Bloomsday Journal 6-16-2023: reprise (Not Elegy Yet) - Direction Switch Or Twitch, The Wry Persuasions Poem by Warren Falcon

Bloomsday Journal 6-16-2023 - in celebration of James Joyce's novel, Ulysses read out loud every year on this day...


'Above us only sky.' - John Lennon

'The rose is without why; it blossoms because it
blossoms;
It cares not for itself, asks not if it's seen.' - Angelus Silesius

Dear Vercingetorix,

Here's my report on this another yet Bloomsday day.
A year since last shared news, spews, utters, n such.

So. Or - SEW

Cables, cobbles, even gobble gobble as my lungs wither, so
blame the weather always inner for what ails as arrears are

now come to maturity, nothing here to pay back with but breath,
effortful overtime, I surrender each, tho, as recompense for
hours on front row sinner's bench with a tin placard, my name
hammered on it, only room enuff for me to 'walk the Jehovah Plank' so

I'll give account,

have already, and
will again endlessly,
in poems offered to the

White Whale aka Western Deity, that Veiled One,
or Ones, of Other-Ether Spectral to compass point
geographic confusion,

for truth is, all deities are local.

Still I'll gamble and know I'm no prize to win or to be won,

won over, over done - rather than a fork and knife dull, stick,
please, Mercy, either, or both, in me moi sav'oir sass surprise
reprise with spit, with spatter, for my being yet one of countless
jokes up the ever raveling Beyond Almighty's sleeve or more
lest G-dash-D be multi-pli'é-d (squat) armed thus requiring
constant tailoring

for In the beginning was the Patch

aka

'Patch As Patch Can...'

And just for fun - 'Patch Squat' aka Big Foot

Despite post-Christian, postmodern statistics/spastistics re: Patristics, I qualify, or so think, to paint myself mystic, or at least more of that than other.

Ted Roethke, Jack Caputo, 'Good-Ol' and other aerie Yokels

what provoke/invoke 'of the rose' an otherwise pretend-plot,
or skies multipli'e-d, whichever works for whom which preaches
without preaching a 'religion without why' since, at least so
it appears from eyes front of the head, and surmises ever-ly
from the back of the noggin, that the rose blossoms without
why but just is,

and in is-ness, implies

purpose not to be punished, or girdled, requiring
a human deity to choke out

'I thirst.'

Another way to say, 'I want.'

So, I want, rather, the finitdue starburst 'of the rose', of myriad, and let its/their diminishment be the 'punto' at the end of loose strife's sentence run-on or over or slog which, to be clear, is abbreviation for 'soul log' as in 'blog' 'vlog' the new 'logs' to come where each blossom gets to give account and hope for at least a nano-second of witness from millions tik to the frickin' tickin'

TOK.

KATZ! shouts Zen

to break Chronic Entropy,

yet another name or approximation
from lowly human station beneath starry crosses on display
but reduced by thumbs to abbreviations only, who knew? that
an asterisk contains an aster, a star, or once was a star for who even looks up now, face into hand to screen, flattened obscenity reduced to, as is our species, brilliant of wits, yes, but, as Ernest Becker repeats Sir J. Swift, lest we forget's,

'more's the feces' cuz

we all, like Celia the fair,

''SHITZ'.

ENTONCES

I'll not. I'll Tchaikiovsky.
Kvetch, 'Pathetique'. Bleak
on, not priest on knees, yet
plead, wretch, here stretch
arms, at least one, grasp as,
wreckt, wrack on pain, wrench
kindness render, or try, pity,
and so end City of willful man
'is Clod's cruel tred improv
replete - hyssop, vinegar to
lips sponged tourette-ic cry
'I can no more' reduced
down to a man, no further
compression possible, I bear,
endure, will, no choice in the
matter, Crucible's Riddle, dare
cling to rhyme and opposite,
offering two thumbs yet, a
blood-eye, and a dry tongue.

No wonder then,

and now, forgiving OTHER - no blame.

We make stains. We make marks. I'd prefer
mine to be obliterary (at least that's

the intention fantasy of extention into dot dot dot -
Elyp-seus) - and ponder-must upon a personal pond,
eye forward, try to balance, skate, over surface or,
here's religion for you, 'walk on water' rather than sink
i' the 'drink' (Melville's effusage) , me pretending, or
perhaps cloyed to sinking-hope's sift soft 'rope-a-Pope'
polyglotal peripatetic puer-etic poetic,

the miracle

of never

falling.



RIX,

M'eye's wide fixed rigid toward time-askewed, and that
black holed quanta-lujah monitor other side-o' kaleido-skull
in late stage i-fiddle i-dol 'I'm'-pire (a bad play or attempt to conjure personal 'Imp-ire') , plant my flag on water, 'er might,
a mite eremitic, be air, but not airtight but have to, must or
bust, commit metaphor, symbol, error, not that dreaded predictable clot called 'sign' (I get to change my mind
because consciousness does so alla time so's not MY mind
but is the Nature of MIND)

so I plant, skate, surmount, May's 'King Sway n Swagger' June, truth be told,

whilst

I stagger-sink fall no longer appalled - not true! not true - but -
jagged - by fractures by fractals, strick-tured - but - such is
be-ing (a kind of seeming) being with the rose or IN-rose
'mind' - it, 'rose'-blind to self, its (even or especially thorn) subjectivity, is not, is and is yet, fretting not what it, not personal, a moi relieved of moi, a me that can lag behind or cast ahead as seed, rows ahead plowed by two eyes what's in the head and always devouring need and knowing it,

NEED.

WANT.

Most likely something sustainable shall thrust shoots
from clods odds are one can return, get to work, harvest
slash burn from dirt to plot to mouth to, all our last name,
Smoke, or Ash, in the wĪnd (as in 'twine') End wins as it
wilts where it

lisp-eth....well...'all manner of things'...we know the deal

or if, nothing else, proof's in the pulse, the sapien plotz
alchemical, 'all raw to the cooked, 'y'all 'maw to maw! '
calls Jackdaw Monkey's Paw to the letting go pitched in
from very beginning in Amor Fati cycles of sprung shoots
to mouth to dung, and then again —

'ere's pooh-etry in't.

Or as Ginsberg sez - 'poor human prose' so forgive,
so pardon, please, us, all our woes, 'Miserous Rose'.

Yer gardens I'll tend still pending nothing but it, the gardens
and the 'rose' remain without why.

So. This's my prelude, my forward etude itchy allergi-ed
protrude eyes rude loud sneezes. Chill air coming into here
hovel cuz old window frames literally keep gale-breeze-time velocity pale; blows there here always a cold wind - Tis a living,
a burn while air is still Free puff tympani huffin; panes loosing
caulk but, or so, never mind, talks or taps, nods a late winter
sun lower th' moor more the live-long slants side aways sidle through curtained slots.

O, Lad! Fin Domin-i Rix!

Holy Mountain once above our heads
but s'now but blinkered reverie. Remote.

4115 address no more. A gash now - red dirt

Holy Orders of MANS those four 'Sisters'

gnostics i th' flesh - their black underwear
swaying on the backyard line, silk (the sheen
told all) , irony to see as they were covered
head (and other) to toe, but the wind, more
wind here, knew what's what of Holy Orders
and what blackness, delicate, smooth, borders
the Sacred near cemetery vast I once literally
dulcimer-ed in between monuments and head-
stones strangely at peace there tho would
not want to LIVE there YUK YUK YUK

Hallelu-Y'all thine the Glory!

Hallelu-Y'all Imma Schmuck!

Talkin' Schmak! !

SO. SEW.

Signing off, Laddie BUX'.

Yers (what's all that's left is vaguely choral) ,

'TEHUDE (in dulce jubilo - in sweet rejoicing)

O hear nonny nonny hey

IN DULCI JULBILO n 'Ere SHE blows.