LEARNLESSON_REALLYNATUREISBEAUTIFUL.wav

i too was born in a grossly custodial setting

Daylight. Emptiness. Birds and bugs appear by random simulation at the edge of all possible reality.

I have returned! After an eternity away from you all, already I miss eternity!

You read poetry because you want to be mauled by a lion. Or to survive. You are one of those sick individuals: an enjoyer of poetry.

Your injury comes to you from a cosmic distance, the pain that is near to you as a friend.

Dealt to a part of you that emerged elsewhere, very far away.

It’s because your soul is being tortured for crimes you committed in a past life. What advice can I offer you? Should I pretend to forget that you killed me? Should we not be at war? Should we neither “engage” nor “partner?” Having known the knife, your soul reminds me of home.

In the window there are yellow lights. A woman’s shadow moves from room to room. Two dogs dash to the window and one of them barks madly. The other just stares.

204 weeks since Wes Civilz sternly cautioned against the soul occupying the container of the skull, I am here to offer an additional warning: “By no means, should the universe ever emerge from consciousness.” By no means should the tree that falls in the forest be heard, or the chocolate be tasted, or the red understood as ‘red.’ We are in a unique position to speak to nonexistence and tell it to stop. We are the ones who can draw the line. Of course, we would have to communicate in a way that nonexistence might understand…

The series of bald faces that begins this essay is from an experiment in signals: the problem of how to tell future humans that there is a deposit of radioactive waste in the place that they are about to start digging, and that it will kill them. Scientists experiment with the most universal faces for pain, hoping to warn future man. Wes poem is very similar. Great artists like Picasso, Caveh Zahedi, and Wes Civilz are all trying to speak to nonexistence and explain to them what it is like to be human. They are either trying to persuade nonexistence to become or trying to warn it not to become. To this end, they all engage in the same structure of reflexivity, applying the transparent lens of consciousness in overlapping patterns, one on top of each other, very close, so close that the corner of each shapes nearly overlaps, and light bounces from one lens to the next, causing bright flashes of light. In theory, the light from this universe sized lattice could blind someone. Like Paul in the desert. Like the dog who is just staring.

---

Dear Guru tha BB,

Venerable guru,

Today, I come to you

Covered in black spikes.

I am starting to sense a deeper game.

A problem you can’t banish w/ the power of Jesus Christ.

Have you ever been to the White Room of Infinite Creation?

Did you sense a feeling of Wanting to Eskape?

Or wanting to “pull the plug” on reality?

We’ve done it all, we’ve seen it all.

Are we trapped?

Sincerely,

H

---

Sincerest most beloved H,

Finally, a being like me . . .

H, I was born in a grossly custodial setting.

I was using psychedelic

Shaman drugs in my teenager days.

Yea I saw the white room and a

Voice told me to bow and I didn’t.

Now, I think we are in a prison,

A trap.

When you die,

You become ensnared in the white light.

My view has become very pessimistic.

This world is literally a prison system.

According to physics, you never touch anything!

People, turn against this stupid worldview

We have inherited! The gods are bored with us!

If our world is cursed we have a right to know.

If we don’t exist we have a right to know.

If we are in a prison system, we have a right to know.

They tell you to “LEARN LESSON

REALLY

NATURE IS BEAUTIFUL,”

But when you see snakes with poison

Lion eating deer

--what?

Regretfully,

BB

The aforementioned essay-poem by Wes Civilz can be found here.

---

I KNOW WHY INSTAGRAM EXISTS

i know why instagram exists every time ******* likes my post.

---

---

sorry not sorry. my fondness for you is like the moon

i notice it rarely, its there every night

as the lunar holiday nears my

desire is to urge my coldness ever

onward, like a puppet choked on its strings

but this consideration will be the last

we do our things,

we exchange poisoned sleeps

a thought of you pollutes the day…

it makes no difference—

for if ive joy or sorrow for if im doomed or free,

without urging comes the morrow,

i count on your mutability

---

29. this is my impression of a lion eating a deer

kinda hungry

just sitting here

feeling hungry

maybe just bored

omg what’s that

it tastes like *******

mmm…. this is pretty good.

so warm.

i like when the food

dances around in my mouth like pop rocks

it just feels fun

fuck, this is actually pretty good. but im  

not even that hungry i just wanted a bite

---

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

a car horn blows outside. a man screams. I remember my education on revolutions and learning how they didn’t exist. the ice disappears into my coffee. years later a revolution emerges, but not the one that the wanted. the choice is waiting at the end of this project.

I was in love for the second time. Maurane’s poem has freed me up to think of love in terms of numbers over zero: a terrifying prospect. Love #2. About twenty poems and you have a book.

the grand chance has vanished like my ice. defeat is a foregone conclusion. that is why everything tastes strange.

Maurane represented the chance with her asshole, a perfect symbol, as perfect as the Cross, the celestial assterisk: pointing to mistakes and corrections, pointing everywhere.

it never gets easier. to admit we have missed the grand chance. if your love is successful a woman is laughing often. and when it fails you have to forget all your inside jokes.

READ MAURANE’S POEM HERE

---

CORDOVA1

on the tip of the world’s tongue

she carried water

if you haven’t carried water you can’t understand

its special weight

the way it twists the back

water sloshes around

and darkens her dress

she dreams of yellow things                          

CORDOVA2

yellow carpet yellow grass

yellow candle yellow dress

men kill other men for yellow money

mutter yellow lies through yellow teeth

yellow ideas dance around little yellow fires

fear is yellow too waiting

confusion just letting go and 

stumbling into it 

drinking until your eyes are yellow 

not drinking

dying of thirst with yellow eyes

CORDOVA3

scorched the rim of the glass

glass becomes a puddle when I watch it

let me show you the plastic center

all these moving pieces:

my conservative father shrugged and said

“burn it all down”

my progressive lover shrugged and said

“burn it all down”

the candle danced

staring at me like a portal

CORDOVA 4

carrying water by candlelight

light is so beautiful that there is nothing without it,

she is so beautiful that there is nothing without her,

stalks of yellow wheat bear witness

the world is like a person

it has left little traps to confound itself

there is a yellow lion waiting at the outskirts of the village

yellow eyes              

CORDOVA 5

push your long stomach towards the ceiling

there are green mints in your eyes

blades of grass stab each other outside

feed the lion at the village outskirts

your breasts are heavy with red red 

wine

the lion’s drunk

sweep your starry arm over the dirt path and watch the 

yellow eyes at your waist

flickering like a portal

about to close

---

the thing that's funny about leaving friends on the train

is that you're on the platform
and they speed away from you so goddamn fast
they bolt away from you.

2 poems by Carlos Jimenez

---