The False Is The Form Of The True, Series I

The False is the From of The True, Series 1

Wrench Boy's Face
was like a Mask:

Concentrated, as if to transmute
Distraction.

What gets the Gold must
retain a Black Box.

Each Mask
its own
Initiation.

Each of us occasionally must return
to our own Black Box.

But we do find Wrench Boy
suddenly without a Face.
His entire apparent being
a gleaming Mask
redolent with a fabulous Concentration
as if Infinity had donned a Jaguar
to contain it--
an African Rattle
rattling from The Infinite:

Such was the Concentration of Wrench Boy,
unless a Face
were a Mask,
but not even Wrench Boy's Syzygy could discern it,
not even his Jaguar:
with a fist full of Violets
stashed behind his wrench,
his entire apparatus
mask-like. 

[]

For an instant
someone took the form of a Black Box
and knocked on the thick oak doors
of the Old Hotel.
This was an abstract reduction, or essentialization
or representation
of the front of the Old Hotel -- FLASH FLASH.

[]

The old concierge
answered the black
knock. He squinted hard.

"The place is full," he muttered.
"The likes of you
will not find room tonight
in The Old Hotel."

[]

But it wasn't night.

The man in the form of Black Box
for an instant had
stunned the world (Flash Flash).
All was gone.

There was only one Crystal
at the nut
in the center of a Violet.

A moment of Initiation--
a kind of Dream
in the on-going trick-set
of trickster Wrench Boy,
who will not let you forget
all phenomena
are like a mask
that hangs on a wall
in a room that is full
of the sound of your Dream.

[]

The Mole
crept in the dirt
where even Jaguar
groveled.

[]

"Each of us--
another Mask,"
they intimated.

"Even in a Dream
a Fence
may force
the Nation

to take form
across
from The Old Hotel."

[]

It's going to be a Long
River
I opined.

Neither Distraction
nor Fullness
nor a fist full of Violets
will disperse
the perpetuity of Distraction
and unperplex
a terribly vexed
old Jaguar.

[]

Melee required
no Mask
to be diverse
from her own seeming.

[]

Black Lake
provided a kind of map
to every Mask
and Drum.

[]

African Rattle's sound
absorbed itself
into its own Distraction.

[]

When the person
in the form of Black Box
apparently vanished,
out popped Hammerhead.

His Glob had been dried up, summarily,
by the sound of an African Rattle.

[]

Distraction took form
as a megaphone
proclaiming:

"All tongues
are talking in tongues."

The False is The Form of The True: 2

I said:

"O Person
with a Black Box
in place of a head,
your fullness
is a proper problem
for me.

I hear a distant Drum roll
coming as if from inside you
Masking
impending Distraction.

I don't imagine
that you are Hammerhead--
Jaguar is far more likely
to propagate such a Drum roll
in the place of a face than he.
 Jaguar is past master of Black Box.
O silent, impetuosity, of a person.

But my quest and inquiry
would so saturate Fullness
and its--let's say 'magical'
Drummery
that the very sonorities of The Manifest
bode but Mask and Dream--
and shimmering Crystals,
lineaments of gold,
delineate that mask.
O Black Box person.

I need to do something with
or else, terribly, to
the Fullness of The Manifest--

return that very Drum
to Black Box,
for Crystal
is rooted
in the dark

and Wrench Boy,
though potentially
an emanation of anywhere
must beat his own Drum.

Words
are my face,
African Rattles
stashed
in my green boudoir
proliferate
a system of archaic tongues
familiar only to Wrench Boy
and the others
whose faces
have been replaced
by living Crystal
from their having spent perhaps
far too many lifetimes
by the side of Black Lake."

"Is the manifest world
a distracting dream?"

Asks Wrench Boy.

"Must we put up a Fence
around our Dream?
And must we Face up to Crystal?"

Melee's Face was already her own Dream;
Crystal entirely
a lattice of small Fences.

[]

We initiate inquiry
perpetually.

Abstraction,
though an aid to Concentration,
cannot describe
what actually arrives
in the mind of Wrench Boy;
nor does Abstraction qualify
the ubiquity
of suddenly sparkling Crystal.

[]

Infinity
titillates Wrench Boy.

[]

Black Box,
whether on one's head
or elsewhere,
can be anything,
but it cannot
by itself
dissuade Distraction.

Do you not see then, O Hammerhead,
your wish to Abstract the Nation
and just float away
down white-water ecstasies of Long River,
will not Distract your necessary Dreaming.
You have yet to encourage familiarity
with your own gray Mole
and cease to perpetrate your vision of that zoo
and its taxonomical attitudes.

The Old Hotel is no Dream.

You Dream of Violet,
but even she
has mooted her Face.

Can you imagine becoming a Jaguar?

His face sustains his Dream
inside a real enough forest of African Rattles.

The False Is The Form of The True: 3

Jaguar Concentrates
his own form
holding
within
a four-square Fence--
a resonant Drum.

The Old Hotel
stands fierce
above Long River.

Crystal has
a removable head.  Well,
even the Fence about Fullness
gets pulled up,
but the principle of Crystal
is immovable. Who'd move it?

When Jaguar Concentrates
the Fence about his Drum
is made of spikes and rattles.

Hold your tongue!
Hammerhead challenges all principles
save the ones
he doesn't understand
to be principles . . .

African Rattle team up with a Drum?
Unthinkable. 

And Jaguar Concentrate to remove
an invisible Fence?

He had found his form
and was summoning all the Jaguars
from local zoos:

All Tongues loosed
from their own Black Box.

They started to jabber and sing
of a world where the Fence was extinct.

[]

Even without a head
Crystal exulted.

Infinitely fresh was the breeze
released through the geometrical aether
from which she derived her morphology.

[]

Black Box cried out:

"I Am The Old Hotel!
My Tongue is loosed at last,
no longer defined
by a virtual Fence."

(But which tongue was it?)

[]

Abstraction's Fence Fences in
Black Lake
with a black self-ravishing
Fence.

[]

The Time of Abstraction is not dead:
Long River is on fire
that the Old Hotel provide
a rich man's Distraction
to recombine your thoughts,
prepare for or stave off
your next Initiation.

[]

Long River runs through everything--
surely we know that.

[]

The Old Hotel Initiates
its motley guests
only with Ideal numbers for their room suites,
which irradiate but do not count
the luminous pickets
in the Fence that defines its grounds.

[]

The Nation! The Nation!
Don't Fence my Abstractions in
to the Mind of a Nation!

[]

The Face
of The Old Hotel
was just a facade:
a Mask plucked out of a closet
IN The Old Hotel.
Its real Face
holds its Tongue.

[]

Its real Tongue,
angry, melodious,
emanates Songs of Fullness.

[]

Wrench Boy and Syzygy
were Fencing with their Tongues. 

[]

Crystal has a theory about the Mole:
He burrows below Black Lake
and emanates imageries that emerge
when skriers gaze.

The Mole wears a Mask made of wax
in the form of a Mole.

[]

Only the Violets in the windows
of The Old Hotel
comprised an escape from  this Melee. 

But all objects were now petrified
into suitably molded
ingots of Gold.

The Old Hotel
stocked with gilded Jaguars
was full.

The concierge
had to shake his rattle:
the establishment had enough
Gold.  And that
turned out to be,
for a time,
an avatar of the enemy of money,
not the miscreants
that ravaged the Bank.

[]

Crystal pellets
ricocheted
through the Dream of Fullness--
that aspect of Initiation
to be performed
within the cyncture
of a Golden Fence. 

First Interval

"So many mysteries
and we're all
smack dab in the middle of them,"

worried Jaguar.

"The Mole
is The Body
burrowing
snug
in the Earth.

It has to get
from thought to thought
without returning
too soon to its Glob.

Must Ideal Numbers--
inscrutable (intelligible)
exist?  --
The headless
Light--
the Light Blast
in place of a Head--Nobody's Face--
Black Box
will not
be illumined.
You must swear to it
or return
and lose the fee and token
for your last Initiation.

The Old Hotel
sits on its hill
and is angry. 

It wasn't enough
to frustrate The Bank. 

What will you do when the well runs dry? Try
to go back home
and gaze
long and deep
in the waters
of Black Lake

and draw the image out

that fills you name, O Crystal . . . 

The False Is The Form Of The True:  4

Not only the head
replaced by luminous crystal--

the whole
corpus of Being--
like a Mask.

The Nation
and its inveterate Fences--

the Institution of Black Lake
that will not waive
its questionable hegemony
over its own
Initiation--

the many tongues
of the Nation--

if you Concentrate
the Light
in place of a loose Tongue,

the pulsations peculiar to your Crystal
specify the properties of your Mask.

Is it really you?

Your Nation
wants You
to set up its Fence.

The lure of Gold--not just money:

an Infinite access to Long River.

Can you say
what true Gold is
and bring it to your Fence?

Weird little crystals
twinkle insidiously
in the twitchings and crevices
that crinkle your Mask.

Instruction:

Dissolve the Nation
in a rude bath of Crystals--
an Infinite lustration
under the eye of virtual Jaguars
to qualify and quantify
the Nation.

[]

Wrench Boy and Syzygy
keep themselves submerged
in Black Lake
till the present situation
reverts
to perfect Concentration,
till Black Box
blacks out
and Nation-wide surveillance--
has never been seen.

[]

Abstract Gold is quite invisible
to Hammerhead.

His history's got him by his Tongue.

Now when he tries to speak
an African Rattle pops up outside his window.

He inverts a Nation of Violets
to a truck full of Jaguars
flashing by in the noon heat.

His project now must be
to reanimate his Tongue.

[]

You cannot hear the Drum
from a Chariot of Gold
as you prepare
for the next Initiation.

All sorts of Distractions, naturally,
pump through your Dream.

[]

You will, of course, at this juncture,
think you are a Jaguar.

You prowl about Black Lake--
you actually do do this--

and Initiate practical tactics
to further Concentration,
put up a spiked Fence
to prevent an abject Melee.

[]

Who are you.

Infinite velocity

internal to each Jaguar.

No, you're not that.

Identity itself, Distraction.

Nation looms
before The Old Hotel.

Insidious laughter.

Black Lake
and Crystal--

an impervious Mask.

[]

African Rattles
silent
Jaguars
specially constructed
to impede Initiation.

Tongues
of flame
chatter about the rim
of Black Lake--

become
  crystalline Concentrations
of Golden elixirs.

"Hammerhead!

[]

Your Tongue is Melee--

Mole is right there
next to Melee's great Drum.

Melee's Face
is a Nation--A Nation
of African Rattles.

[]

Fullness is there for the taking--
take it.

You are no jaguar,  yet
O Hammerhead.

Abstraction
stacks up Crystals
in Jaguar's rain-gear pouches--

divide, repel, return

to force The Nation." 

Second Interval

They tear themselves apart,
tear each other apart,
that the unencumbered, the unconditioned . . .

the light
indifferent
to the Mole
and his intra-terrestrial intelligences . . .

The Syzygetical
takes precedence
over the selves
and their isolate, squamous questing.

The Vault
explodes
with inexplicable
                 Rattles and Drums--
as the surface of the Globe
bursts with Rattling forests--
the earth is packed with Crystal--
that's how light is--
willy nilly--
existence rives with apparency--
the Long River flows through everything--we know that--
but it flows both ways--
we don't know that.

You say it with perfect lucidity
but the utterance
sits in its place
as the weird tongues multiply and drift
centrifugally
from the charged Nut
at the source
of adequate utterance.

The energy Fields
roil
from the general sexual body,
its qualities filtered
by the Being types

of each, of each
its particular Distraction
in the Nations'
effort to derive

a proper Concentration.

The False Is The Form of The True: 5

You cannot hold your Tongue
when The Drum
in your being
throbs beyond Distraction--

The Nation
is riven
by burrowing Mind Moles--
the Infinite
Distraction
Masks
Infinity
whose Tongue
is like a throbbing Drum.

    Misdirection
is the form of the Nation.

Hammerhead's heads
are beating out
a Dream of Initiation.

Hammerhead has learned this much--
to mistrust utterly
the formative thrusts of The Nation.

Stick out your tongue.
Milk it, let it curl back
and beat
in the center of your skull,

beat out Distraction

that the Tongues
assuage
The Dream
till it rescue
          Crystal--
she sparkles
Distracted
in fertile Misdirection . . .

[]

Black Lake heals, so does Crystal.

Dream reveals
or Dream confounds--

Hammerhead has learned this much.

He puts Crystals
in his cabinets.

Judiciously he fixes
zones
with Fences. 

He sets his Drum.

Quiet now
his Face
Mask
fixes Fullness
so intimately
the interval
between
Distraction and
Abstraction
becomes as it must
a gate for puissant
Dreams.

One Crystal form
   instructs
Initiation into
an Infinite system of Tongues--
you could say anything
and do
to don a pertinent Mask
as you stroll into the lounge
too consciously
of The Old Hotel
not angry now--
a promise of Fullness--

Golden balustrades
and bright pendulations of Crystal--
no need to hold your Tongue
or let it run
on to Infinity.

Is it a Dream?

The Mask of a hidden Jaguar--
energy,
         Misdirection
   ever-again,
 the Long
   even permanent
expedition
   down Long River
 that runs
through a Nation that,
 however one mistrusts its many Masks--

puts up
   Wrench Boys
at every district--
Distractions
   Infinite

fingers caressing
firm sweet throats arched
whole bodies
belly to belly
in the night
of African Rattles
and is it you?
Crystals exploding
in the night trees
a Mask of sweet delight
happy Distraction
your Tongue
Long Rivers
of shapely forces
Hammerhead
disencumbered
the night
like a Black Box
Melee twinkling
in the sexual forest
of Hammerhead
Long River
everywhere
forever
Misdirection

her own sexual forest
as if
to Infinity

Third Interval

Silent Night.

Holy Night.

Empty

    holy hush

a covering
        and pregnant
                     absence

cracks
    open
        in a moment
on what carnival!
                   what Melee!
         African Rattles and Drums
colored lights
                 and population
abusive
         of its own
                     form
Long River
           twisted
                      into spinning tops
whose noises pretend
to body forth
                 gods
if you listen
the Listener
mounted
on the Listener's Mount

his mind a kind
of gateway
passed all
             piety
                        all covering
of silence
to new zones
of silence
                   indeed
the Globe
of Being
splits open

and here stands Hammerhead
   wielding his hammer
like a wand
                      or lithe baton
to smash or join.

Nothing exists
   but that each phenomenon
rides on trickster Jaguar
avatar   a
jack-in-a-Black-Box
or from one,
its being
   is a sign,
a world
   comprising
                signs,
then they too
                shut off
and all is     The Light
      that but a moment since

 had formed them--

The Old Hotel
    composed of signs
 by which the world is strung.

O Jaguar --  take out your notebook

             take down

  the signs

      in your mind.

The False is The Form of The True: 9

A Golden Abstraction
confuses the Mole.

Black Lake
as distinct from Black Box

differentiates Drum sound.

"Throbs, beats, and pulses."

Thinks Hammerhead.

Mole runs about
attempting to repair the connection.

Difference is vicious
Distraction to him.

"Gold throbs.
Abstraction pulses.
'To beat' performs
a lot of things,"

thinks Mole.

Black Lake and its special
potentiality,
though possibly vast
is perfectly just
what it is,

but what issues out of it
or what one descries
by gazing in or at it--
probably not.

The feeling of Fullness
is after the fact,

though in retrospect
as Long River flows backwards
and Black Lake
surfaces
out of time--

well, you do the math.

The Golden Abstraction
might be the Great Enigma
for the Mole--
the motive for all that
deliberative digging--
that there might be
                               Gold
at the source of Long River,
a forest of African Rattles
at its delta,
where Mouth and Source
are one--
if you are Mole.

[]

Whereas for Black Box
though specific to the point
of naked singularity,
that singularity manifests
everywhere
as that which in the instance
withholds its own
specification--
catch if catch can--

[]

In any case
Black Lake
is distinct from Black Box.

The intricate divagations
negotiated on the Drum surface--
of small but problematical
interest to Hammerhead.

[]

The Mole digs deep
for Abstraction--
a fact not distinct from his own
Globular Fullness,
but his Fullness itself,
his multiplicity and motion,
affines him to Melee--

[]

Beat
the drum.

What Fullness.

Concentrate all free force
on The Old Hotel.

Long River delivers Distraction
but just as well
delivers
Dream.

Mole seems quite crazy
as he digs his way
beneath Long River.

[]

If Wrench Boy were not so crazy with Syzygy,
Fullness itself would but hide in Black Box.

No Violets would creep along the Fence.

[]

Tricky-Crazy Wrench Boy
illustrates
Fullness
with his
fecund Tongue
and his Face, that sometimes
fixates on an African Rattle.

For two nights
in his dream
he came upon
a thoroughly transfigured Hammerhead.

The Mole was amazed.

Hammerhead had surpassed
Initiation.

African Rattle
continued Distraction.

What Gold truly is
appeared to The Mole.

[]

There just might be
another kind of Nation.

A Forest would be part of it,
entirely for the trees--
each one
affined
to a particular African Rattle.

Hammerhead at last would be at large
to mollify
Gold,
Black Box returning
to its recondite business.

[]

To Jaguar and to Crystal-- an infinite
legacy
continuously bestowed
from Black Box.

An exigency
of Crystal.

Fourth Interval

Hammerhead came to a Great Tree and awakened
and went into The Tree
and when he came out
his protuberance was changed.
It was no longer a hammer
but a vast flowering arbor
tucked up in his ethers;
each tree an African Rattle
enclosed in an aura of ethers,
and incised in the aura
were mouths made of cowries
and the number of cowries
was not constant
but changed
according to the number of ears
a tree
wished to address with its mouths.

Hammerhead walked to the companions.
They were gathered around Black Lake
fading in and out of its absorptive topology,
and Hammerhead assembled
a Black Knock
from his ethers
and its vibrations
passed across Black Lake
as he knocked
on his own tree,
and the companions
awakened toward their
external morphological
predicament and Hammerhead
spoke in unison
from as many cowrie mouths
as there were companions--

Crystal and Violet and Melee
and Wrench Boy and Syzygy
and Jaguar and Mole
and Sensei-San Infinity
and Tongs
and Bank
Old Hotel and Long River
and others of a more
abstract nomination--
Exaggeration
and Vapidity,
Dsitraction,
Infirmity,
Aberration,

Conflagration . . .

and Hammerhead said:

"Are we to be part of a Nation
before we are fully human?
humans before sentients?
sentients as distinct
from the rest of existence?
Must we cut ourselves off
from Being as a whole?"

When Hammerhead
finished his discourse,
the companions gazed into Black Lake
and Black Lake
became Black Box
and Black Box
became The Stone
and The Stone
ceased all
becoming

and the companions
had passed into
their ethers
like mists at dawn
over Black Lake
as the sun rose

and the ethers
were gone

and The Old Hotel
consumed The Bank
and The Bank was
The Nation
and The Nation
the Ghost
of a new kind of Zoo

and a Jaguar
prowled in a circle

and Long River flowed both ways

and Europe
had passed into
its ethers

And America
 sank into
the sea . . .

Hammerhead opened Red Book
and closed his eyes.

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