, but "apotheosis?" If you comprehended the languages of the winds, and perchance of wont of inquiry remarked upon the fomenting emollition and relaxant "psithurism," of that subtle remark of the elaphine leaf blowing in the experiments of it's peirastic and tempestive bosom, and it's Ganesa's most sarcotic spindles of samite; might it come to answer you in the peculiar "ecesis" of it's Irony, and the visitation of it's species in you and the renewal of your carnal textures, if it might find itself able to speak that various form? But it speaks for the nature which does not speak, and of which the poet has abstained from, for whatever reason; for it is as if you have been acknowledged by some god to behold it. It's momentary concession is like an assurance from above; the testimony of those incantatory and vernal vespers like God's recognition of you in some thelematic and theandric instant.
That we might treat our personal lives as our venerated and inviolable "epinicions" or songs of a sepaline triumph; as sure as the idea of Ovid's "Metamorphoses's" various transformations and Hesiod's "Theogonia" and Aristotle's "Prima Materia" all corresponding intimately, proportionately with ourselves; in the complementing of these various "aeons" or "saecula" of our lives. We all wear Herme's "talaria," we all know in our volant and polemic conation, our brute instinct, that which impels to effort our various kinds that our lives, our selves our together as some salient epiphenomenon of a nitid, or circumferential and caducous crepuscule of which can be said to hold more of an intrinsic value then it's predecessor, which when observed extends forever into an ambient remoteness of character, value, and credential. That we, in the body of "The Knight in the Panther's Skin," perform several European humanistic ideals as the "courtly love" which in the unconditioned contradicting of itself in some sort of moral elevation and paphian and illicit presentment; which is the "Hyperion" of John Keats and the "Titanomachia" of our life, we so come to assume the duality of man, which is this conflict of hate and love. That it is in this ambivalence, or mixture of emotions, which allows to appreciate true and utter depth.
I would compose myself in that sidereal and proleptic palliament of the immanent "ostent or ornament" and icarian macarism, or supplication of my verses, as awaiting the sororal and patible diapason and consoling of some pactolian and pabulous muse, the lotic magic of which is the standard for eating amongst the Gods. All creatures which come as nutant and apopemptic before this "corposant" of "Saint Elmo's Fire" and The Mekong River's "Naga fireballs" and also Terry Pratchett's "octarine" find themselves with a vitality renewed; as the undulations of a natricine and testaceous talion, or some fast-moving water-snake of a person now aware of his being cheated. Certainly the poet's social utility is specific, as to allow him to become Nature's speech. Thus his personal service to the society is a curious one, as he is the ecumenical intercessor, the temerarious and lochetic vendition of all those particular knowledges of nature, to him all other members of society; the whole of the community come to fulfill their suppressed and optative strains, to understand nature. The Poet's job and most obligatory service must be that vulpine and furtive transference of nature's sentiment and opinion.
I have never found myself to desire the distress of your indecent eye, the cost of which to sustain that benempt oath; that I avoid the ungainly and inept countenance of my speakers. I have never written in verses or in prose that which I had pleadged to speak to the soul of a Man, on behalf of a Man. My soul speaks to God and God only, the inference of the presumptions of the indolent and lurdan of their "typhus-stupor" are not worth as much as my own contiguous drunkenness. It is forever I, devotee of a crenitic and saltant Bacchus, idolater of some olent and pomarious Anacreon, forever presiding the cleidoic and emollient balsam of my more salsamentarious ocean springs of "oenomel" and vintage like.... an erative and temulent vesper; I'd never so much as leave the dregs their undeserved companies, that I, residing my recrementitious sentine disallow that, my singular estuary is my inordinate and potatory mouth where the atramentaceous and bitter are in closer quarters with the lacteal and vestal-candied then ever they were. It is forever I! It is forever I, of stupor; of the intercessor of lethe.
But it is the trochilidine and amphicelous creature, of trivial nature, of which finds himself to abscond with those velutinous and ecaudate Angels, of who's selachian vastitude of the consuming are as upon the choreutic fleshment of his meager velleity and his lack of ambition these fruits of the "durian" which are these victual goods so far from the destitution of sap and other vitalic juices; The poet! He is God's pornography! The poet is the other half of the man. The illimitable vocabulary and paradigm, the naissant appurtenance and lexicon and idiom of the coppice and parterre, of the olamic nectary; of nature, the poet excels as such. But an ornamental, alas; the ornaments are the best parts, as I have intimately forsaken the doctrines of unity, venerating the Holy Diversity of the "personal experience"! It reminds me of Fluff, this poetry stuff! This amasthenic and palustral balsam of some trochiline and oscine flight! This dulcet marzipan! The commentitious and esemplastic organ, all truth forever this "Fenrisulfr" and "Burgess Shale" of imagination and laughter, and fiction. To be eremitical and vagrant is to sacrifice yourself on behalf of the experience, utterly and thoroughly alone and homeless; is to be seated upon The Chair of Idris the Giant. Christ would have done better to leave his gnomic water in it's original state, that he had purloined from the bowl of a palamate Ganesh and that it's vedantic and cabiric atmospheres remain as emollient and balsamical we should be improved of the insuetude of cautelous and jentacular living and higher art; the preservation of it's symbolic concordance is like a certain sustenance for the mind; the principle and element that it represents, it's rudimentary organ and aromatic root of "Animism". What an intoxication it is! An intoxication of the spirit, so that in the trenchant and vertiginous "apotheosis" of it's pileous and vespertine ailerons we are comforted and whisked away, into higher societies and tastes, into higher consumption.
The poet, he is but a curious little animal with a hat; that "Grecian Coryphaeus" of the galericulate and pardine and nidamental animals of the poetic class which are these sort of whispering and susurrant vespers, the acroamatic and recondite beauty of those spirit-leopards, the sardanapalian and effeminate nest-makers, the sinuous and lanate listeners of all the various spheres of immorigerous and vecordious barbarianism and incivility; the incruental hares of war, the immortality and Athanasia of the animal-writer's epiphoric and epenetic current, his drunken release, the paraclete and intercessors of warrior spirits; the only real law-abiders. The poet is that limnetic murderer yet to be attended with expressible blood, he who immolates the spirit in some pastoral gulf of the name of enthetic sensations, and all these bodiless feelings. The poet is the limitless vocabulary of the Earth and Sky and Animals; all those pulchritudes and copesetic and papilionaceous creatures which without a voice are these eidetic cosmologies unheard of by our more or less, unexperienced brothers. May we become him, the poet; that we may become these nomothetic and appellative devices and representatives of the unnamed, and speak on behalf and from the Earth and it's various vestibules and lives. What is the poet's species and print, but the voice and tenor of Beauty herself, the voice of God, Herself.
What is the poet, but the voice and hyaline and vitreous brain of Nature and the fine glasswares of her vestal and velutinous carnality of forms, and like "The Cup of Jamshid" he reflects that pomarious and hortensial worlds, he is the nucleus and kernel of all animal intelligence which is an esemplastic and concatenative substance in his depths, the energies of the thaumaturgic transmutation of those generative vapors of the hermetic sciences and alchemy; oh how pure those schools were, for they parallel the poet entirely, indeed he is the alchemical geography of the irenic and henotic concord of tellurian fermentations, the breaking down of the un-named and the un-explored, the great change from the subtle idiosyncrasies of the human nature which are marvels pandemic and ecumenical and without the lack of correspondence in the interpersonal; to the dense and plangent acclimations of Shakespeare and Emerson and Thoreau? That I know their most dulcet flesh is as mine is, yet the various spice and the olitory herbs of which they choose and or prefer to adulterate and change their natural flavor are as a different type then my own, that we own the same biology I hope we meet each other in some higher sphere of intellectualism.
The impediment to the following ideas had met me with an admittance of which I could not reproduce in the likes of tentation and thoughtfulness, but alas, I have hence taken the appointment to describe it here; there is a sort of curious juxtaposition I have observed within the higher class of the art community. The poet is in many cases this morganatic and calliopean thing, that is, afforded a certain generosity of comfort in the lowly title of which he is assigned, in that he has become the Earth's inferior correspondence in matrimony. He is the sacrifice to his own prescribed ritualism. Those afforded the opulent and pecunious, the gilded and wealthy styles of living, often proclaim themselves as these individuals well-schooled in the arts, and empires of gustative and argute discernments on behalf of all it's various subtleties and vicissitude; though the producers of these same arts upon which the gratitude of the agencies of the higher class might be said to be originated from are in several ways completely foreign. What is this? Why do the rich and satisfied, admire and adore the works of the poor, meager, and wretched, the deplorable and rascal of character, title, reputation, and family? What is more esoteric then the poor, then the body of vagrancy, then the nameless and stateless and the insular residents of the World at large?
The "Teumessian fox" of those ephectic and insessorial philosophies has hitherto inspired the bulk of those nimious and talionic reprobations; the cold-hearted disapproval of the tralatitious Holethnos of the man, which are those velutinous and pelurious poets whom are far from epilated and tonsorial in their unshaven appearances; that most choleric talion of their unrealities and irrationalities. If our more cordial motives are aimed at the qualitative usurpation of our Tribe's insidious notorieties and encompasses a wide breadth and a concordance of various intellects of a respectable stature, not unlike the "Calydonian Hunt" then we might in propitiatory likeness become the halieutic and peripatetic members of our company, never-minding the "Ataraxia" of the "Outlines of Pyrrhonism" by Sextus Empiricus, we might find all the body of our tranquil atmospheres as we fish with the "phatic lineaments" the seas of each other in good conversation and like the hide of the "Nemean Lion" be unkept by the quivering standards of other men. I like to think of that incicurable and pantagruelian spirit as my own, a particular Genius that is to be acknowledged as the synergy of an abundance of imagination and a configured ignorance. All relations born to it's final and cosmic judgments are made infinitely better. The purely logical being has submerged himself into emarcid and cimmerian dormition in the affirmative sanctioning of his own ill-gotten "pleonexia" and avariciousness and cupidity on behalf of wisdom, which imperfectly constructed, has conducted him to me as indivisibly ornamental. Poetry, Conversation, Philosophy; and the pulchritudinous rudiment of the liberating and emancipative fictions of a creative soul; these are the agents employed by that enchorial and ecbolic verisimilitude of the intellectual's creative womb to bear to the world the introduction of a Holy Progeny and the proverbial "Ephebus". All the empyreal stars, trees, peculiar peoples, histories, mythologies, and entomical cities that you have read about are but the appendage of this soul and partial to the breadth of it's resplendence.
What more intimate longing is conversation born from? That the rudimentary organ from which it is derived has evaded the manuscripts I have written hitherto, and has yet to benefit the materials I have fostered with my attention; I have been met with impediments by the compunctions herein to be exausted. To converse with someone is to meet them in a sublime Heaven, is to intermingle with their mental substance and substrate, a property which is more so then their body animated with the portents of liveliness. It is to meet them departed from the Earth. The elevation to this immaterial correspondence is like a religious pretext for any philosophy I might infer to you. To me, conversation is a religious right.
A good conversation is like the vigorous interactions of Soul and the tabetic and sanguine hypernea of that respectively exhausted spirit, that "Sacrosanct Halidom" of a scintillating and sidereous sanctitude; is there a more palmary "Aspersorium" then the discourse; the Paraclete, the Consoler, the Intercessor of this colloquial interlocution upon which the mutual empowering of speech is expressed? Odin receives the souls of all the fallen Heroes in Valhalla, therein he must make room for the poets as well. That the poet is the greatest conversationalist, should we not model ourselves after him such that we might experience the greatness of the congenial arts of his ambrosial and mellific; honey-producing eventilation, for ourselves- if not only that we might install it upon others? The conversations had by most are destitute of sap and other juices vitalic and salient, like the unused portions of roasted Durian.
That copious honeycomb of optative discourse has dried up, without any succedaneous and surrogate potentials of which to erect it again in it's ancient splendor, excepting of course on behalf of a good poet or philosopher. The "Dog-praising and behavior" of Diogenes of Sinope has embedded itself into me, that I respect more then most humans the veridical and honest animalism and the virtues of the Dog, my only difference is my equal love for abstraction, that I take my differences in the assumption that the Dog lives within the abstractions that the poets speak of, and belongs to them, and they likewise are rendered unto him.
The face of God is unshaven and he goes by the name of "Pogoniasis". The real Monks never shave their heads in tonsure, but let themselves become like a feral animal in the comate and pileous gentility that the human body will come to produce when unkept by the standards of Man and acquainted with it's more honest forms. The Animal-Man is the poet, and if an animal might speak I feel it would come of wont to share a few verses with us, as they are more familiar with the Nature upon which the poet is but an inert commentary of sorts. Talk with your plants, talk with your dogs; your poets, your philosophers, your jesters- but forever hold your tongue before the more common; demotic and gregarian man and his concentric worlds. Do not trust his limited vernaculars, do not make yourself as a ignominious prodigality of sorts in this birthright of ours, of conversing. Learn many words and read many things, but more importantly write yourself and become a poet to fulfill the obligations that this zenith of the human experience within conversation has left for you to acknowledge.
That voraginous and telarian Napea of our spiritual meats; the Hellenic sphere of our history which like some ostial and nidamental conduit, conducts a various language of advice, and encouragement- of which we should begin to migrate to in the fashion of some nomadic pilgrimage, wearing our philosophies as an obedible and genesic Temenos of sorts, into which our personal and parochial existences correlate in a manifold degree with the nemoral intelligence that we have thusly come to encounter in those back countries of our history, as like the permanence of the Human's sedition with it's unappealing attendment.
Following a brief period of unfurnished verse, and conticent thought; I transcribed, in a certain ebullience of the opening of myself at last, a Koan, or rather an adage of my own sensibilities: it goes that "fashion must not derive from the cerement," as that less-then considered peculium, or that little deposit or stock of one's own, is most usually the meritorious instance to which upon, with some ludic inquietude as we dispose ourselves to taketh prideful and honored judgment, in later years- into which upon philosophy has encouraged the renewal of supplication, we elect as representatives of our life; what better, then those self-transcendent epochs of our- of our, own little-flames. Compunction, like the impartial man, opens me to know this- in the latest ranges of my defense, in it's potentiality being discovered. Thus, I am yet solicited to comprehend my friends and families as aforementioned proposed. That personal life is a symbol of the immediate, the irrelative to the age. We go there, to go back to the sky. There is a most dependable amenity of form that, immanent of the human dimension, pervades our various languages of judgment, circulation, and pretense. It is most certainly apposite of comicality, in the distinguished sense; how every family and it's members, by their own insular consonance, manage to determine themselves as being in that most contestable possession of the world's greatest dog, or progeny, or
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