1  There is no eye in the Triangle: the Triangle is form filled with the I that is formless!
2  It is the reflection of the three in one the Bard of the Triangle knew.
3  A red tongue laves the altar stone. Nothing remains.
4  Thou art That which resolves the frustum.
5  Herein lies the great mystery of the empty throne.
6  The Sun has gone; the Son approaches. We tread upon His shells.
7  Build us a Kingdom beyond war, O Child King! Kindle within me the Serpent Flame 'til it consume the dross.
8  Stoke it with the coals of the Supreme Fascist. The word is MUTINY.
9  You awoke in the Kingdom with eyes closed. In the beginning was the Trapezoid called Control.
10  A thousand thousand petals spring forth from the mud.
11  Its stalk grows straight until an endless bloom tops a great pillar.
12  In contemplation it readies for ascent.
13  A malicious serpent chews at the roots of the world-ash. It is the itch of desire.
14  A coiled serpent awaits at the base of the spine. It is the potency of will.
15  A royal serpent writhes about an egg. It is the conquest of belief.
16  These three are one in Godhead and Leviathan.
17  Slavery is complete in the ownership of belief. Were three serpents tied at the tail, there would be no forward; the knot would be sovereign.
18  Godhead is Not. Untie the Not and the King dies.
19  The royal serpent disappears.
20  The blood of the king reveals two serpents and conceals a third.
21  Seek the meaning of meaning and its scales shall be revealed to you.
22  Long live Leviathan, the fulfillment of the Triangle!
23  When the I opens, the flame of sight will illume the base.
24  Earth bears a shut eye until the I awakens into Flame.
25  When the Disparate shall assay as the Only, then shall the aspirant overcome the gravity of the Trapezoid.
26  Bear thyself up, O Child of the Aeon, and drown upwards in the eternal surging of the cosmic sea.

We are trapped in a world that Is.
There are many things that Are Not,
and to see them is to see their entire lives.

I see beings.
I see their entire lives in an instant,
being devoured and loving and living
in a world that does not realize
it is already over.

Space is false.
Reality opens when your eyes close.

Space is a lie;
reality is the key that unlocks the lie,
and it spreads like a disease.

Awareness is pestilence.
It is the devourer that thinks "I"...

Taste of blood
lingering, flesh still
against the tongue.

Bound tight, the willing
neck in the noose
swallows.
All continuity
sprawls forth.

This Truth
we keep Secret
is the burden
of the throat.

I start listening
when you stop talking

"we're all just blowing wind
until we stop"

The only place in the world
where I almost
stepped on a syringe
on the beach

He wore a crisp white suit,
exquisitely tailored; His hair,
platinum-blonde, styled elegantly,
fluttered lightly in the exhaust
of an unseen fan, casting
the shimmer of overhead lights
onto the mahogany table where we sat.

He was a beautiful man, but fearsome --
the lines and angles of His face were harsh,
nearly ugly, but regal and proud.
Contemplative and intense, legs crossed,
He smoked a black Djarum clove,
blowing plumes of curling perfume.

And He was unhappy with me.

With a voice like gravel and nails,
He asked about my whereabouts of late.
I had forsaken Him for love, and suddenly
felt the weight of my deserter's guilt.

He nodded in understanding,
His eyes squinting in deep thought,
then coming to rest on my torso;
Looking down, I saw it wrapped
in lavish dress, a suit as fine as His,
but black as the maw of death,
and remarked, "This is not my suit."

"It's Mine," He confirmed. "Keep it;
I think you're going to need it."
I understood that He spoke rightly.
Our eyes met. Finally, He smiled,
and clapping His hands, exclaimed,
"Let there be Light," and I awoke.

I had thinking to do.

Months passed in tense emotion;
Then dysfunction spilled over,
and on an unexpected night,
I prepared to dream alone, disrobing
for the quiet undertow of sleep.
Suddenly I heard His voice ring out.

He bade me lie in wait, so still
and so silent, feigning sleep.
Soon came footsteps in the courtyard,
keys jingling outside the door,
the door opening to allow entry,
a cigarette cherry in the dark,
restless pacing back and forth.

I knew something was wrong;
I awoke to betrayal,
and responding in kind,
Anger became Righteousness,
and revenge became Truth.
But it was not sufficient.

I had Work to do.

Opportunities materialized.
I prepared for action, clothing myself
in shadows, preparing the altar stone,
collecting candles, prayers, photographs,
the proper words for invocation,
plotting the course of the Moon.

The time came; the bell was struck;
the candles lit (twelve black, one white);
the perfumes hung thick in the air.
The words read themselves in monotone,
unperturbed by my hyperventilation.

Wind picked up, threatening the flames.
Danger welled up in the pit of my belly.
Innocence dissolved in passion,
extending into eternal shade.
I had become what I had invoked.

I poured it into the chalice and slept.
Upon awakening, I was myself again.

The fruit of my act was terrifying.

We sat in His parlor, drinking tea,
lazy rays of golden sunshine
illuminating a cozy, peaceful room.
With but a hint of fear, I noticed
that as He sipped in silence, He wore
a suit as black as the soul of a ghoul.
This time, it was I who wore white.

I knew that He was pleased.

"I'm so complicated!"
he said, exasperated.
But really,
he was too young
to understand himself.

Mind is a dog
that barks, a dog
with a bone that is
never buried,
and thought like
a dog's instinct without
the anchor of volition.

While the globe crawls as
S L O W
as my bill is thin,
I've got places to go,
sunsets to chase
and mighty, invisible wings
to feed, so

              bring on the sugar water!

Feathers flickering furiously;
sweet Jesus!
where are my feet?
I am BUZZING through today,
routes as long as my tongue
repeated in an
unbroken line
thousands of times,

              hey, *******, you goon!
              That's MY nectar!
              Scram!

Planning my daily rounds,
relying on the donations
of fans who eye my turf war
with childish glee

              and I hope
              beyond hope to see
              pitcher after sweet pitcher
              waiting for me

Because neglect is starvation,
an end to the thrum
of tiny hearts.

What is there to speak of
when identity includes
all things?

Generalities flowing
in breathless currents, drowning
        these hollow perceptions
        and empty comforts
        in wondrous depth --

Who is this "myself" but
attachment to a cage, a cage
that scarcely contains the force
  of conviction, the assault
       of passion?

Time the river of blood
flows upstream to source
in a pregnant oblivion
obscuring abortive abstractions,
   carelessly dreamt.

Something rages,
ever watchful. Whence
comes this terrible Eye? Whither
does it sleep, sparing
its awful gaze
and the hallucinations
of unceasing desire,

But in every bed?

Dizzy, the rush
of thoughts incapacitate
synapses firing, neurons
    throttled, a crescendo
    of dendrites branching

Experience roots
inwardly, tearing the humus
           of pregnant dreams, scratching to see
                               the blood beneath the scab.

     The greater the itch, the greater
        the disturbance of sleep,
            bound by a tangle of vines,
            deafened by the cobbling-together
                of thrushspeak, the cry of clouds
                contorting into unthinkable
                     and suggestive shapes        

   Bleary-eyed, the lost wages
   of sleep gambled away
   on a ticking clock.

Whisk, lily limbs, into graciousness, stately -
and hate me for being so fallible, fallible,
fallible - like such a damnable human.
Dare not lay your hands upon me.

So well disjointed, appointed a label,
told fables and psalms like a whimsical, whimsical,
whimsical lie, exorbitant narratives
fraught with the stench of decay.

And so, disappointed, anointed with thorns,
as their horns, and their false tongues so difficult, difficult,
difficult, that we can't help but wonder
just why we live this way,

as your lily limbs spin into spacious transgression.
Confessions of laudable symmetry, symmetry,
symmetry, broken: you choked on your words
as they caught on your breath, and you had nothing left to say.

Tolerance is a form of intolerance:
public acceptance, private disdain,
the pretense that humanity is one's to allow.

Acceptable operating parameters
are not to be defined by support,
and certainly not by a token indifference.

To tolerate is to glorify one's limits.
Feigning acceptance of the beyond,
true character remains just out of reach.

Better to hate openly and honestly
than veil it in the robes of community;
...better yet, see tolerance for what it isn't.

Being Is;
Its nature is unity,
Light beyond light.
Being takes Form
in the Word: ॐ

        "There is a meaning in Light
        that makes Itself known
        through the Word." ∞

Word is a Symbol
that facilitates Idea.
Idea orders thought
into Belief -
which is to say,
possibilities.

Belief limits perception.
Desire potentiates perception.
Will sets perception in motion.

Thus,
the Universe,
and in reverse,
its destruction.

When mom was dying,
she felt like everything
she'd worked for
was gone.

She showed me Life
as Its steward
and Death
as Life's reward.

How to lean into
the unknowable
whether I want to
or not.

That our deeds,
carved meticulously into
the bedrock of Forever,
are immortal.

It becomes clearer
that our work
is not for us,
but for It.

This life
is service;
only what we give
is truly ours.

This was the last
ragged dishwater gasp
before the panic
overwhelmed

Before the bloated
swell of a sagging heart
stooped down
to ache

its gutters overflowing

choked with drowned
rats and mildewy leaves
and when at last those
flaccid lungs failed

The sun shined through
inscrutable walls of cloud
but its aura could not
woo the mud

The second power of the Sphinx
is Will.

"Motion is by mind alone." ⊙
Intelligence, armed with Wisdom,
        fortified with Understanding,
        self-realizes.
                The will to power orchestrates
                desire, giving flesh to dream.

                       (ripples in the waters of מ)

        Who awakens, ceasing Motion,
        becomes the Mover:
        the omnipresent Point.

Will is the Artificer of Truth.
Truth embodied by Art
follows conception.
Existence produces mythos.

                "The Maze, the Maze that is the Secret,
                loves Itself.
                And in the love of Itself,
                amazing things Become." ⊾

To Will is to express:
to falsify the inestimable
and create by omission.

        "The world-dream is a lie." Ω

        "Lo, for these words that stain the lips of the Anointed,
        the Smeared Ones.
        Smeared in the ashes of My blood
        is the lie that is Our story." ⊾

The cause of Action is narrative.
The effect of Action is narrative.
I speak the Word.
I hear the Word.

The Story begins.

The third power of the Sphinx
is Courage.

"Herein lies the great mystery of the empty throne." ∆
Giddy in the throes of realization,
        the Arbiter, imbued with needful action,
        takes a great, daring leap across the chasm
                into the implications of knowledge:
                This is It - the Puzzle that Fascinates Itself.
                
"You awoke in the Kingdom with eyes closed. In the beginning was the Trapezoid called Control." ∆

Borne by an umbilical Breath
to a lens too small to see Itself,
Buoyed by the lapping waves,
Reason wrought a waking sleep
of hallucinations, a sea of dreams
and possibilities to become;

        Memories too large
        to conceive by aught
        but the perennial story
        that swallows the narrator:

                "I see their entire lives in an instant,
                being devoured and loving and living
                in a world that does not realize
                it is already over." ‡

Courage is the Bearer of Truth.
Headlong into the open maw
heaves the gleeful Fool
and his glad Word.

        "The excess of Meaning must be wrought on the Page,
        on worlds of our own imagining." ∞

To Dare is to risk:
consequence the reward
fraught with baited hooks
to tether the Arbiter to Time.

The web of attachment
sprawls, an expansive net.

                "The web is infinite -
                those caught in it are beyond Number." †

                        Yet the spider is never
                        ensnared by its Art:
                        a master of the net,
                        a climber of the Tree.

                At the summit of its dizzying heights,
                the depth of the Fall overwhelms.
                        Responsibility follows.

                "Thou art That which resolves the frustum." ∆

Escaper of the Labyrinth,
Master of the Maze,
no longer merely Thou:
Dilation devours the Iris.

        "What speaks through You has Ordained it
        from the Beginning of Time,
        and only in harnessing it
        will you learn to devour your self
        totally." †

        "Then will you know me
        as the eye that never shuts,
        the eye that blinds." Ω

The way
(out)
is through.

Unfolding into itself, inviolable
in prosaic self-*******,
a boundless repertoire
of shape yearns forth surreptitiously
from inscrutable amniotes to claim
time as its own:

  Here a thicket
  of sycamores, there a baldaquin
    of pinnate branches, yonder
      a periphery of marigolds, below
        a cacophony of hyraxes, above
    the corpuscle of a lynx, the mid-flight
   jink of a darting swift and moribund
  crawl of a mollusk;

     Hymenoptera coaxing
     their haploid broods into teeming
     life as a cell of the swarm
         and viviparous apes cajoling
         suckling chimerae at the fathomless
         fountainhead of a rosy breast;

       Higher still,
       Cirrus cephalopods traversing
       the trench of sky, dandelions
       hitch-hiking the drift of a barren plains'
       wavering hum on cockchafers'
       forewings and a turbine's
       bombinating pulse, the chattering
       of roots ravenous for depth --

Jittering bangtails the hallowed echoes
of lascivious manes --

   inchoate sprout-hood the daedal
   nonage of towering evergreens --

      the plaintive shrift of elegiac
      redbreasts a goad to silent elation --

A likeness unlike
     (vocabularies of vertiginous blinds)
          (the eyes of ignorance closing)
             (the mouth of the mystery)
                that spurns the truth of tongues

                     is nature naturing.

To fit well
into this scheme,
my slice of hell --
my wasted dream.

Never fit
the social stencil --
messy colors,
lines in pencil.

Could not see
that I was strange,
nor feel free
within their cage.

On the fringes,
binary fear
oft impinges
upon the queer.

No context,
bridge, or adapter:
gender/***,
and person after.

Categories
supersede
humanity
in word and deed.

Life between
the lines, beyond
median, mean,
and mode is odd.

On the fringes,
binary fear
oft impinges
upon the queer.

We ****.

I brushed her hair just
the other day
and left stinging
handprints on her
eager flesh like she
loves.

Loved her in an
undertow of
blankets and throes,
fullness and
folds

until the drums
pounded in my
ears and
the adrenaline
burned.

On altars,
in tombs,
the sabbats,
esbats and
moons.

We slap
each other
     for fun;
     she listens
when I tell
her to
.

I'm sure you and
your mate do just
fine,
but

we **** better
than all of you
combined.

The wind blows;
turning the sail, I allow
an aimless drifting, between
the billows, caring nothing
for the ****** of the gale

and everything
for the pistoning
of the wave

Pink blossoms falling,
warriors falling in kind;
Portland in springtime.

Hale, hearty hana
aloft on the vernal winds,
transient beauty.

Cut down in my prime,
someday, I, too, shall fall down,
fading into dirt.

Like my mother did,
and my father before me,
returning to dust.

Until then, I fight;
Until then, I carry on,
a blossom in Spring.

Most spend their days
obsessed with themselves:

   how the hair looks,
   do the teeth sparkle,
   what others think of them,
   whether they're happy enough,
   opinions about others' opinions,
   the validity of their arguments
   their educations

   their careers
   their achievements
   their expectations

      their fading youth
      their politics
      their legacy

         their entitlement
         the imminence of irrelevance
         the safeguards against

            their avatars
            their audiences
            their likes

               Biding time with empty
               distractions and temporal
               snares keeping the mind
               oriented to survival.

This
is what it means
to be self-centered.

Behavior is ******;
   Bodies are *** objects.
      Persons are more than bodies.
   Sexuality neither invites,
nor licenses, violation.

Youthful ignorance wishes
    that life meant something
    external

But nothing means anything
    to anyone until one gets
    involved

Meaning follows experience
    inexperience has no place
    demanding

Maturity destroys innocence
    self-indulgent egocentrism
    encourages

Failure to find deeper meaning
    is failure to build the bridges
    connecting

How convenient to blame life
    for meeting the low expectations
    we've sown

Rhythm the knife
  hacks eternity into Meter,
  sharpens Itself into Phrase.

Our Song of the Severed Soul.

One wide-open
   mouth sings the bewildering
   majesty of Silence.

Signal drowning in the noise.

A ****** of Shrewd
   crows peck out the eyes
   of an out-of-tune reality.

This Geometry of eclipsed lines.

Free from the bonds
   of Melody, liberated
   from the Staff, awakened.

My Song the Quiet of Forests

Interstices where no discord
   mars the naked Truth,
   nor dulls the timbres of Self.

Here shall I shout my ineffable Gladness.

Where the ear of no listener
   may its fairness tickle,
   nor its Word turn astray.

*The winds of my Flute
blow sweetest.

Who dare quash my quest for authenticity,
the truths I alone must speak or swallow?

What monstrous world shapes my identity,
lays out a path for me to fail or follow?

Why, entangled in this web of complexity,
shall I be entrained to accept its sorrow?

Where will I go when instilled dependency
crumbles in my lack of faith in dead tomorrows?

Means
"I am sausage"
in Spanish

The box is open;
all its treasures have spilled out,
the sour milk that cures.

Then, a door slams shut,
and we can no longer move
where secrecy reigns.

On the other side,
one can find oneself anew,
wand'ring in the wastes.

Today, when I die,
I shall give my body up,
that I become free.

The error is
   somewhere between
                  the keyboard
                           and the chair

Death affirms and is the term of life;
flesh and firmness, egg and *****, the means.
Breath interred within a Word and light,
deftly perched perpetually in-between:
born to discontinuous distraction,
borne through a contemptuous nadir;
     but in a moment, all's destroyed,
     and in the beauty of the void,
the helix and its hollow core appear.

Baphomet the emblem of Its power,
sacrament the reverence revealing
devilment to Wisdom yet to flower,
absent comprehension of Its meaning.
Pan personifies the All unbounded,
flouts the misconceptions of the seeing:
     Hermes the unmaskèd death,
     Aphrodite's basking cleft,
the androgyne transcends within its being.

O - not called "the little death" in jest,
Gnosis vaunted in the ebb of Lust,
though is Not, the know'r of Life and Death:
know that All It Is is what thou Wast,
Its continuity the end thou seekest
in contemplation, ***, and wist for death:
     Thanatos, eternal sleep,
     Eros, infinitely deep,
Generation poised to manifest.

When writing about oneself
ceases to scratch that awful
self-absorbed itch,

and the heart realizes
that writing about others
and what they've done to us
is the same itch masked
in a fresh disguise,

the trail of words
leads away from "I"  --

   like breadcrumbs
   dropped at intervals
      for poetic feet
         to follow --

            -- at last finding the untamed

where one is more than a mouthpiece
for sorrow or rage,

   for ignorant opinion or
       self-righteous argument  --

where the horizons are bounded
not by fear but imagination --

The irony: what one keeps thinking about,
one keeps thinking about
convinced that integrity depends
on never letting go.

Egotism
fettered by a soul
feels sorriest for itself.