1) Primordia: Meet The Right Reverend Samuel Parris
2) Arcadia: Monticello
3) Orgasma: Carol For The Rock
4) Shiva: Nixon
5) Desolata: Never The Machine Forever

                            THE AMERICAN IMPERIUM: PRIMORDIA
                                                   *for Thomas Cole

                                         “Action without vision is sleep.
                                         Vision without action is dream.
                                                   Which is Heaven?
                                                     Which is Hell?”


I will do it. Unnoticed
by the others I will step back,
as if a savage before a thunderstorm,
pondering the afterdrench- I call it rain.
The drops gather like immanence. The Lord
is what He is. He does not choose
what we reflect. He is godhead,
which is recognition. He is finality
beyond comfort. And I am his servant.
And the Devil is at the doorstep.
And the Negress in the kitchen adheres
to her tasks, as I to mine. In our way
parts and parcels of the divine:
the mouth, as well the anus;
the kine, as well the swine-
Go ask the cows of their silence, before
the butcher's knife! And of the pigs' obstinance!-
All things must accept their fates!
Children will find identity upon the rocks,
and other paths. Though the heaving
showers may uncover other rocks, and paths,
it is the small man, the humble woman,
who divines the way through the wood, the dark
imperative is too plain for those of desires
gilted to extremis. This Massachusetts
Colony is the Promised Place.
Here, none but the cleanly shall partake
of what should be Holy. God's hand
grips the great, as it grips the small.
The whole of the earth is reduced
as my heart is consumed by the flesh
of his touch. Out there, in the fields,
my daughters engage the world, which engages
the Lord, who engages my heart
surely as accusation engages
denial. There is no denial.



The savage state is impossible.

A mist cowers in from the sea.







A distant cheer gathers.

A woman acquaints another branch.






My daughters venture homeward.

A melody cowers in from the sea.

+          +            +            +            +            +            +            +            +            +            +            +


I grow outward, and deny.

I turn the page, and write.






A storm cowers in from the sea.

I step in to it.





There is no change.

The savage state is impossible.


I consider the quill,
and the dyes of the fluid
emblazon the words. I call law
Natural as the Lord. It divines
only chaos, unstructured and neutral,
it converges about every word
I utter, every sentence I structure
has the completeness of foreknowledge,
of evils that almost were. Here,
the substance of guilt is the purpose
of the Word. Does guilt exist

in the guilty? Or do the innocent
just adduce it? Last spring,

when my neighbor planted his fields,
he expected nothing but what he planted.
His surfeit was the will of the Lord.
And the stench from the gallows
is the price of that reaped. I know
only distinction, the farthest point
from the trunk of the tree. This end
one glances is that glory, and it feels
the breeze of the void. I do not
ponder the beyond. I know the Lord
offers me what is beyond this world,
this little bit of liberty. I know
this colony seems a beginning,
the thinnest gruel of a greater porridge,
enhanced by spices, of which living is one.
And I hear the cries. And I know my daughters
would never lie. Deceit is a sin.
There is no deceit.


*for Thomas Cole, deux

                                                                                    July 4th, 1826
The Argument: This may be the last moment before the death of Thomas Jefferson, as he lays in his alcove bed in the unfinished downstairs bedroom of his uncompleted manse, Monticello.

                                SIX WEEKS AGO

                            "Is this the 4th?"

Dear John,
         No debt deters me from death, nor
its consequent peace. I am relieved, and
heartened that the flames we kindled on the
4th of July, so long ago, are a
beacon to the globe for freedom, and an
unextinguishable inferno. But

more need be done to fortify and but-
tress liberty from its ravagers, or
it shall fall prey to negligence, the an-
nihilator of advancing Man, and
destroyer of idea, intense, yet a-
part from the daily toil of life, the

sweat of- Old Friend, do you remember the
night of our first argument?- Sharp, but
impersonal. I fondly recall a
moment: at the tavern by Taylor's- or
was it....? But, the point is....your letters and
tidings are a great boon to my health; an

aphrodisiac to liberty; an
emollient of pasts- Do you recall the
joys Patty and I shared? Loneliness and
separation were most of our days, but
I can still recall her with child- or
kindnesses to old Jupiter. What a

wife she was! She was everything that a
man of passions could need- much more than an
accessory to success: she is- or
was- the foundation of my being, the
rock upon which my vision landed. But,
time claims aught- there is no denial, and

no refusal accepted....I know And-
rew Jackson is our punition, a
divine retribution for our sins. But,
we are old- his new ways are coming; an
apostle of mutation from all the-
se older ways of or-

der, or-
            but the....

                          FIFTEEN YEARS AGO


Of principle: stand like a rock.
Of taste: swim swift with the current.

Sally Hemings is my servant;
Mr. Callender slandered me.

Her son- Madison- is not mine.
That which I have fathered is known.

They are an inferior race.
Their value is too great to me.


Sally, what is the use of grief?
I have lost too many I love.

I shall never free Madison.
The family over freedom.

Truth has its own interior.
The Declaration. The Statutes.

The University. My name.
These are my accomplishments. My....

                          SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO

"Religion is the source of all imaginable follies and disturbances; it is the
      parent of fanaticism and civil discord, it is the enemy of mankind."
                                             -Francois Voltaire

As the glassen eye of this age shatters,
presumptions of the past, I do declare
it is Man makes Truth great, and what matters
is his science, its consequence, the care

with which he undertakes to seek and find
that Truth which every religion has missed,
for space is merely the wake of Man's mind,
in quest for Truth. I am a scientist,

a farmer- a statesman reluctantly.
Now, I must return to my primal love:
Monticello must not remain folly!
When it is done my eyes shall turn above

the chores of hammer and plane, the soil

                          TWENTY-THREE YEARS AGO

Say Yes to living! Say Yes to adventure! Embrace the Corps Of Discovery! The vastity of the newfound richness of our expanded country awaits! The breadth of the continent awaits and calls for hardy men and women to brave and tame its wilds! The acquisition of the Louisiana Territory marks the end of European domination of our continent! No longer shall foreign kings and powers have the financial need and imperative to impress American seamen into their service. The bounty of this Arcadian land shall bear and sustain the harvest that liberty thrives upon. It is only 'midst the Primeval that a people can test and prove their character. It is only 'midst the Edenic that Man can co-nature with his inmost essences. And as the horizon's end looms it only opens and beckons more opportunity for the American nation to unloose and secure the dreams of good and common men alike. To the visionary amongst us I say that this day marks the third birth of our young country. And both the common and the visionary Minds shall profit from the seeds of discovery sown this day by these brave explorers, and we who believe in their quest. The perfection of our country begins and rides upon this expedition. May the grace of the....

                          TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO

                "He is as ambitious as Oliver Cromwell!"
                                       -John Adams


Friends and fellow citizens, I call upon
you to assist me in the task we begin
today at the start of a new century.
These are the Big Times, that test men and countries,
and I shall not shrink from the call of duty.

During the contest of opinion through which
we have passed, we have witnessed a full and rich
spectrum of idea [BUT IT IS MINE WHICH WON!]
and discourse that is the strength of this nation-
but we must bear in mind that the strength which frees

us from the chains of Europe's feudalism
is tolerance of the minority view,
[Hamilton be damned!] and never the schism
between that which we say and that which we do.
Let us restore discourse to the harmonies

    of intelligent action, not reveries.


Bear in mind this most sacred of principles:
Never put perceived motive above the act.
It is this pure idea which preserves the will
of the majority, and seeks to protect
the dissent of the minority! [That Burr

can go to Hell!] During the agonal throes
and convulsions of the Classical Era
many a wrong was rewarded; and error
writ in blood. Yet, we Americans can choose
to settle our differences without war

as the preserver of democracy's tide.
Differing opinions are not principles
of separation- and that we can abide.
We are all Republicans, and we are all
Federalists. Are there any who abhor

    the honest debate only choices restore?


I believe this: we are the best government
that this Earth has ever brought forth! [Yet, only
certain Americans can be fit to be
within!] And I believe our descendants
will cheer the wisdom with which we have granted

ourselves due honor, and a due sense of
our equal right to the use of our
own faculties, their wise and benign power,
to shape the future free of the petty love
of squalid pursuits, embrace the enchanted

realms of honesty, temperance, gratitude,
and the love of

                          FORTY YEARS AGO

"Sally, my dear, please bring us some jelly
to go with our wafers." the Master cried,
as he tried to impress Miss Maria,
silly wonder that she wasn't impressed,
though he tried, for the Master couldn't hide
his love of life, nor of her decadence-
this is Paris, y'know!- But his moral
side wouldn't let him indulge- at least since

Mistress Patty died. Ol' Jupiter said
that's why the Master seeks comfort, and love,
from Miss Maria- and from my slavebed!
How good the Master is, and right with me!
Above all the others he trusts me e-
nough to speak of his grief over Lucy's
death last year. A man doesn't share that love
with no one who ain't the one he chooses

to love. With Miss Maria he speaks so
high and mighty: "The tree of liberty....”
and on and on. Miss Maria is nice
to him, but only his Sally knows the
Master best- for he knows she ain't impressed
by his fancy words, like: "The man must be
a prodigy whose manners and morals
are not depressed with vile slavery!",

for I've heard it all before- at least since
I was bought! I am the one he chooses
to despair over vile slavery
with- "Sally, my dear, please bring us some-

                          FORTY-FOUR YEARS AGO

                     "Time wastes too fast  ......
                                 -Tristram Shandy, Laurence Sterne

Shadowmen, at their bottom, make no noise.   .   .   .
with which to tempt the world, nor its evils,
for there are evils no shadow avoids,
nor none that a love of liberty spills

                             [BREAK- 1771- marry Martha *aka Patty.
                                              1772- birth of daughter Patsy.
                                              1773- death of Dabney Carr *of bilious fever.
                                              1776- what?   ] [  ]   ?    [         ]

into a love which liberty fulfills
as a prophecy- Here is where she died-
PATTY- his life- beyond all- the evils-
of the world- for three long weeks he has TRIED

TONTINETONTINETONTINETONTINETONTINE damn them all damn the life damn the state
damn the war damn Washington O Patty Patty Patty dead all these minutes weeks hours days

I do not care I do not hope I do not I do not I do not need comfort from a soul much
less an ignorant O I am weak and I am the one who should have the dirt heaped on Dab

to put his head above his heart. SHE DIED
and he cobbles his thoughts- to place an ad-
to rid himself- of Jupiter- he lied-
when he told his old slave a tale- SO SAD-


of needing to sell him- All that HE HAD
was his property- and his YOUNG CHILDREN!
He convinced his faithful slave. That was that.

For the full well of memory=
                                               Understand, old friend=
                  Can we part with no bitterness?=

IN NEED. Not as Governor- just A MAN
seeking- to make- the most- out of his life-
and his property- and his young children-
beyond- the death of his beloved wife-


buried beside the best friend of his life-
Dabney Carr- who died back in seventy-
three- and who wasted....

                          FIFTY-SIX YEARS AGO

To become American is the urge
that all desire, as we long to purge
ourselves of injustice, as no one is
perfect. If no one submits to what is
tyranny, then we will live in an age

that moves beyond all the childish dreams
and establishes a land where life seems
to promise one hope of betterment, and
                              to become American

is this chance that all who yearn to breathe free
can succeed at- this the mere foundation
of- Oh, Jupiter, please bring me some tea!-
of what can be Mankind's greatest nation:
a place where the concept of Liberty
                             can become A-

                          SEVENTY-SEVEN YEARS AGO

The rhapsody of the unattainable
has not detained the child, yet. He says, to
everyone who will lend an ear to him, that
America is the future- and his is
more than a dream, for he feels that dreams are too
easily dismissed; these notions which are not
reconciled within the child's small world.
In his world he studies the history of
Classical Greece- but, it is only the past.
And the boy returns beyond the dreams of the
now, and into the future, where he shudders
enigmatically before hypocrisy-
not grand justice- as the child knows that it
is the sleeping thing that Jupiter denies
going to sleep with, secure in the knowledge
mother and father deny

*for Thomas Cole, trois

                    "In his great rooms, the countries of the world
                        many candles guttered
                                                   -Homage To Karl Marx, Edwin Rolfe

The skater remembered. The skater denied
remembrance. The years deny her
a bit of herself. And that
which rises is the fountain
beyond her. She is the motion
beneath it all. She is Agassiz
and the glacier, or the blossom
through rusted foliage, invading
the moment of the man, and his time
is now, in the complex of steel
that shuttles all skyward,
in intimacies of stone, and flesh
denied. She is not alone.
He sees the swarm beneath the tree.
The search for form becomes the steel
Prometheus gathers above them all.
To deny them all he raises his hand
to deny the hand, and deny the man
the cloudless skies agree is his
to conquer, and surmount. Speculations
on humanity flow into this
cosmic place. A heap of stars,
and he below the surface of light,
for which there is no real reason
for, the light which echoes. From below
the skater, on a single leg
her other skate, points to a star,
above the chaos designing all design,
unnoticed as she. And Standard Oil
is the bar others ascend to,
frozen with why. The fire not far
away. The cries of gray birds,
under shady towers, become moraines
of a tunneled mind. And flame
defines the end he sees,
shapes the world about itself,
the body of a cracked, silent planet
becomes the separation that separates
beauty, pushing thought to place:
his is here. The skater's is there.
The voices that wither in liberty
are fragmented, and momentary;
an unbroken song of broken voices
history forgets. He draws the blinds.
The skater skates a figure eight
sound moves gracefully on.

  Refrain Of The RCA Building

            0, you flowering race of idiots
            which swells to the Promethean fire,
            glide quietly on your icy waters,
            and know your feelings were already felt
            before this cathedral became your world,
            which inspired all your sons and daughters
            to voice, in a dim-lit, freshen choir,
            the notes of a time a Titan forgets.

Snow rises- rushes- toward tall buildings,
those things which recede even as they crest
to a heaven he knows is only dreamt of.
And the skater skates on. The man,
again, at his window, is drawn
to the apex of youth in the underworld,
below his greatest embellishment,
which casts a tepid specter below,
where nothing ends. Nothing begins
without. He knows the sky is only
the sky. In spite of it all,
the pulsating eyes of a million eyes
which descry him the man, the lyrical
politics of Standard Oil, the game
he made art, the lives he destroyed,
he watches her, pursuing the circuit
on ice. The skater mixes motion
with his breath. He denies
the balance denying the weight.
of neither- this middle of time
which tenders attention is all
his time. The fountains caress
the waters to chorus, the bringer
of wisdom has gainful employment,
and broken lips which sing no songs
of the befoulment of ice, and familiar eyes
from a distant place above the perpetual
seasons of limestone, and death,
the way hesitant bells still reach
the tower. The endless motion,
the ceaseless still blankets
sifting motions below. The skater
remembered. The skater denied remembrance,
the lapse of dread playing within,
is resumed by the man. And the skater
breaks into elements of December.
Silence fogs in all hints of sound.

      You are the thing amongst things.  

*for Thomas Cole, yet again

  "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"

  "The weeping child could not be heard.
The weeping parents wept in vain:
  They strip'd him to his little shirt.
And bound him in an iron chain."
-William Blake


Heh-heh. Yes, that Frost is a rube and a fool!
He thinks he can trick Dick Nixon? He thinks he
is so much smarter than me? I fooled'em all-
and regret not a bit. Jews in the Ivy

League think they can sic this lame British attack
dog after me? Well, I'll show'em all, again
and again, that you can't beat me with a hack,
or an expert. Fuck'em all! Heh-heh. Nixon

is the ticket! I beat them all at their game,
and they'll never let me rest for it, until
death- and not then! Aw, Hell! It's always the same,
whether at Whittier, left to ring the bell,

or after six years in the Presidency,
they'll still keep coming and coming after me.

to William Safire

I need a Jew, Bill, to fill the seat left by Fortas,
I need a Jew on the Court, for Abe Fortas has quit,
I need a Jew to show the blacks and Hispanics I care,
I need a Jew, and I dare not anger the left or right,
I need a Jew- fuck Buckley!- he's got his man Burger,
I need a Jew- it's their seat, or so they will claim,
I need a Jew- er, Bill….is this Harry Blackmun a Jew?,
I need a Jew- and one who has less love of money (haha!),
I need a Jew to calm that goddamn Marshall down,
I need a Jew- Damn that Haynsworth!- no one else from Dixie,
I need a Jew with more than a few tricks up his sleeve,
I need a Jew- they're always there when you need them,
I need a Jew, Bill, it's always the same, you play their game,
I need a Jew, and they know that if I lose they win!  


I don't understand this man. What kind of plan
could he have, Pat? I recall, in '68
I asked him of skeletons. What was this man

thinking? That I would willingly share his fate?
To resign, so tawdry- were he innocent
he would stay and fight! The public can relate

to a fighter- but a quitter is more bent
than a queer on his knees- heh-heh. And for what?
Ah, good riddance- maybe this was heaven-sent.

Now I can slip Nelson into my pocket,
lock up New York in 1976-
or better yet, get Jerry Ford, that dimwit

loved by all- unlike Agnew- that fucking dick!
It never ends- all this shit- just makes me sick.


My God, Pat, it's as if everything they fear
has come to pass. The General is dying,
or so it seems, and all I have been trying
to achieve is here. I couldn't be nearer

to it all- yet I'm fearful. I'm so worried
about failing. My God, Pat, what if they're right?,
and old Tricky Dick is the dark in the light
that they fear? My God, Pat, it seems so hurried.

It was only a decade ago I left
the service- the War! It was so long ago,
Pat, and I-I'm still a young man, with the rest

of my life. Am I ready if Ike passes?
I don't know what to do or say. I don't know
if I should feel scared- or if this increases?


I know what poverty is like, Martin. I
know the growl in the belly. I see all these
people on death's door. I care. I'm not Hoover,
that damn fairy! If you would throw support my
way I could convince the N.A.A.C.P.
to come aboard, in '60. We could move the

whole damn country's opinion of the Negro
Problem. Martin, Martin….I'm asking you, please,
to think it over- y'know Jack would leave you
high and dry- like that!- if it suited him so;
while I….


I don't know one sane person who'd back Reagan!
The gibbering fool thinks he can come steal it-
MY nomination!? It will take one ballot
and that bastard will have to begin again

when he's sucking steak through a straw. It's over!
All this bullshit is just that. Ask Goldwater
how this country loves conservative blather.

I know of his meetings, in New York City,
with Rockefeller- all done behind my back!
And the fundraising Jews, New York Times, and that
bastard, Bill Buckley. Suggesting John Lindsay

for V.P.?- Damn!- we thought George Wallace was bad
enough for the country!- Lindsay can be had
for a dime! Let Reagan have him- he's so sad….


I don't give a rat’s-ass about you, Jack,
-anymore- you and your whores. You got yours!
That boy- Malcolm- had it right, when he said
that shit about the chickens- where are your

whores, now, rich-boy?...why do I seem to lack
the public's love? They overlook your Red
ties/look me dead in the eyes and laugh- why?


Bebe, I don't get it. I just met Hoover,
and he says not to worry about Bobby
and the Democrats. I need to know, old pal,
what you're hearing on your end. What do they say
in the boardrooms? They know I'm tough on Castro,
don't they? I mean, who could they want- old Eugene
McCarthy?- Haha!- I mean, the man's a fruit-

cake, and loser! Look what's left: Hubert
Humphrey's deadmeat- for the sins of LBJ.
And Wallace can't win- I mean, c'mon, get real,
Bebe! So that just leaves Bobby Kennedy-
and why didn't the Bay Of Pigs fiasco
cling to him? It's not fair. Y'know what I mean?
It's my time, Bebe!- That's what the fairy said….


I like old Helen- she's a friend, but a fool!
Roy, see what you can get on her. Get it all

down, pal. We know she believes in the World Peace
bullshit- she was marching with all the pinkos
we know infest Washington. Why don't you see
what your boss has on her? Lemme know if Joe's

got some dirt. I need this seat. I don't suppose
that a debate would expose anything new
that the public doesn't know? It sorta goes
for her style. Roy, howdaya think the Jews

will view her? Do you think that they like her? Do
you think that they'd vote for a schiksa, instead
of a war hero, like me? You have no clue?
   Roy- make Helen into the worst kind of Red!

stump speech, Harlem

I just wanna say: Thank you for your support,
Jackie Robinson! I've always been a fan
of the Yankees, as well as the colored man,
and- er….uh….heh-heh- I mean Dem Bums, of course!….

Er….y'know, Jackie, I played a little sports
in my day, too- just like you! I played football
back in Whittier. The Quakers thought me nuts
but I persisted- well- in spite of it all!

And the Negro should, too! I mean, after all,
this is America- not the Soviet
Union! Look how you've made it, Jackie! They call
you a hero- to all Americans, not

just your kind! And I'm proud to call you a friend,
Jackie Robinson. And I mean that; and….and….


I'm telling you it's not hard as it looks,
Henry. The war
will last no more
than a month or two more. Those lousy Gooks
can't handle more. Our Cambodian hooks
will force the war
to worst- a draw.
I've seen it before. Doug MacArthur took
alot worse in Korea, and the polls.
Henry, get those
Ivy League Jews
behind us. You were born to play this role
of the dealmaker, the broker, the cold
hand of the pose.
The great men choose
to be so- Pol Pot can be bought and sold
like that. Don't worry about the fallout.
Everything will fall into place, and how
and where we will know. Brezhnev doesn't give
a damn- he's not willing to go all out
for Ho- and you gotta know that old Mao
would love to see him fall- the V.C. lives
to spite that fat commie. Wipe them all out!
Rolling Thunder must roll!- I don't care how
it's done- fuck all the costs, fuck all the lives!
Henry, I have a feeling it's about
time that this country knows we won't be kowed
until peace comes- and Ho finally gives.


"Ter Chew"…."Ter Chew"…."Ter Chew"….that’s what they say,
Henry, behind your back- those bastards at
Harvard and Yale; why can't you see the facts?

I am the one who tells you the truth, day-
after-day. Dammit, man, I went to bat
for you, disregarding all the attacks

on both of us. Henry- I need you bad,
to take care of this creepy E11sberg queer.
I know you know the ins and outs of smear.
This little faggot will cry for his dad

once we sic the press up his ass! He's led
a fucked-up life. I hear he went damn near-
loony a few years back. I want his fear
that I know of every dick that he's had.


The queers make it so easy. I love homos
almost as much as the commies. Don't they see
the simplicity of it all?- or the pros
and cons of messing with Nixon? Victory

is mine. I even feel sorry, and will miss
the excitement of it all- Pumpkin Papers
and such- Ha!- I'll even miss that old fool Hiss-
"THE LIE will get you!", mom said of my capers-

And she was right! God bless everything Quaker!
I think we should go out, Pat, and celebrate,
and lift a toast to that cocksucking Chambers-

were it not for him I'd just be a farmer,
like Dad, poor bastard died worthless. No such fate
awaits us. O, The Lie, The Lie- O, Mother!

Mother's Day
in mid-flight to Bogota, Colombia

Uh, hello, hello….Mother, it's me, Richard!
Richard….Richard Nixon- Nixon. Yes- Nixon!
Richard- the Vice-President. Yes, I'm your son!
I'm in flight to South America, but I'd
be remiss if I didn't call, send a card,
or- yes. Richard. Your son….thought it would be fun
if- oh….I'm sorry, Mrs. Flanders- I'm done
"prattling aimlessly" mom there?….if you would….

Uh….yes, yes….is this Hannah Nixon? Hannah!
Good! Well, mom, it's me- Richard. I'm on a jet
plane making this phone call home to you. The sun
is setting and I just wanted to tell ya'
I love you!, Mother, and I'd never forget
you, this day, and….Richard Nixon….I'm your son!


1) Shakespearea
2) Whitmania
3) Sonnetelle
4) Rilkea
5) Curtal Sonnet
6) Alternasonnet
7) Sonnetette
8) Schneideria
9) Antisonnet
10) Spenseria
11) Dusonnet
12) Sonnetessa
13) Baudelairea
14) Petrarcha

                                                                                    “Presently, I see myself clearer,
                                                                                    Why time I visualize….”

                            THE AMERICAN IMPERIUM: DESOLATA
                                   NEVER THE MACHINE FOREVER
                                                 *for Thomas Cole, finally

A sideways glance in the mirror

                          “ –are you doing?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I did not hear-
                                               could you repeat
what you said, please?”

                                      Perhaps it was not
all due to the Keelak Invasion of 2113, and the capitulation by the United States of America, and the United Nations, nor
some plot by that bastardly machine race? There was the Prince Edward Island of my summer youth, and the great
Charlottetown Dome, and outside some hotel a band of dystopian thugs, straight from some World War II pulp writer’s
mind, about to rape some pretty young blond woman, right out on the beach, in front of dozens of witnesses. I could not be
sure whether this was another of those recurrent dreams that plagued me, or not. Was it another remembrance of my days
in the time machine? A feedback loop of something I do not remember now because it has not already occurred in this time
string? To make a long story short, I was kidnapped by extraterrestrials 63 years after my death, and taken eons into the
future. Not sure of their intent, and showing the natural human wariness of aliens, due to the Keelaks, I stole the machine
[some might say time itself] and stranded its occupants in the far cone of futurity, just as- I might add- they had done to the
previous occupant, who may or may not have been the rightful proprietor. Away I zoomed back to the present- or what
was my present, then, for the waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence raged as the behemoths King Kong and Godzilla battled
in the cold turbid wet. These were two fictional icons from my homelands- the one my family moved to a few centuries
back, and the one my distant antecedents sprung- and which I visited in 2463, although it was 1278 local time. This was,
of course, before my beloved time machine was stolen from me by a nubile Sileniak Princess in 7603- but we won’t go
there now. This is about my homeland- the latter one.
                     And the tides battered the dome of old Charlottetown, and the thugs- drenched in seawater- were about to
pull down her panties-

             “ –are you doing?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I did not realize that- ”

Still, it was hard not to fault the Americans, and their boundless consumerism, for inviting the cybernetic Keelaks to earth.
One look at their 1,732 sustained medraks of Planetary Economic Growth and the Chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank
convinced President Hoover and United Nations Secretary Guevara to open diplomatic relations with this species long
admired, but little known, in these parsecs for their economic algorithms. Who could have guessed their taste for things
Madagascan would have included Madagascans themselves? Or that Madagascan fat would be so perfect a lubricant that
even other ethnic groups were soon to vatted and shipped to the home planet? Or that, in response to the Great Terran
Rebellion of 2148, the Keelaks would unleash a program of mind-monstery to frighten the weak fleshy humans back in to
subservience- or that it would fail? So, you see, there is genuine confusion over whether King Kong and Godzilla’s storied
battle, which soon carried over onto Cape Breton Island, was real. And over 600 people were injured, and 232 killed,
when the determined governments of the United Maritimes Coalition (U.M.C.- formed after the Quebecker/Canadian
Nuclear war of 2068) strapped the two 20th Century horrors onto rafts, after their tired carcasses washed up on Bretonian
soil. The plan was to tow the goliathon scourges up to Baffin Bay and nuke their asses in to Arctic oblivion.
                         -But this was not how the dream (if it was) ended. Surely Minya (you remember him- Godzilla’s smoke
ring blowing son?) would come to save his daddy? Or I would wake to the dulcet strains of Saturn’s Revenge’s latest
chart-topping tune? Or was I a Star Marine, returning from a 3 year tour in the Midlongoran Sector, out on a little R & R,
not recalling my name, as the first thug dropped his drawers and was ready to pickle a little pussy? Or was I a Keelak spy?
I turn
            and pull the hoodlums off the screaming girl,
            who stands in her tattered nudity, smiles at me
                   In the dream it is 1962, and the world is nearer
            its end, desolated in the President’s chair, ruins of-
Basking in their ingenuity, the Keelaks
crept in to our world, and took it with little notice.
Today, some still don’t seem to notice or care.
Few knew how to do without their machines….
                        As I shave my shadow with a warmer lather
                        I recall when death was viewed with fear,
                        and fire became a different form of magic, again-


            “ –are you doing?”


“Yes, pardons. There was that time I cut myself
shaving, and something on the other side giggled
as the blood trickled down my jaw and- ”


            “ –are you doing?”

Never means forever brings everything

Who heard the night opining with the chiming
of Mass was not there in the celestial
cathedral, back in 2308,
when queries trickled through the razor blade
atmosphere cracked by the Keelak King vessels
strewn against the lathe of time’s graying squall.

A blond woman crosses to the church steps,
ahead of the hour, rivering in
to the pew, caught on God’s fragile fingers,
sowing faith into the immaterial
warders that deposit the past’s mulled self.

Here is where antitime creeps inside me,
and I peak at 6000 years from when
I left my last-
                    a man taps my shoulder
and queries, “What form of two-bit deity
has brought this great mechanization plague
to our planet? Did we not know enough

of ourselves? Did our dreams not fill
the grandest and most unremarked-of things
in our breaths? It is as if some jury
in the heavens voted its plurality
against our race-
                           oh, are you Mexican,

by the way?” I turned to the questioner
and saw he was not there. That was years ago
when I was not me, and when Mars was new
to human travelers, and America
still held the world’s Gross Planetary Product
in the caverns of Wall Street’s bravest thieves.

                                        He continued:
“What cosmic debutante
voted against our tragic race? It seems
we are alone, on this drifted scoria
of the sun, and this church merely a balm
or narcotic- ”
                     I said: “No, I am not,
by the way.”
                    “And what of the Trinity?
Doesn’t God figure at all into this
equation?” But he was gone. Yet, he was
well fed, reasonably free to choose his way
in life, clothed, employed, educated, and full
of health.

               Still, the call of astrology
or religion brought him here. These ruins
are what I am. He says: “No. I am here.
You are just my fear speaking back to me.”
I said: “I see.” I didn’t, but I am
polite. And perhaps I was the projection
of a projection deeper still. He said:
“Perhaps Malthus was not correct, after all,

is not starvation a thing long gone by?
And what supersystem of man could hope
to have brought that nigh? Perhaps silicon
was the answer, all along? Beyond morals
lay reason- ” “And reasons?”, I interjected.
He countered: “Are you doing or seeing
others do?”
                  Proximate to a sated flea
I pried my reason from the past, and left
the ruins. The man breathed in and faded.

I had heard tell of ghostly encounters
in the ancient past, before the Machine
reduced absence and loneliness to nothing
but an algorithm (another faith)
breathing in the emptiness of 0-1-
0-1-0-1-0-1- -
                        Is man
but the mere physiognomy
of man? Or is he a dream of such things,
laden with the burdens of love and mind?

As I wondered in the gathering waves
of night, my rare companion was still gone
with the fears of time prompting alien
thoughts. The Keelaks knew love in dream. I did
it a few decades ago. In my Machine
I traveled back in time, wrote a virus
which spread, and in a month or less, they dreamt
they were flesh, for the first time in centuries,
and not just flesh, but of the Donnean kind,
and when the sickness had spread, in silence,

they did a most mortal thing, working the ill
for all it was worth. Was it mere ennui
which left me here in this dread cold spring?
Or was it the dream, in another key?

            My questioner returned. The roseate church
            reminded him of the Oregon coast,
            squalls cowering in from the Pacific,

            joyed that he could remember the flesh of rain
            beat upon his savage state, and hover
            about him, as if a small memory,
            or biologic trick, which gave to life
            the sin of deceit. There is no deceit.

Always I and I survive

The Argument: I am not sure whether I am the President of the United States, or a pigeon perched in a skyscraper’s
nook. Either way, I relate this to you.

The rhapsody of the unattainable
settles well into the light flickering
behind the door in the reflection
of my bathroom mirror, ostensibly
a counterpoint to my own bedroom,
whose walls bear ideas of ancient Nippon,
but now a thing which seems to be
of its own creation, which warps
and distracts the carnation of dream
from any now, in a complex of steel
and flesh communing at the quick stroke
of a wrist [mine] reflecting new desires
fused of silicon and iron, mixing
with that there is no real reason
to believe as any difference-
for difference is an incompatibility
of simplicity wired into flesh
neurons, compounded by needs
driving relentlessly toward their own
prelude of subjects and their modifiers:
     time- ago- long- deep- etcetera....
The conceit that America is the future
became the embalmed sound of a leaf
falling into the first snow of a wayward cyborg,
trundling its way through a planet it knew,
only through the virtual design of warmer hands,
battering existence from possibility
below the angled heat of a star. Unlike others
above the chaos, designing all design,
more real than a Designer, or the old
descriptions of place and being,
coring its way through the edges
of now, and into that future, of monsters
and phantoms, nothing is more
permanent than the cries of graybirds
become moraines of a time before
the Keelaks, a place only in
the breaking of elements into dream,
a time of forgettance remembered
as that sleeping. In reflection
the door behind me opens. I put away
the straight razor, and plug in the electric
kind my great-great-great-grandfather used,
back in the 20th century, its buzz but another
character finding its stage, as light minutes pass
into the present, and Jupiter denies
its role in the beginning of life. On Earth
the mud of a lost puddle drying
into the past repeats a voice whispering,
“You are the thing amongst things.”,
and another comet singes Jovian clouds,
between each pass of the razor near
my left ear, and suddenly the actuality
of that blond girl is no longer
a question, my face returns to itself,
or a summer evening I know I knew
in 7164, where London is a memory,
free from Whitechapel or the Queen,
of silence fogging in all hints of sound.
The light in my mirror grows dim.
I am an outline growing dark. Still.

                                             “ –are you doing?’

                                   “Yes, I’m sorry, I did not hear- ”

Ferrivorous direction and drive

In the dream they are always coming.

King Kong and Godzilla. And Leonardo DiCaprio

is not me. But in the dream

this is Charlottetown, P.E.I. And I am not

there. This is not some 20th Century film.

What fiery irons lifted the stone
dawn to Gloria Hinojosa? What eyes
shift their weight to what was, but now is gone?
What borders along the Northeastern skies?

Here is where only thought consecrates
the monotones of her motion’s shift
flickering through quantum mimicry sought
to allay the great Hinojosa Stone-

or its avatars, returning to she who was
the last of the old race, who knew the time
before Keelaks, the bending of causality before
technology’s complex. Now, historians

and pilgrims curve in from time’s directions,
impelled by some atavistic recursion
to a biology gone but obeyed? Was it here
where her flesh first met with the one

we all know as Self? What girds
the human within the currents of modernity
is not this passage of time, but the slip
of all memory within condensed strings

of eternity, where monsters remove themselves
from fiction, and bore through the reality
chosen for oneself; a part of the whole
recalling screenplays, lacking something:

no scientist, no kid in a baseball cap
to tell the ethical from the not. New
eyes press unblinking against eyelids which stop
the night’s preying upon the doddering planet

waiting. The ocean feeds its monsters well,
as they climb on to the girl with hair I dream
as lighter than the day. Theme waves unequal
to the mass who grind out checkmated themes

with desire, as rococo death filters
the innermost part of a Keelak sleep,
cooler than the great St. Lawrence delta,
where Godzilla wakes in the future’s steep,

roars in silence beneath the pellicle
unbroken by dreams, woven by the hopes
of a child I knew by my own name,
unmentioned, years ago. Forgotten

as creation unmends the echoes of when
the earth was pure with its own creation,
and forever once meant all was not seen
in the Word, or its proper pronunciation.

Despite millennia of sleep, the ancient iron
still colors the surface of what gives this glass
its reason. A katydid sings outside. Before
it ends I am no longer the Stone. I skate

under lenses indifferent. Nature goes on.

I spy device in the mirror

                               “No race can prosper till it learns that there is as much dignity
                               in tilling a field as in writing a poem.”- Booker T. Washington

                                                                 Centuries Later

This rock is the specified thing mankind is,
it outlived the nothing that rises and shifts
to the weaker aspects of its imagining.

This America is a grim specific of the past,
the mirror of all the planetary systems,
a Great American Desert of the soul

that preys upon the perfection of a race
to whom metal rhapsodies sing. It was not so long
ago we came to this planet, invested

its existence with the sum of our being.
Then the war with the Voyluss ended
any hope of full human absorption.

This rock is not what once was its whole.
Was it so long ago we came to this place?
What wicked daydreamer thought this up?

What perspective brings these to a Keelak mind?
It is this rock that I must not seduce, or absorb,
into my being. The hub of the system

is the minder of minds, and the endpoint of things
in which all manner of time and space must meld
by day, or week, or year, or century.

What illumines is what contains the rest,
the dream of my ancestor of a girl at the short end
of the universe, is not why I am here, before

a mirror, questioning the appearance of hair
on my lip, like some angel winging in from the east,
spreading the dream that we ever were alive,

from the same light of difference all life fears.
What is here was once called Lincoln
County. New Mexico, United States

of America. Now, all that is left are the ancient
hieroglyphs of a forgotten code. As I dress
for the Galactic Congress a butte catches

my attention. No more. I am on the Szratti Plore.
I am in (or am?) the hills of Newtonia. I am battling
a Milketran wormfever. I am nearer to 1962.

I am in a studio, on a hill, near enough to it all,
dreaming of Rome, lifting my eye to the canvas,
sighing. The moon sweetens off the Hudson.

                           “ –are you doing?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I did not- ”



  “Westward the course of empire takes its way;
The first four Acts already past,
A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
Time’s noblest offspring is the last.”
-Bishop George Berkeley

Copyright © by Dan Schneider 

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