PRIMITIVE JESUS. a satire
Ever-reach, relenting arcs, ever reach for new realities,
My gun the fun to blow the ceiling I touch off a World
Too adjunct to hills: remote words curdle in
Motley, however mind they be, said DICKINSON,
you see: so let to stony orifices, that pixillate the same
Resulting lilac: stars blossom: stony orifices might,
Flesh combines with stone that way: spit your
Flecking lights, o muse, I have imagined enough
Of your glens to be fecund again: yes, but in
Different placements you revive, this time, this
Time: so: within a memory, within time, is a slate
On which is written, in the scrutiny of stone,
The meaning for that
Memory from softened dirt. Collect the Worldly stuff
Into a thin, thin thing about one’s past: is that it
Is depthless, was only once robust and touchable
In the thin: eating seconds between one moment and
The millions of others growing to seed thereof,
Afterwards, into forgetting or remembering.
However, some moments, via
Whatever cognitive reasoning of the mind,
Are mysteriously etched forever into what is
Conscious forever. It is this distinguishing
Trait of memories that makes any human wish
To apply depth to them, in order to prove
The straight practicality of the mind. After all,
Why do memories exist, if not to highlight
A certain page in one’s life? With the tendency
To attach meaning can sometimes come the
Gestation of a fabricated meaning, which is
Why I load on this particular past incident
The minutest grain of salt. However, by the
Pendulum of thoughts this and that way,
I have come to pass over this memory many
Times, that is, if we can categorize these
The same. Like
A ghost floating his visage over the inert
Position of his own corpse: so I was playing
Soccer one day, in fourth grade, and my
Endorphins were buzzing around, and the
Air was light, and suddenly, viciously,
Something horribly uncontrollable came-
-Over me. I started thinking to myself, “Fuck
God! Fuck God!” Over and over again. In
A hilariously demonic loop. The very taboo
Mindset behind the thought made it all
The more irresistible, though I am sure
I, for the most part, lacked control in this.
I couldn’t stop thinking it, no matter how
Hard I tried. So I went to hide under the
Forgiving shade of a tree to soak in the
Vinegar of this inexplicable misery, and
I let the thought clang against my head,
Like a marble in a tin can, letting the single,
Stupid thought, “Fuck God!” transfer through
My blood and bones, making me shake.
Laugh, you brooding homonid: for all is of
A piece, and the meter splays palsy at the frightening
Part: the dignity lain in that I wernt confineth: the
Chapped, ancillary motion: a madrigal in terse,
A different place for the muse in was how I seemed to
Snatch this thought out of the pre-pubescent-
-Air. There was no reason behind it: so laugh: and I
Suppose there remains none for God, he broods,
Outside of reassurance. But then how could
Something upstairs be given a name without
An ability to, when negated, inspire nothing
That is reassuring but instead guilt? I suppose
I saw the taboo in giving what creator a name
At all. This is perhaps why I see it as an it,
But I assume much more than that as to its
Longevity: in a mind at this point way too
Atrophied by guilt: however, anyway, at that
Point, it was at that point I realized the
Equivocal nature of the Words in my head,
If nothing else. For they are my God, and
As for God, I have this
Memory to strain me, that I knew what I
Would eventually understand: IT doesn’t
Exist, if we are to say that to think is to
Be. Perhaps if God thinks, it is then only
A manner of thought, a spiral. Put this in
The head of a fourth grader. See what
Happens when elliptical thinking happens
To one who does not know he is doing it.
The words then simplify into a single
Statement. In youth the Words in our
Head correspond to how we feel about
The World. Perhaps I knew this fierce
Round even then. But I’d like to think,
It was just me damning myself, for fun,
Though, I know, it was for no sake. And
‘God’ isn’t. The fierce round grows tears,
But no creation would ever want to be
Perceived as the result of some … thing.
Especially, if our humanity denies us this
In ourselves, that is, our humanity, the
Ability to will ourselves responsible for
Equally righteous rounds of thought that
Perhaps, though elliptical, are not damaging.
What of it, then? I should rather forget it all
Then remember what brought me to that
Place where ‘it’ became a void, which is
Something different. Such would give too
Much value to needing a name. So: yeah:
Let’s say I come across something unnamable:
At first, I do not know it is unnamable:
How I got to this point is beyond my reckoning:
I pull the closest word I can, for example,
‘Fuck’ to the word I think I understand and find
It does not quite fit. At this point, I am possessed
Far and away, by an obsession to find the name
For this without—-: basically: I try to name IT,
I cannot name IT, I realize I cannot name IT,
And when I realize this I suddenly know also that
I had reflexively given my own name to IT, I
Realize I have done this and suddenly, when I
Realize that the name is untrue, IT becomes
Untrue. Such is the function of a given name
To memory: for awhile now the man at the bar
Had been talking of invincibility. Well, to specify,
He talked with a deep, profound intonation,
Intoning ever more profoundly as the empty
Glasses on his table grew to absurd proportions,
Until they looked like some defunct avant-garde
Project. To specifify even more, the man talked
Of his own immortal abilities—-how he had
Defied the law of physiognomy by stabbing
Himself fifty times and never bleeding; had
Even hit himself with a frying pan, over and
Over, and felt no sting; had licked a wet socket
And, though jolted, had not gone unconscious.
Normally such a blowhard would have been
Kicked out of these establishments long ago,
Unless you happen to be funny—-and the
Deep conviction with which the man spoke
Made us all laugh at him. He said he was
Working on how to fly. After one too many,
One of the patrons
Asked:
“How do you suppose this invincibility of yours
Works, you old fauntleroy?”
His answer was quick and decisive:
“Well every time I pull my deadly trick,
Someone else on this planet, somewhere,
Dies.”
After we all tried to figure this in some minutes of silence, a man pulled out a .48 calibre and, holding it limply in his hands, pointed it at the so-called invincible man, who saw his head on the trigger and remained without expression, barely noticing.
“Hey now, Jonnie, Put that away—”
“No, gentleman!” Interrupted the invincible man,
“Let him shoot me straight in the chest,
And I will show you here how I transfer my death
To someone else. Maybe even one of you here
Will die for me.”
At this point everyone in the bar had stood up,
And were looking at Jonnie with fearful,
Drunken eyes; and silence followed;
And the man with the gun stood like an inebriated
Spartan, leveled his gun at the invincible man,
Smiling complacently, and holding his chin up.
And he suddenly darkened,
And lent his eyes straight
Into Jonnies, and said, “Fire, you scoundrel.”
After which, Jonnie fired the gun,
As though in the midst of an orgasm
And the invincible man fell over, dead,
Blood spraying everywhere.
Jonnie, the man with the gun,
With beads of blood on his face, said,
To his terrified counterparts:
“I guess … he died for himself that time.”
. . . . . . . .
He had little to say to those who knew him personally and compensated for his speechlessness by adding character to his actions. They were his stead. He was focusing his efforts now on walking with character. Strangers on the street who did not know the man would see his nice walk and they would think he was someone with lots of nice things to say. Lots of intelligent things to say. But it was not only with walks. The man he already had a way to grab things, his hands overtaking a helpless muffin. The dexterity of an octopus. Or playing a fork into his grasp with a kind of feminine caress and then grasp after the caress. Which was not so feminine and was strong. And when he clapped his hands his elbows to his wrists, wagged towards and away from his torso, which rotated in a saucy way and gave the man sex appeal. The movements were made to highlight the apparent loose machinery of his bones. Easy grace to spur the interest of the man’s body and shroud the emptiness of his mind. And now he was working on his walks. It had become a zen-like practice. A peaceful obsession that one may have with certain private nits in their personality, or appearance. His walk, at this point, was thus: his feet lorded over the legs as though his feet were pulled by extra weight and it was like his legs were lengths of gum that dripped into the steps. He walked also while turning his feet in slightly, like a gimp, this created the impression of deformity struggling to meld with perfection and succeeding. In melding, and deeper in showing the World the sadness and bitterness that comes with knowing that you are bare.
ARGUMENT: Do well yourself in the time you are here for in the name, was is was. And we as people should do well to remain nameless, though we cannot, and gender is a name, and that we are divided thus is a name, and we are names.
That cannot change, the past can’t, for the sake of a future we know not. And as much the both of them, a metaphor for powerlessness; the past, powerless to not be perceived, the future, powerless to be perceived.
Time stands inert on the line, and infinity, in its way, denies the ability to change in us our own infinite mind. For we do not live always, we die, and so should a thing die if it was once a man.
We rob our own psyches of being peaceful if we deny gratefulness to them, and give gratefulness instead to a dignity long broken in a religion no part of this generation.
This walk, it delves: it the beacon I see through to its darkness. Immortality is the loaded gun, that is, if as the figuration the personage is not personage, has no power to die, but as a human. Jesus did not die for himself; he died for our sins. One must wonder however whether it was the fault of the man in the bar for believing something so unrealistic.
Of course it was. One man cannot be THAT persuasive, as to prove immortality. But then once he stopped being a man and became a figuration, all was lost. HE became IT, indeed immortal, perhaps for the miracles, if there were any, perhaps for the persuasion that was his ultimate suffering. And triumph, over suffering.
And the meanings for this will run up the same delta for this one of me with his Christ-complex. The guilt is the cross; rather, that we should not be able to do with GOD whatever we please, without a perception from without as it being a dissolution, is an insanity. The guilt of being a man who does not know what he does is an insanity. That one thinks he ‘does’ anything but provide for the World in himself, for others, perhaps, perhaps not, is not.
The new reality IS ever-reaching however, in that Time is our God, the reality outside of itself, that infinite unpersuaded.
Jesus was a man, that is that. And his last walk was excruciating, and here I suppose there provides some explanation:
I am bare, but not loveless, however much it seems my life has become a last walk. At least it is not written. I am still a man and have my bareness to keep however should not feel this to be anything less than a blessing. From whence? From being born, and having a life that I live. Life is that blessing and for no—-concept of GOD—-would I give that up.
And yet I still—-bear—-my cross, that is the emptiness in me but no bare thing. A man’s bareness, his nakedness, is his soul. He mayest look in the mirror and see himself not in a stupor but in all of himself the singular individual.
I have denied myself the God in myself because I do not feel myself singular, have little confidence as to my own empire.
As for the IT of a ‘God’, this does not come from not appreciating my bareness, my nakedness. It is what I truly believe, though not ‘in’. There is nothing to believe ‘in’ but TIME, which all are stuck ‘in’ anyway. The transcendent moment comes when one sees the emptiness of existence the same as himself.
Stars blossom; and yet, this is no supernova. It is we as individuals coming to a head. In this MYTHOLOGY OF INVENTION I sought the repetitive hell. In this piece altogether the peripheral understanding of that work is ironized. Younger years, I believe, are as a way to explain the deity the best. I succeeded in writing something much the more to do with TIME and the metaphysical, the Loop itself an irony, a blatant ‘tick-tock’ similar to the beat of a watch round its circle.
In this work there is much work to be done, still, as I am not a Jesus of language. Although it is funny to think of this as a giant plea from Jesus, from his vast nothing-place, rolling his eyes at how he fucked himself, that only his concept, figuration, remains, not the man at all. As for the miracles, they come in various shapes and ways, including paying tribute to the poor guy, there, from here. since I myself have an inkling of that nothing-place, having seen it for seven straight hours one night in the house of a man I had done wrong to. That nothing-place is guilt, to me, though, and I have tried to ramble through the fog of that and arrive at a place where I know no longer to hesitate. So it goes; not with a bang, but a whimper, like the whimper of any bareness that is the soul.
