Sunday, September 11, 2011

Tea With Choronzon

Philosophy asks questions about existence because the philosopher finds in such questions, in the Question itself, and in ancient existence the only salve for the wound of love.  

He asks the question and the door opens.  
He lets the words form on his mouth.  
He himself will smear them all over himself.  
Of his own anointing he becomes the answer.
The answer is long.  
It is difficult.   It is too much to speak.  
The eternal night has not been deep enough.  
I am the night.  
The drilling goes on.  
The few lights I have glare.  
Existence and the Question insist,
                                            and I still continue with my answer.  
The oil and the sheen of the machine of love.  
The two-in-one.  There is no answer.  
All the numbers are.  
Existence has gone deep.

The answers and the questions about the existence of numbers, and relations, and universals, and individual things, about the Tie and the First and the Second and all the things that never were and you never were and screaming and unheard cries in the night, all so close to God, and there you are so calmly sitting with that stuff all over your face and the door just closed!  Which side are you oh my God on.

Sunday, August 28, 2011


Beauty has become my act of faith stepping out with words having no idea where I'm going, coming back just to myself.  
I am the real.  
I have become the truth, the good, the one that is the form of the forms.  
Soon I'll take it all back.
Plainly speaking,
using the words as a plane,
a level plain,
the spirit doesn't appear.  
Enthusiasm is false.  
The vision was nothing.  
The awakening was the dilation of the eyes.  
The contortions were lewd.  
Their reality was somewhere else.  

It was off inside this plainness I now see.

The tension that is the extension surpasses it all.

In my writing I do not try to cut a figure or strike a bold stroke.  
I do not seek the brilliance of definition.  
This is religious inwardness.  
Its expression.  
Its passion is mere mention of the word.

Monday, August 8, 2011


Philosophically speaking,
that is to say using words the opposite of their ordinary meaning,
using them in a way alongside the apparent,
objective knowledge is just something of your own reasoning, smooth and orderly,
but subjectivity is blind stepping out in a passionate way to receive what bumps against you.  Philosophy receives the bumping of the ordinary.  
It receives the blows of the ordinary.  Little irritating blows.  
The real turns back to be the ideal.  Paradox.  
I'm in a dreadful situation.  
            More nervous passion.
I am passion.             I receive the form.         Knowledge comes to me.  
I have it.        Then it leaves.         
     Then my words are silly.          A total mess.  
Out here on this prairie, in a wind that's blowing everything away.  
An insurrection.  
The forms are coming in fast.  
The space time structure is coming apart.  
Just the universals.  
Throwing me through the air.
Then there I am again, back to square one, 
with a bump on my head, and a hazy memory.

Sunday, July 10, 2011


In this new place you have finally found your peace,
but you have become offensive to others.
  Your resoluteness is not understood.
  Your death to concern about this place is not liked.
  Your strength has become an affront.
  You have lost the human touch.
  You have the hardness of angels.
Who are you now anyway?
What kind of immortal creature have you become?
              now in the uncreated?
                                        Beyond the beautiful.
Beautifully strong in the disaster.
Inciting, enticing lovers to be all around you.
Honey, how well you do it!
You will break every one of them.
You will teach them how to pass through.
At last, with you all is real.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

dinner with choronzon

This is all up in the spirit, freely moving within the spirit, happy.  
I have a few times, known the frightening, bondage spirit, the revulsive thing, that comes with betrayal; but its nature is to stop even the thought of writing and of this kind of philosophy, and so what you read is therefore not that, but the joy of being away from that.  

I write a transformation of that.  
I kill that killing thing.  
All of my writing is reconstruction.  
Maybe transubstantiation.  
    Maybe art.  
The working out of my salvation.  
Yet that shuddering thing is close.  Without it I have nothing.  
The unspoken is spoken/still unspoken.  My words are totally false.  I am undone.  
Only God is left.  A stupid philosophy.  
But I have escaped death.  And I am giddy and lively in my dance.
There finally comes a resolution to leave.  The worry and wafting are done.  
The decision is made.  
On is leaving.  The firm, calm, peace comes.  
The thoughts cease to be about anything here.  
Nothing in particular.  
Only the spirit, and love and the awfulness of God are seen and thought of.  
It's chaos to the thoughts, but one approaches anyway, and the decision eventually makes it cohere.  
  It turns out that this new eternity is no different from this place.  
  It's this place going on forever, but with no hope of escape.  
There is no death.  No place away from the meaningless.  
But there is the beautiful firmness that has come.  
Through all the ill-informed-ness that has become you, there is now your resolution.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

fɨˈnɪʃə phoenicia

 These writings are my words spoken to me in the mind of you.  Not you.  
You are free of them.  Free to do with them as you like.  
I have had my say.  I am not you.  The break is absolute.  
But in you I am listening to myself.  
     I am speaking to being.  I am.  
You may listen to my listening and speak in my speaking.  If you like.  
Before you read this I already heard your answer: I know you assent.  
The words themselves insist on it.  They have taken you as they have me.  
             I am not them.  I am free of them.  
These words speak to me in the mind of you.  And they speak you into the mind of me.  
But we are both free of them.  In their speaking me to you.
Now maybe you can see what I am about.  
In all those words I communicated nothing to you.  
       This isn't ordinary prose.  
In them I saw being, speaking, independence, breaking, assenting...word messengers revealing holy sparks into the air between your and my eyes and this page.  
I wrote them for the sheer pleasure of seeing them.  
My listening was a seeing.  
My speaking was a show.  It never stops.  Come with me.  Weren't you there already?  Didn't you see me seeing you see me?  
I passed by as you stopped to see me pass by you stopping to see you pass by me.
In me and you the words are incarnate.  
In them I can see you, and surely you can see me.  
  I have written you and me and laid us out.  
My voice hangs in the air.  Mobiles.  Speaking crystallites.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

piecewise function

At this late date in history of the incoming of the leveling of the Logos, the Technos, and the fire.  

After so many monks and scholars and lovers have repeated, repeated, repeated the same words, naming the same eternal things, all one voice, one word, one heartbreak.  

Before the last turning, and it is finished.  

In this late night attempt to think to reach that thing yet unthought, that one thing, that unreachable.  
That thing that I have discovered I have already thought and reached many times the same, gone into my past, sweet memory, existing because right now I have laid it out, the many voices, the one voice, then and to come, down, here in strange syntax.  Time typing playing around my fingertips.  A thread pulled out of my spinning mind.  

My mind a momentary exemplification of the one brooding thinking, laughing, leveling, reaching sweet heartbreak.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Guest Post: Culture Is Our Bitch

The following is a guest post by the honorable: House Of Madness.
For a larger view, please go: HERE

For a larger view, please go: HERE

Sunday, May 29, 2011


Between the things of this world and the things of being there is an unbridgeable gap.  Jump.  You cannot think your way there.  
Only by daring will you get there.   Only by being.  
But you can't be; you can only think.
What is more a waste of time than philosophy?  
  It holds out the prospect of knowledge beyond the secrets of God.  
  It promises to lead you to the heart of being.  
  It will give you existence.  
  It and you will work to try to remember its arguments.  
Then surely they will see you in Glory.  
But you never succeed in remembering, existence has been yours all along, and God is a secret you are embarrassed to tell.  
Time is a wasteland.  
Philosophy will not follow you back into town.  
And your thoughts of town has become little mosquitoes in this horrible night.  
Too hot.  You can't cover up. You can't uncover.  
The thoughts bite and will not leave you alone.  
Being is close and love is far away.  The itch is all you have.  
But if you had something the itching and scratching could be oh so lovely.  
On to the other.  
And biting.  And pricking. And swelling up.  And digging.  
Until the rain comes.  And it's over.  At last.
It's an entanglement and a knot and you have only to pull it tighter.  
The mess of your thinking is full of being.  It is nothing but being.  
If you will only let it be, but you can't.  
And that is your way home.  The night has been long.  
It will turn to fire. 

Sunday, May 22, 2011

ars combinatoria


You must remember the existential moment.  
These transcendental cuttings are your own mind.  
You left intellectual distance far behind.  
The flesh you are stuck to is the show.
My words have no meaning other than themselves.  
They form a tight unity into a paragraph.  An area surrounded by silence.

I long for an empty desert.  No sound, no one speaking to me.  No living thing.  I want a whole planet like that.  I want my words to be silent geometry.  Themselves a sign of themselves.
I want phrases great and empty.  Tacked on.  A great ramshackle house.  Containing gardens disappearing.  Students at their desks.  Falling into pure grammar.  Secret correspondences nothing at all.  
Commentaries about commentaries.  Shifting lines, empty nothingness tempting witnesses, and so I say I have been found out, dug out, let to dry. 
My pockets are empty nothingness inside empty nothingness.  
Well ordered never enough.  Crawling craving sin.
As you see my writing is just that, artful non-deliberation.  
Maybe not only un-but anti-social.  Or maybe it's non-human.  Maybe angelic.  Demonic.  They’re one in the same.  That strange immaterial thing described by Des Cartes.  Instantaneous flashes of eternity.  
Everything broken.  Up.  
If you were little you could crawl all over these words.  They say nothing.  Silence.  
The true non-saying saying paradox.  Maybe false.  No thought at all.  
The true non-thought thought paradox.  Tiresome.  
The silence is getting thick and heavy, top heavy.  
Spin spin spin the dirvish can make it fly up and up and up into itself.
The desert, the dirvish and the broken senses.  St. John of the Cross, Cervantes, Love, Sin and the absurd all traveled together until one night in a kiss they melted into one whirling whirlegig, entered the school room of the student Des Cartes was sitting with his spanish. moorish, aryian masters and like clockwork the modern world began.  
Slowly working his way from Byzantium.  The student was taken again.

Sunday, May 15, 2011


In every religion of sacrifice it is always the pure innocent that are given up.  
Their suffering and death take away the sins of sinners.  
Sometimes I am the innocent; sometimes I am the sinner.  
Sometimes I am God; sometimes I am the accuser.  
The slaughter of innocents never ceases.  For the glory of God.  
He slaughters his own.  He himself goes down to this hell.  It's relentless.
A religion of sacrifice is beyond all reason.  
Our holy books have failed to make sense of it.  
We wait for a stronger light.  
Until then I cling to unreason.  
To bad writing.  To wallowing in spiritual lust.  I refuse all moderation.  
I will be wild. I, the very timid, the dreamer, the polite, the good boy, by writing these few words I will be wild.  In my stillness.
All philosophy is adolescent writing.  
Even if it is hard logical analysis it eventually arrives at the very words themselves.  
That a boy, because he knows the mirror, has said to himself speaking before the world.  
He knows two things that are one thing.  And one thing is magically two things.  
He knows that language has the power to speak nothing at all.  
More than the professor, he knows that he is all those things.  
Unlike the professor, he falls so God can catch him.  Philosophy falls.  
He will show him how.
It's all so mechanical.  
The one disappearing into the many disappearing into the one.  
The ars combinatoria of Raymond Lull.  The heart suffering from love.  
Working on our cars.  Nothing quite fits.  The perfect fit.  
So sleek and trim and fast.  Pure grammar.  Active and passive.  
And they speak in their middle voice, alone, in-caused except from out of themselves, the despised.  Work them way into the night.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Silent Geometry

All of life reduces to a gesture,
   to letter sounds, to a tilt of the head, to a whisper in a sentence with strange syntax.   

Minimal things themselves so reduced to a piece of spirit that they can carry mind and meaning and disappear.  

We come at last to nothing in the desperation of love.  
The substance of culture and heaven.  
And the shame that keeps us very still.  
This is all the way of adolescent youth, young kids.  Young toughs.  
The delicate trying to be young toughs.  Glorious, pretty criminals.  
The innocent hurting the innocent.  Infuriating the perfect.  
The beloved outside reason and the reasonable just like the Godhead.  
And just like the Godhead draining all your wealth away.  
You have no appeal against this.  
You and it and the spirit in it are no more than a sigh,
    but that sigh is the most substantial substance there is.  

As hard its fist against you, though it loved you and doesn't know why at that moment it hated 

Tuesday, May 3, 2011


I cannot really think these thoughts.  Therefore I cannot write them,
but I can write them better than I can think them,
because there is something in my thinking,
or not-thinking, that forms lines in front of my eyes and shatters into letters and seeks out other eyes to invade them.  
Without story or history,
a god in a breaking of intellectual light.
It is always a shock to me just what I write.  
I intended nothing of the sort.  
I wanted to be sober and scholarly,

but as you can see I am neither,

though I have been obedient to the stuff that such sobriety and studious work has tried to interpret, and failed.  

I have been obedient to the alchemical lover that has always been there.   
To love and to all the spiritual sins it brings.  
A god is there with me.  
The lord of this house,
this temple, my body, many chambered mind. 
 The one trying to kill this worldly life of mine and take me there with it.  
I am blinded.  I am shaking.  It is a dark night.   
The shock will come again.  
The lines with form again.  The same old lines.  I would never leave it, though common sense says I should.  

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Everything on this page is a lie.  Wake up.  
You're late for class.  
Today's the day you are to present your ideas.  How could you forget.
You know perfectly well the secret of everything.  
Why can't you speak it?  
     You're being looked at.   
So you speak, 
and after a few halting missteps you speak perfectly 
and lyrically 
and you're beautiful.    
But nobody likes what you are saying, 
though they're too polite to say so.  
You've lost absolutely everything.  And you walk home in the cold.  
Somewhere along the way you have fallen in love.
Everything on this page is a lie.  And time has stumbled.
Good prose is a slow walk over gentle terrain.  
To speak the final things of philosophy good prose will never do.  Nor of love.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011


It is the case that when I'm doing philosophy, 
doing the classical act of contemplation, 
writing the classical words, "praying", 
loving with philosophical love, 
describing the indescribable, 
thinking the unthinkable, 
         am I deceiving myself?  
Is it all a pleasurable nothing?  
Is it avoidance or simple insanity?  
Is it the case that there is nothing that is the case corresponding  to my intensity?  
Am I thinking myself?  
Am I thinking myself into non-existence or worse?  
The question is unanswerable. 
 But the answer is provable.  
With a proof that is philosophical, thus partaking the question itself.  
Or of being as question.  
But not before the glimpse.  
The case that it is the case that is the case that it is the case until it all peters out of infinity exists.  
Choose your drink. 
You will inevitably fall in love with the cup bearer, and the questioning will start all over again.  One night in a tavern of Being will make a hard man humble.
Error is not nothing.  
An ontological ground must be found for it.  
Deception is part of being.  
    We cannot escape God by living a lie.  
        The ugliest is beautiful.  
            The most despicable is very good. 
 Being and truth and God himself are everywhere.  
   That is the most maddening.  
      Contraries unite identity, but is there a third.  
Is there a land of difference that doesn't suffer this fate. 
 Yes, there is.  And it quickly changes places with identity as truth when it is looked at.  
So look away as soon as you look.  Maybe sooner.  
same, even THE same.  They are also but; ; ;p7j /and.  Blus    is therefore.  You know perfectly well what I mean.  Excited tedium.  
But if a very pretty girl were to seriously tell you all this you would help her believe it.