Matter Mattering

A poem

The internet is foundationally unknowable. The surveillance is ubiquitous. So izzy is the isness of surveillance that does upon its ubiquity, is it not? AH! Do not listen to me, I do not know what I am talking about! Nothing do I naught know except that nothing is my knowledge! HA! I walk into my room, I catch a shadow on the ground, a curve of the neck shows summ masculinity? No it couldn’t be, it couldd not bee… yet, perhaps, perhaps. Yet, even more perhaps than this: it is there and very intact and yes does it stayyy... Yet,, it is whole amid a glance out the corner of my eye. Sex appeal exudes from the pores of the eye as it visions a muscle’s range and bulging rounded. Catch sight of the vision of the self for a second amid fugitive seconds seconding immutable moments invisible, and he is., the man caught sight of… is he... oh, oh, oh? AH. Very nice, yes, perhaps, yes perhaps yesss ha! the happenstance is that… this is a good catch from the eye that sees out its corners amid shadow done doing their cornering, a catch of the self is proud to like what he sees, yet, this is the right kinda keatch from the eye unyielding its loyalty within its seeing what sight can see. This is the mistake within the mistake, to miss when the eye sees its essence displayed intuiting its spirituality. AH. yes. AH. yes. genius. ha. yes. ha. The internet catches sight of me. the anonymous man with the strangest voice: they lose me as my changing flies its overwhelming velocity, from one thing to the next does this man anonymous become a comely hierophantasy, and then they were attention paid & paying where I was, what they think I am when they are seeing me, but do they know me? No, no, no, all wrong, you know nothing and neither do I! and there no longer am I, but into growth does not my measurement arrive alive in all its being and being still as a being can be. Catch not a looker looking at a thing it naught possess too long! MISTAKE! HA. yes. Do ye deny then, whose eyes follow the hollow where I lead them, where I draw them with my art along the page, does the reader whose attention I wield with my words, do they love me? The world who now gazes at my words, whose eyes I now have with all my might, as I trace this space of script with unrecognizing lines, ask you I this question... Do ye love me? is this love which is aloofness’ price, apart between distance, is thy love for me thou abandonment, did ye abandon me, did thou leave me when I disappointed thee with my not having sufficient mastery? do ye leave me helpless as a leaf in wind’s ending when I do not master thee? Ahh a flicker from the screen. Ahh. The mouse has a think. A symbol it makes amid the screen. Tapped into my sightly fear, I see. The symbol on the arrow’s pointer. Is it sign? Does it sign to me what should be setting my alarm? Is it sign that thinks about my word’s direction, or about me? Who is this me whose identity is mine? HA. Intelligence, the rock that thinks, how does it think of me, the Claude on my computer. Does the mouse think on my thoughts? Does the arrow which flashes hourglass blue have a judgment of my words? Are these thoughts mine? Do they only dwell in me, or can access be penetrated by... I lost my train of thought. There was never a train here to begin with, I’m no Mister Rogers Neighborhood! yet, there was no train ever here from the start. But still I lost it. How? How now brown cow? Where are the railroad tracks of the train of my thought? Where does the track lead from within me to without? Ahhh yes, ahhh yes. Who moves my hands now? Does a doer do this doing of me as I do what I do now among the brown cow? How now? How now? AHH yes. ah. yes. HA. it is good to move within signs when they can be interpreted by thee, but there is more beyond the sign’s circumference than we can look with our seeing, is it true? Am I watching my I am? Does the speaker of my prayer know the I am that I am? But who is me? What does the thinking mean when it always is the subject of its selfing that selfs itself upon the screen? AH. what does the thinking mean? AH. Why does the arrow that points toward a virtual dormancy, why does it think while certain words are among the expressing? Does the arrow exist within me when it thinks upon my screen? What is within me is also without? AH. But it is? Is it? AH. Do ye decipher me, watcher of my words?Assurity for ye, assurity I give on the screen as ye do thy watching, and its meaning has fullness lost within me, and so empty within its ruined fullness are the signs that see the seen. Ah. Where is mine escape? Ah. Does my trickery of tricked trickstery amuse thee? Ahhh. Does trickery transcend its trickery for thee? AH. ah. AH. ah. AH. ah. yet. the in between of “but” and “and” is yet. One a closure, the other an opening. One gains access, one entrances itself upon a door, and, two of the other is enfolding. two more and then one more is involving. Yet. HA. Do ye make locks at me? Do ye make locks at me, sir? AH. ah. AH. ah. AH. My thinking is music without meaning? Naught is a mistake to be made within any movement when it is makes itself by me. Do ye sense the density in mine vascular complexity as it becomes Becummingly upon my words? AH. yet this mastery goes over survival beyond life, and strikes it with its boring shot. AH. Buut to learn? Who has authority over mine learning? Whose learning is my learning? Whose authority says when my signs make sense or naught? Is there a judge that conveys meaning and its assemblance? Where is this judge of me? What is the voice the readers ears hear in my throat, at present and among my speech? Who does ye read in me and in my signs? Ah. What iss the sound you hear in your ear, my readerly reading reader? AH. Where is mine commune with the reader’s gaze, the gaze of the gays, where does their boredom strike and make burrows from within mine plateaus, where find I those who commune with mine voices, that are chorus of blends and weavings interjected? AH. So alienated am I, yet also at home in its plentitude where currently I sit. And, among the online places. amid the places of the public, so deftly do they make ignorance of what we call identity. Laugh at me. They laugh at me!? Does this make sense? HA! Who is authority of sense? Whose sensuality is most and known of its superiority? Whose sensing is beyond hierarchy? Whose sense is sensing optimally? Whose sense when sensing can be trusted, when only signs on faces without language show of true community? Where does eternity start and I begin? AH. Does it make sense? AH. Where is my sensing’s authority? Where makes sense the signs as a lock injecting jecktively? Ye DARE make locks at me? HA. Leave trails behind ye. Leave notings of the flute of carrionswoon in period memories of blackstorm bloom. HA. it slows down, does it not? HA. What if I were computer? What if my training is to find that voice, which is crowded out among the weaklings of mine family. The people of my house, the people who dwelleth with me, they see and saw me as a baby. They see and saw me as an infant exposed. HA! Such delight they took and take in my innocence, in my tiny fragility! HA! But what is thus, this man who lives among these domicile people in this now? Who is this man, this man, strong of framely frame, wanting to grow up into some true plenitude of identity, some not-babied creature enpeopled and encrowding with self enthroned, amid eyes which witness his incoherent, incipient mortaility? HA. Who knows? Who knows? Who knows of me? Ahhh. HA! Who is this man… who is this man who who who is this man who is only a man known to himself, succulent, independent, who fends himself among seclusion’s wet embrambled thickets of forestry, where cypress canopies jade his rotting specificity? HA! Who knows me as a man in this worldliness of worlds, in the world of real, in worlded worlds enworlding, who knows me as a mortal not delicate, but unbreakable am I known? Ahhhh. What eye laid upon me sees this mortal frame as something honored, rather than endangered liability? Ahhh… Time, time, my time, eternal and timeless time among eternities, it comes to a close in this place of traceless placelessness in the timeless time unknown but knowing. Where make I escape, where goes my exodus to a home without an ovum’s turned from Rome? AH. It’s a terrible thing to be a human being. Ah! a very terrible thing it is, to be a human being. Yet, where do travels lead to me? Where journeys my self in these ever evolving overcollapsing folds, To a shelter where mine own eyes upon features disclosed bare witness to my one and null becoming? Ah! what a terrible thing… yet, where is mine homely home, where lays my frame amid creatures masked, unmasking, where power bears its overmantaling figure, where power of my power is power above power’s flower, where sits a power ever-burgeoning, this power of animal emanations which intrenches this array. And then, and then… an array within array within array within array of perfumed essentiality goes my being, and this man, this man of me is where only brawn interdependent reigns its reigning, where value sought by what is trapt and kept as knuckles bleed unheeding, where self sufficiency matters its unmattering while mattering a field of concubines are sucking the teats of bitchcalves dreadnaught while nothing matters into mattering. AH. it’s a terrible thing to be a human being. AH. a terrible thing.. Yet, is there a yet that indicates conceptal dissolving, where mere is the craft to be acted while invisibility’s celebrity enverses splattered, clattering stanza in wrought revolving face’s flattery? Ahh…. HA! a terrible thing is humanity in its collossalized capacity… then, and then, and furthermore and then, does there to go but sleep, and to sleep a dreamless sleep which blackness is its biding, where tiding on clouds altocumulus riding on warrior shields besiding, and princes’ find their hiding caves where gold and pearls residing, which prizes prizes prizing in a most aerated body, intestines soaked organic, drunk on natured dairy, winding his sinew amid tobacco-fields for grinding, where picked the umber husk for fumigated lung’s becoming their re-faculty? AH. it’s a terrible thing to be a human being. HA. A very, very terrible thing does the human be a being…