tho Siva –
guardian snake
wrapped around the white
even now
to replace oneself
the column of matchless splendor
is just there

when the black foot punishes the intelligible
the still column
an access
    not an axis—
nothing turning
upon it
   Siva has abandoned
that levity and resumed
the Uncreate
it is a sphere
girdled by a water snake
it is fire and light
but also the dank
   impending ocean
only here
 in the aftercosm
it appears
if it appears
  a standing stone


bitter poison
through all the nadis
  and the vesicles
the flesh renewed
because you went up to the top of the hill
and drank a  bowl with Siva
the poison was undone
     as it went down
and you lost
your status
  as a member
    of any class—
no longer a possibility for you
   to be a member—
only the flight of a slightly wounded falcon
across recumbent skies


because you might resume
the central column
of matchless light
a splendor
because the sickness unto death
and beyond
of this diffragilating aftercosm
the world is insubstantial
in its turning turning
the city's fiery parcels all undone
renewal is not yet
    from the flaming
  pillar of fire by day
only intransitivities
   and blear consistencies
shall tell for you
   that remain
with your ever newly
  titillating programs
only a Penelope's shroud

   when Rudra
ripped his prick off in the dawn
disgusted within
 an ignoramus universe
   proliferating life forms—
charging the waters
  with vegetative powers
   then himself went off
      and turned his stone 


thirteen songs     or eleven
then to sing
but no one remembers why
for every age
   but a pattern of gathas or hymns
a pattern or patter
    of elements
beating against time
until the issues
  are issued
and set roving
  in a forest
   of magic sticks—

Later the forest was hidden
  by a guardian troll

(or water snake

    and the patter
     sounded ever more faintly

The still proliferating life forms
forgot the cloth
  from which they even now were being scissored
forgot the throat
       from which they were the music
and fought like the demonic wretches that in fact they were

and the guardian laughed to see
   the holy forest chaos come again


but not
night. A golden orb


did contain
  each Aeon

transfinite divisions added up to one
undivided cipher
   out past the last outpost—
 where the sign posts pointed
 and rescinded themselves
past all pointing—
     and yet
      as if in the mental  belly
  of the latest god

the thing that spat out patterns for all the worlds

      The poison was information now—
    a rumor such as this—
the cosmic pattern all undone—
     that is, quite done—

         the old cyclicities
   drowned in an ancient swallow—

there would be a round of ages never more

   those who were doomed to remain in the forms of the gods
in tremulous dullness
         gazed on the flight of the falcon

but the stone remained.


   Cyclicities, yes
           in microspasm—
what is a period at all?
   As the Nowness
  asserting at last
 its crude authority though bright

and only beginning began


       Beginning began in front of the perfectly transparent window glass, onto the same
old world (though new to thee

Whose memory fades
with every program added to perfect
the Great Prosthesis,
until even the memory of memory is gridded away,
and the gods and demon wretches
are reference only.


      Because the space where thoughts persist and vanish is not an abstract space
internal to thought's order, the well-turned stone is not a reference only.

   All sorts of matters happen there unsortable

       beings proliferate or beings combine
and mind itself is stuff: mindstuff

  stuffed with worlds
                 or become
       transparent windows
or sites where pillars floods and conflagrations
in all sorts of irascible combinations
astonished into form

     discern and undiscern their brute condition



       was but a moment
  of the Prime Deviation:

the semen spilt—
          the cycle began

But now a second breakage
        obscures the first
   with a darkness never witnessed until now

        the black foot stomping the intelligible


     Outside the song
a mouse ran up
  a serious incline

  when Percival forgot to put the question

    space itself will not initiate an inquiry

the Uncreate has a mind of its own …

Outside the song


         the rumor of a bird
whose wings flap fire