Once upon a green planet, full of hope and roses red rising up the sides of houses freshly painted white, the sky overhead pure childhood blue, I awoke to reason and have been since alternately gray and black, a mottled man given up to extravagant swings between the tepid tinges measuring only an inch or two in wavelength, the land of stultified colores, an essentially boolean boy reminiscing on the analog, the good old statistical continuousness painted in pointillistic dabs of bright infinitesimal, yearning for great swaths of infantile passion and truth, but substituting instead blue dreams of hot sex (unaxiomatizable but here and now, from time to time and space to space).
A boily boy. Mr. Pimply Little. An acned iridescent redly boy. A nib upon yr nose will do ye boy. A dilly lad of a willy boy. Lead me into the gorse boy. A little dab will do ye, boy of a goily boy will dib him boy. Goy boy. Boy boy.
Hot gobbed and gargling with a full tongue, years past mama-gobbling but drowning yet in the spit of child speech, I ape well the best adult imitation, nibbling just a little at the nipples, producing drivel or dribble as I see fit: a spurting creamy white blank verse. All nomenclature and conjugal forms: names of men and women, surnames, ma’am names, outlandish by-names, performing, dropping from exhaustion, firming up again, slavishly manipulating, triggering nuptial or coital feats one upon the others, these are depicted here and now, in living skinly manly colors, nude pink, red like the head of the dick of a dog, blue, bright blue, brown blue, blown blue, titillating incantations of the act in modern rendered Latin, however idiotic, otiose or odious, ballooning out good reader sensibilities beyond already swollen ballocks or ovaries, hard seed-producing factories hidden beneath the flesh in guts. Jack Sprat will eat no lack, and Jill will still fill her mouth full of expectations, rotating orbs or globes, I forget which, hopeful for another revolution, this time one to end all, be all, whole planets full of creatures thinking that they are no doubt the chosen ones. God save us masticated morsels who have been chewed to death by them.
Boily boys will gleam and beam occasionally with full toothsome grins; other times, they surge up through serge into dark shadows of tornadoes, whirling around them a world of straw and houses and ripped red animal parts (with the bleating moo still in them). No forecaster knows which weather rules in the long run, becoming climate. No friend or brother, sister, mother, father, son, daughter, lover knows. No child, man, or woman. No beast knows the weather.
Before my sight: bloodened, blood red labiae of torsos posed in sitting chairs, wide-open orchids inviting within them the cool air of the stirring breeze and the flies which tumble through the window. Broken-necked demoiselles or madeleines set to represent the fate of womankind, mannequins with distorted parts, bright contortions, forced irruptions into birth or abortion of many-folded babies or green fetuses, the gangly limbs akimbo with either lifelessness or the living force of zero as in turgidly heliotropic chlorophyll, the pink/blue skyward thrust up of green oblivion, the dark down-falling of the rain of gray incidental murder. Magdalenes and maidenhoods, and not a man among them: misery, mystery, hysterectomy, history and her story, everywhere a nursery, and nowhere near a nunnery, to someone or another she, she says, why can’t they just let us be a she? I mean, a me?
Give me a tongue that I may speak in a language of my own devise, thick with coronals if I so choose and none of that suppurating, piddly lip service, full of spit and little else, protestations plentifully sprayed but lacking sense and passion, no bright thick red semantics but instead delayed onsets and rhymes, the stuff of shallow men, the fluff of puffed up buffoons going on and on about the inherent science of the situation when a green and purple sunset rages in the sky above them and golden yellow corn with fluttering brown tassels sway about their shoulders, tiny red windborne mites pricking dots upon their skins: not knowing what to say, confusing words for wisdom, choosing skeletons for scarecrows, rotting fronds for ebullient or bursting trees, and death to life, hidden maudlin masturbation to a fleshy lingering full-fingered well-greased but somehow still bloody fuck.
But at core, no doubt (you see through me) I too am hollow. I am colorless. Washed out into a background blur of clouds or mountains. Cézanne put me into a watercolor of a waterfall where no one can tell where the water is. Gauguin gauged that passionfruit set against the rouge implicit in a Frenchman’s eye would blind the ages, the old sexually fantasizing with the young, snow on moss, bathing all in a warm Laurentian light, denying me my intrinsic camouflage, irreducible angstroms of flittering frequency, white like the unprismaticized rainbow, the undispersed, the fist of God held tightly to Himself and unreleased to fling Thor’s lightening bolts to earth.
One thinks of Wagner. Or rather, the flaccid players who back up the choir with willowy pipes and taut string instruments, anguishing over increments and driving massive sopranos up and down and up and up and up, driving up:
Coloratura. And finally, the bright setting sail into the dying crimson sun, dedicated jibmen hoisting not a few grogs sunward and then moonwards, kicking up a fuss, back-hammering each other about such good luck, not at all averse to skimming the tepid tea like flotsam on the water to remove the mealworms that dropped from beards still encrusted with the pre-celebratory, nightly bread and gruel, a sole loud outlandish fool yammering somewhere about the breakwater in the distance, the ripping lagoon, the shallow weedy sheath like a shroud of flat paddies lying in the light of the dying sun to take them down and then cover them up.
Those who survive live forever on an island until they die. Inventing things to while away the nondying time, committing to memory words such as these:
This sentence is all that I have learned:
take the damn planet and see that it’s burned.
If I should die before I wake, pray make sure I’m baked.
Inventing classics, posturing for a future full of babbling nabobs and mages who not only have power but power’s power, the best meta-level equivalent of opportunity and place of dissertation that money or time can buy (off chance with an on-campus honcho theorist belt-buckling the women one two three). Gulliver martini-ed on Fridays is brought to mind.
Lies, as always. And so the ocean hurls another charge of waves at me on shore, here lounging in my shredded underwear, seeking to generate blind belief from out of twirling simple alcohol molecules I have coaxed from trees and I in turn damn the universe for an equally simple lack of dark brown smoke which even now I can feel my lungs pull down through dry brown lips.
Now bleak black of starlitless night crowds an empty horizon. Nearly silent monsters rattle dead leaves in a cold wind and one knows tiny insect teeth wait underfoot for a misstep, a false start, an inadvertent ligament to sink themselves into, thorax-deep, or having caught upon some reaching root, you go down nosefirst and break through deepsoil into the universe of gnawers just the other side of God’s lawn. Hence many of us choose the darkness we see displayed invisibly about or hear its susurrating shadow insinuate snake meaning on the window shade, and purchase exorbitant red robes edged in gold with dayglo yellow crescents and purple twirling Saturns on a pulsating background of white stars, and profess to serve the devil. Seeking sex and power. Limitless days and lives. Step into pentagrams where a third universe of significance takes on new light. Assume new names and visages. Speak in tongues Baal and the Holy Ghost know nothing of. Shine like nothing living has ever shone before, obliterating rainbows with white white white. Die in splendid fire, a selflit mass transubstantiating on a dark All Hallow’s Eve, only forlorn November awaiting those who awake the next morning, pale and trembling, fingers, worms, hands held out to embrace the wan cold sun as it inches up over the far wavering horizon, lost souls all.
Quantum chromodynamics qua Joyce gives us a name we can hang all this energy on, a rational fractalizing spectrum spanning white to black, filled with a bazillion spinning buzzing things, enjoyed by good thick blooded Americans and bad thin neurasthenic pasty dudes alike: red, white, and blue quarks, tri-colored fermions caught in the Copenhagen interpretation up to Bohm (belittled beyond the grave for his unfinished last book, which fizzled at death and would no doubt produce only reduced ha-ha-s now, among the tittering physicists who lack his vision but are all we got left, vacationing this year far south of CERN, in a muddle of a hut on the Mediterranean, trisecting neutrinos for lunch in an olive branching thicket). All art nouveau arabesque, isn’t it? Scientists putting a spin on particles virtually half the time not even there, or here, flipping in and out of this well-ordered universe like clowns tumbling before an audience who already know about the well-trumpeted up-and-coming African elephant show. Just where the hell is Hannibal?
And so, agricola, a field theory. Line them up, I’ll drink them down, but not before toasting to the older ones who farmed this kind of line out for what it formerly was worth: one sole pent-up Vincenté or Arturó who played Italian or Spanish vistas out in fresco via camera obscura for a multi-colored pizza or its equivalent, downing rosé, on the piazza or plaza surrounded by friends in the fading light, remembering what wasn’t learned last night at midnight and what remains daily invisible in the shimmering heat, a solaris reductive, reduced to the knowledge that there is never enough light to see by.
