“There the tree rises. Oh pure surpassing!
Oh Orpheus sings! Oh great tree of sound!
And all is silent, And from this silence arise
New beginnings, intimations, changings.
A refuge fashioned out of darkest longing
Entered, tremulo, the doorpost aquiver, –
There You have fashioned them a temple
for their hearing.”
~Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus, excerpt from Sonnet 1
It began with a “bluish light,” a glowing object as bright as the sun.
It swept across the skies of Siberia in the early morning of June 30, 1908,
at about 7:17 a.m.
Then, a flash.
A loud explosion. An invisible war near
the Podkamennaya Tunguska River.
“The sky split in two and fire appeared high and wide
over the forest…but then the sky shut closed,
and a strong thump sounded, and I was thrown a few metres,”
said some anonymous person.
Britain was lit for many days and nights by a beautiful white and yellow sky
bright enough for midnight games of cricket and golf across the country,
the skies above Asia and Europe were dazed by a numinous glow.
Over the years, the lack of any real evidence for the source of the event led to the usual crackpot theories:
a “natural” hydrogen bomb
a nuclear fusion reaction within a comet
a meteorite strike
a black hole passing through Earth
some kind of antimatter catastrophe.
Nikola Tesla experimenting with the Wardenclyffe Tower
invented a doomsday particle beam
They are ALL wrong! I know what it was… YOU!
The 1908 Tunguska Explosion – YOU!
The 1138 Aleppo earthquake – YOU!
The 1920 Haiyuan earthquake – YOU!
The 1839 India cyclone/1881 Haiphong typhoon – YOU!
The 1970 Bhola cyclone – YOU!
The 1887 Yellow River Flood – YOU!
Th Eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 A.D. – YOU!
Poor Pompeii never stood a chance
Not while your spirit roamed searching
For the proper place and time to be born.
How many disasters occurred
until that one blessed event
in December of 1977?
(or ’76, ’78 or ’79
or whenever Hell finally
set you loose upon the Earth
to possess me)
Well, after all Nietzsche’s prophesying
your time has come..
It’s T-Minus 10 & counting…
I’ll have the calves fatted, the pigs suckled,
the lambs slaughtered and the milk and honey
flowing like the Ganges. I need something
to finally genuflect to, let it be you.
Come…
Ravage me
Come…
Salvage me.
I’m slowly evaporating
Avalon’s mist is back &
I am swirling in the dragon’s breath…
Come…
Pull me out of this haze.
You always a maze me
And my poor little addled
hungry laboratory mouse
trundles along blithely sniffing for you
through mirrored halls and partitioned walls
I don’t know if I’m looking at you,
at your funhouse reflection,
or my mad voodoo impressionist
Die Brücke projection of you
but I’m always happy to nibble
at whatever crumbs of cheese
you leave me to eat
You’re my Ariadne,
all silk thread release
when I’m forced to kick
that minotaur’s ass
to get to you.
Why must the center of every maze
house one? Because Ovid said so?
What an asshole!
I’d rather the center of our labyrinth
have a trap door that lets me Alice-wing
down your rabbit hole, but it’s okay,
either way, I can out-bull the Minotaur.
I’m an excellent toreador.
It’s funny…
I can’t swim, ride a bike, or drive a car
I trust nothing but my own two feet
as they pound the ground beneath them
But I still live without trepidation
14 stories above a ground
that can crumble
under me at any moment
in a building that will accordion-pleat
with one strong wet-dream shudder
from a sleeping giantess whose ax wound
is longing to bump and grind against
whatever tectonic plate will have her,
but what will she have to look forward to
after swallowing all California into her fallow womb?
Quien sabe?
Strangers ask me how I can live
here knowing that the “Big One”
will hit this town like a demented dragon
and leviathan us all to oblivion
I don’t consider it a risk
Que sera sera…
We all have to die of something
Though I’d rather catch of a case of you
and melt away, thrust by thrust
kiss by kiss into abyssal bliss
I’d gladly drown
in your Pierian Spring
just for the thrill
of having you fill me up
right to the ledge of mortality
and die smiling with your kiss
on my lips and your cum
garlanding inside me
like flowers for Ophelia
I’d go down easy as a sea breeze
on a late Sunday morning
Syrtaki-ing like Zorba
Zorba really existed
that makes me so happy.
I need to read Henri Bergson…
and learn to play the santouri…
Sitting out here on the beach
under a cerulean cellophane sky
with clouds gliding by like swans
who have been fed Dianabol
and yeast all their lives
negates all worries.
What is about blue skies and sunshine
That makes most humans
all charge of the light brigade?
Yes, I’m doing a Zorba dance.
I feel so delicious…
If I had a bugle I’d blow it,
and pretend it was you!
Closed Captioned For The Thinking Impaired 