Illumines *
Suddenly Illumines Us
Suddenly illumines us. The crowd and the once inanimate, enunciating. Everything reflects in the cells of every other thing. Then they bristle as if in wind. Then they take the cast of the outer image deeper and deeper into the diminishing well. This goes with the disappearing voices. Creature voices confounded, shrunken and cast one against others unfamiliar to it. The shrill of falcon against subsonics of bat. The hyena's surface geometry, rhythmic patterns, infinitesimal, so small to be almost nothing, then rises again to latch into roaring. Keening and hysterics, all non-humanly produced, comes clear lost again faceless. Then the way the speed of them streams and diminishes in volume against something, a petrified tree. Clicking of mishinged mandibles inadvertently resting on a switch. And the switch triggers the clown dance into nowhere into everywhere. The ignition and the velocity that makes the dark lagging into an animated revolver gaining light as it gains momentum. Gaining dimension and perspective from its quadrillion years. All adheres tightly to the spine. Hrdly brushes the side of yer face when yer jumbled recollection causes the factory to fall. The gases explode and in that light we see an eerily marvelous image of Hypatia's symbol-linked skins. And these symbols open into the massive regions curled quietly one into the other until now. Every living thing luminous. Every cell highly loquacious with scattered links to distant coalescence and decay. The way you play with the light and the glare. The way you begin to swallow what you recognize as something lost. That the familiar is strangely absent. And when lassooed you begin to rock with delight. Everything becomes food for your glossolilly cells. Everything speaks with rapturous delight. From the very large, to the very small. The flapping flesh on the dead man's rack also has something to say. Also seems to store at least static memory waiting to be moistened and fired into pitch. With all microcellulars and all organelles spinning and buzzing with news, no one notices the leaks. The leaks through which her sex comes through and lathers everything that has been dry. Every living thing. That the sex glistens and sings a purring hymn that casts the fishermen into the deep. The purring hymn that raises the twins from the dead, lordotic arching of the spine. Chaotic space patterns. Point space of nine or more dimensions. Delirium slips out of the twins jaws. The moist slippage confounding with something extremely rarefied that sings. The singing is not from an ordinary larynx, from the thorax of spin minus linear velocity. It enters the jaws of the gapers. It penetrates into the glottis and makes its home as a parasite would. Makes its logarithmic reflection in a reverberating pool. The reverberating pool connected to other pools by secret chambers. As in a glistening trogdolytic neighborhood of secret chambers. As in a glistening neighborhood of hidden chambers and singing ringworms lacey and racy to a draw. And underground the links are made. The libraries of the vegetables. The glowing hypothalamus that has received and stored all delicate whispers, the impressions that need to thrive and commingle with others. Hypothalamus knows what needs to be stored, quick and vibrant. The portion of the hidden skins rest lightly on the ground. Begin to bristle in the dark. Catch ignitions and tiny children act as messengers cross-fertilize, furtive, fertile, alive, every word electro-lit. The small movement that shakes the agromeglic down to the first rack of recall. The agromeglic who stored everything in his massive jaw. Whose great hands and great eyes examined the hole and the whole. Monstrous shoes. Helmets engineered with patterned signals to sustain his burdened heart. Fight to the bloody draw. Blood so so lively with manna. As if the blood itself has extraterrestrial intelligence and when it flows from his spine it knows where to go. It sets barns on fire. But the firelit barns are news shows and can be divined as messages from other regions, other times. All phenomena are read this way. Collisions, scratches on the skin, thermograph patterns on the pavement, jutting heads of visitors, town criers of events isomorphically linked, miscommunications deciphered, breakage fingered, shifts in velocity of an object anamorphically traced, smeared newsprint, the names of the obituaries linked into a symbiotic dance, the number of portals into thanatopolis, discarded human teeth and bones suddenly treasure, mathematical analysis of the confluence of race rivalries, the way morticians have begun to dance with the dead. We are speaking of the things presently used for scrying. That reading of entrails and their handling have catastrophic triggers elsewhere. How the heart touched by human hands opened a cistern in the Burmese market place. That the locals stumbled on that sink hole and took not of it for the first time in fifteen thousand years. The amphibians that had their wives in there. Children lost their lives in there. Lost memory. The scum that became the cure. The wound that became the salve. The curse that became the blessing. The shriek that became the unctuous moan. The wastrel that became a savior. All girls danced to the news of that cistern. Its odd function. Like when many kilograms of mass with markings of meaning fall down forever to be forgotten and then without warning are suddenly heaved upward to backright and revivial. And the revival burns skyward. Rotational movement. Motor revolvers. Dancing spins. Horizontal velocity. The churning of slip into pitch. All insects scurry away from the scene of the crime. All amphibians slither into the pitch, peer out from the pitch. The burrowing rodents emerge from their holes and race to the lakeside. Blacksmith ghosts stand alarmed outside the burning barn. The horizon thickly populated with insectival carriages and long drawn females who have driven for years. Tired girls would like to lie in checkers across the lawn. Fevers below. The plains become a patterned movement of color. The sky beckons the beauty upward. And some of the dauntless. Turbines spill wastrels with hard-ons and elongated angels coughed up from the sanatorium. Some of the freckled run across the littered lawn to catch bumblebees that speak in antique tongues. The dying is the most beautiful part. Infinitesimal calculus. So small as to be almost nothing. Line geometry. Mutational motricities, operators, homomorphisms. The linking of one language to another. The mingling of tongues between children of different tongues coming to strange lifeforms for their offspring to be spoken. And the offspring will be spoken and with the speaking, the leaking, the mutation of space. New languages and the warping of space in divine responsiveness. Like when the amputated man worshipped the holy whore and she moaned as if slaked to his adoration. The way time and space responds to this language is like that. The magnetism of the North Pole is warping Optics and Sonics and the singing populations. Space-time at the poles. The running dog on the Arctic shore an entirely different creature than the standing still dog. Four dimensions flattened against many dimensions of snows. No Eskimo man cuts through space-time as he walks with the density of a laggard; he continuously coalesces within a snowfield reborn.
What's New with My Subject?
