Halo Smithy

At night I dowse a blisk for love
Thirsting to find water sweeter and hotter
Found rarely, barely far above
So fairly roused, seek my sibyl by augur

It lights on bedding sweating shove
Bursting with blood golden salt spawning matter
Bathed in moonlight an ancient grove
To throw my soul skywards and feel it shatter

כתר גם קליפות

The shower washed out the sound of the world and provided a sanctuary for reorder.  James started with the shampoo at the crown of his head and worked clockwise around and down.  He made sure to massage his scalp and this commenced a sort of autobaptism.  As he continued with his bathing, working his way down from the very top in a perfect order and completeness, he meditated on the refinement of his soul.  All the madness and discord were put into place, spiraling down the qliphoth of the drain.  

He wondered how men and women lived in the world without a reverence for the mysteriousness of existence and the magics of intent and will, symbolism and ritual.  What would life be then, he asked himself.  Views from highrise houses, titles and credits, swishing suits and the smell of dry cleaning were all he could imagine to aspire to.  For his lot in life was not given to the achievement of power and he could not marry his hunger for success with those trophies.  Truly, as he looked at his body and the water that ran down it, his health and physical comfort were the meter.  Intimately tied to physical comfort was the balance and even keel of his psyche, maintained by order and earned wisdom.

Enjoying the private water in the shower, he went over his dreams.  He had promised himself the sail across the Atlantic, abandoned the dream of owning a vineyard as he realized that alcohol was a poison for him but still loved the idea of civilized agriculture in southern Europe, and after the delay and failure at making a comfortable and controlled life for himself by thirty had resolved to ride a motorcycle to Argentina.  It was clear that he could not afford to add to these epic aspirations, but he could in fact make his small moves to achieve them.  

The trouble, he admitted, was in love.  He could not do what his heart told him to and also be a man worth the love of a woman.  This was a clear problem.  As he delighted with his clean skin, the clarity he felt and the simplicity of his thinking, direction and solution emerged.  In order to become the man he wanted to be, a man he loved and respected, he would have to be with and by himself.  He would have to travel through the chapel perilous, the world and her gravity, his own doubts and fears.  

He stepped out of the shower and dried himself off, again from his head then down.  In the mirror, he saw his young face and the gravelly unshaved jaw.  His hair was a little too long, and he had to brush his teeth.  Then he stopped looking at his appearance and looked into his eyes.  In the blackness of his pupils he stared deeply.  He could see and feel a sympathy for all of the pain, humiliation, and failure and he determined to be an ally to himself.  A strong voice in his internal dialogue resolved in statements, "The promises I have made I will strive to keep.  I will make no more promises until I am free again from the onus of my own words.  My duty is clear and my heart is pure and may god not let me forget or lose that."  

The challenges of life in the city of men were regular and constant.  Absurdly, the greatest was in making his intent known to those he loved.  He would only do this when for benefit, for he had known for some time that grand declarations were dangerous ones.  For a man to give his words speci, he can not issue them so freely.  His dream and the destiny he saw and sought to make would seem selfish, but eventually he knew they would prove to grant generously in his experience and sharing it.  So long as his reverence for god, his humility of heart, and his sobriety of mind were kept, he would do no wrong he would be unable to atone for.  

People speak in small voices about spiritual experiences.  It is a personal and embarrassing thing to speak of.  It invites dubiousness and mockery.  Still, men worthy and wise will acknowledge that this shared humanness is one profound and authentic.  When men and power, esteem and authority are introduced to the spiritual, she becomes adulterated, corrupt, and perverse.  God, who is real, does make men eat their words.  

James, this particular day, knew the verity and tragic humor of this.  It made him resolve to be careful with his tongue.  He prayed that his voice and tongue echo and draw that which is beautiful and true, reflected brilliance and love imparted by divinity so long as he was willing and true.  May the crown and gnostic matter be both known, but not for knowledge or power; may they be respected for wisdom and love, protection and generation.  His prayer concluded with the petition that his soul be a Fresnel Lens for love and light.

He stared still at his pupils and made the realization of his existence.  In them he saw all that he had seen, and knew all that he felt.  The mirror made an image of himself he recognized, though he had never truly seen.  As a man, he would never be perfect.  Like the image, he would only see what was presented, and there was nothing to be seen on the back of the mirror.  A jewess once told him that man will never see the face of god.  This gave him both a humbling solace and a spark of jealous defiance.  What then, if he gave his soul to god that he may see that face and know it?  Dangerous thinking, he knew, but natural still.  The very consideration pushed him off the course of righteousness.  

At the time of his changing from boy into man, he heard the defiance and became lustful of the knowledge of the universe.  A print he loved, quoting Albert Einstein, "I want to know god's thoughts...  The rest are details." teased him affectionately in his youth.  What then, were god's thoughts and how and why is matter as it is?  He sought to become closer to god and see behind the ether with LSD, he crept through the occult of the university library and the art of old Europe.  All he gained through this fantastic but feeble odyssey was irreverence and disregard for the line between madness and genius.  It took most of thirty years before he learned to be small enough to ask for god's will for him, as an instrument, and the power to carry it out.  

All this and more swirled in his pupils, and he came back to his station and presence at the sink.  He breathed deeply and was thankful for the air.  He brushed his teeth with consideration and attention to each one.  Finally, he was ready.  So long as he kept his resolution to be willing and true he would serve all things great and see his dreams.  And so he would.

au-Dessus de la Mort

As he looked through his wikipedia articles, the ones he had written, he found that Nate was changing his entries for "au-Dessus de la Mort". There were mention of The Beatles and quotes from Don's correspondence. It was outright mockery. At the same time, Nate managed to install a fantastic logical soft soundboard. This came into use.

When Don woke up in a Brooklyn, he set out to make his way to the clinic to see the medicians. On his way, like children walking to school, his party increased as a very flambouyant Gary and a meek Michelle synced up in the trip to the bus. The bus turned into the train and soon enough, for reasons of necessity and expedience, he ran off from his little army to jump into closing train doors at the A train. Within minutes and before the next stop he was above ground and in a Queens. "Wrong way, shite!"

He had four tokens when he set out, and now just three. He disboarded at the first stop. It was a green oasis in the city, where there was a park sloping down into trees that deceived. When he emerged from the station, expecting to be able to just cross the street and resume his voyage, he turned and looked out over the green park. As he did so, he felt his wallet pocket being molested and three scamps met his eyes as he spun. One of them held it. He yelled, "It has but two dollars, give it back!" and he grabbed it. They mocked him, attempted and failed to threaten him with divided physical imposition, and then left.

When his blood settled, he looked at the citizens on the bench. One of them looked into his face and said, "Don?! I knew it was you! Thank you!" Don couldn't make him for a monkey. "I know you? From where?" The man answered, "You saved my ass. It was about a girl. You were maybe 14." That was a long time ago, but only one girl sprang to mind and he figured the rest. "You're the man Sarah spoke of?" Don asked. "The very one. It's a foretoken, out meeting." The man's face showed ancient writing on it. Old and mystical writing spoke from the flat screens of his cheeks and forehead. It gave Don the usual chill, and he was getting sicker. "I acknowledge this augury for what it is. I'm relieved for you, and grateful that whatever cursed you was beaten back. I must go now, or I will become more weak than I already feel."

"Ha! You, Don, weak! You're no more than thirty years and you'll see thirty more!" It was a condescending mockery and Don resented the old arrogance. "Don't be wounded by my words. They're only meant to steel you." Don stopped this penny prophet, "Fine. Your words are words, and nothing more." "No, I want to show you around the place. You've saved me from more than you can imagine!"

Don followed the old man around an old building, one made from large, cold, grey stones. It was attached to the subway station, but an entirely different realm. Inside were the creaky old ghosts of destiny, a carnival of twisted and fattened forms. He spoke of his own house and the obvious need to take Don in. Don declined, "I just need to catch the train back into town!" There was no refusing. The old man just waved him along, crossing the street to where the stairs should have been for the Brooklyn bound train. There were none.

--tbc

When

When my eyes open
My mouth tastes like old.
I reach for the air;
Dragging blankets unfold.
The air hits the skin,
Body touches cold.
There is no retreat
Morning sun shines of gold.
To find a nice pair
of socks; to grow bold.
No day oppresses
The clock face foretold.
Small steps for a man;
The moon to behold.

-Blad the Impoeter

I have the Moon

Out the car window, the moon followed. He hoped she'd be going where they were. When he got into the back seat he didn't ask where he was going. It was a ship, and he knew only his berth on the stern. The night and her roads were the captain's art. This night, as any other, he was the passenger. The moon whispered in a chime that he was loved. Without her, he'd have felt much loss. The cradle of the waves of asphalt and the turn of the V8 screw lulled him into the safest sleep.

God offered the only explanation, and the explanation in itself was a question. When given three wishes by a جني jinnī, the third wish is always for more wishes. Sulayman had just one wish for god, and the very architecture of the ache made him aware that the prayer itself would be unanswered. God may have had a bizarre answer, though, master that he is. "The French génie, in turn, came from the Latin genius, which meant a sort of tutelary or guardian spirit thought to be assigned to each person at birth."

The smoke blew back from the fo'castle of the USS Malibu and gave him familiar sting in his eyes. The night air was cold and he would, some day, give the order to close the scuttles. In his heart, a golden astrolabe told him he was four tens North. The Moon lit his eyes and he could see her shadows, her peaks and her gentle features. Her light was a blue gold, an aurum azul, like a sea in heaven. The stories that men had tramped upon her were as fabled and revered as the men and beings caught in the webs of the most ancient mythologies. He found a significant booger and removed it to the rear of the cabin.

When he watched the deckmen, the captain, the cook, the hunters, the dockers, longshoremen, the stevedores and the prostitutes he saw two dimensional characters from stories told to no one. Often they'd set him up a plate of the most substantial earthly satisfaction and he would set to work on claiming it for his small body. Always thirsty, he'd piss himself in sleep and wake without the sea to baptise the ammonia. The hosts were generally patient with this inconvienience, and when he grew into his thirst he would wake up dry and prepared to understand the day and its riddles. Each morning, Sulayman expected the truth to be revealed, to be briefed on the goings on, the roles, the intel, and the script. Instead the officers smoked cigarettes and coffee, listened to the meteo and shot little volleys at each other's shortcomings through wet red lips.

They gave him his orders, uniform, and the same MOTD as every day. When he was sent to shore to learn the language, the maths, the sport and the ways, he left without any fanfare. Coordinates changed, but generally the negotiations and salutations went along the same. New names, new faces, new rooms to map in his mind and a desk to sit at awaiting for his charts. Until the charts came they gave him all the paperwork they had. Crosswords, circlewords, whatever would keep the graphite milling on the paper and the young fiery will engaged. When he heard the boarding call, he was always prepared. He minded the clock so wholly that it became internalized. Outside he slipped past the bazaar and back to the port. There he found his good mate Badra, named after his moon.

Many years later, they crew was down to three. Sulayman, Badra, and Aum. The ship was in poor repair, and rations and discipline had fallen. Sulayman knew in his Mariner heart that the Captain and his mate would find a way easy and free without his own curses and questions. He packed a bag with what a man would need on land. Not much, really, just enough to cover up the cold and the skin. On an afternoon when he heard a black call from the port, meant to be shot over him, he took his time to make the steps that would lead him to destiny. Destiny has a funny way, like god tunes the will and the heart of a man to his destiny and when in harmonic, a great percussion of chord give the soul of the traveller a context, a full heart, and bright eyes that remember to look up at his moon.

Truth and its Dimensions

[first lines]
[opening title card]: "... and all the pieces matter." - Freamon
Det. James 'Jimmy' McNulty: [on their way to see Major Rawls] What the fuck can I tell him?

Sgt. Jay Landsman: Whatever the man wants to hear Jimmy, whatever he wants to hear.

Magical thinking can you in trouble. For instance, I imagine Oppenheimer didn't really think he was going to actually father the atomic bomb when he mused about with it. Then the US flowed a little cash his way and the next thing he was all stuck with a conscience and a bank account full of money. Poor physicist. They always seem to get the short end of it. Us junkies, well, we're common enough and don't have the same sort of mystique. I mean, a physicist has to be smart and go to school and write papers and do math with letters that aren't even in the English alphabet. A junkie just begs, whores, and steals. They both think magically though.

Like angels and prophets, blind men giving directions to travellers. There are greater forces at play than we can claim and frame and hang on our office walls. Ask yourself over and over what the point is until you make your self sick, angry, tired, lonely, suicidal, and insane. Then come back and tell us what the answer is. If you meet Faustus or even Methuselah along the way, tell them old Joshua said hello. We had it out in our time. Only they kept at it long after the tea was dry and the smoke had cleared.

I've been called a liar before. It's not the worst aspersion. On the other side of the coin I've been told I'm clever. The problem with that sort of reputation is that it isn't earned or achieved. It's like being pretty or strong. You just are or you aren't, and the very nature of it lends distortion to exactly how truly you are anyway. Without drowning in a whirpool of semantics, let it just be known that I consistently introduce the truth.

The great composer of these theatrics, this tapestry of math and music, energy and light shows a generosity from time to time. Given enough to refine his talent so divinely, the punctuation of the levity is never a moment too soon. I've heard the madmen utter, "Don't leave before the miracle happens!" and knew they meant what they said when they said it.

I spoke with a soul in the dark about the duality in voices I hear, the entendre plain as day to the attuned ear. It would surely scare the shite out of me, but my reaction is to remain calm and still and wait for the opportunity to challenge the alliance, the will of any competing threads. There are old names that are never taken lightly and when invoked the smoke and mirrors become what they are. To live now, in these bodies, these cars, these media, with these memes and types is a challenge never faced before. The game's the same, it's just got more fierce. One could lose way in a labyrinth of collection, disbursion, prosperity, and dispair. Behind the smoke and mirrors are the same old carnies, the same old ones we've known and been. The magic lies in the darkness behind our heads, like the darkness behind the moon, or the darkness beyond the Universe.

Gypsies are a hated bunch. They're sure to steal your money, deceive you, perhaps inseminate your daughter, wife, or god-forbid your son. After all, who wishes for any of that? But still, the question asks itself, "Who would want to be a Gypsy?"

I can venture to answer: those who preserve very old traditions. They don't -choose- it, they respect it because it is theirs. If the exonym can be reconciled to perhaps the gentler Adsincani, we could speculate that their traditions and customs are vestiges of a much older world than our European Asian American one.

It doesn't take a stretch of debate to introduce the thievery and trickery. However, when you're one of a group of people whom most others view as beyond subhuman -- nay demonic -- it would seem more acceptable to go ahead and work the minds and the fears of The Haves against them. After all, we can't take anything with us. Part of me admires this noble savagery. It's a romance of an outsider, and surely the practicalities would offend my mild sensibilities, but the ethos of it seems to make more sense than the bloody bacchanalia Caligula conducts on Wall Street each weekday.

Sadly, the junky of the western world has less of a heritage to stead him. He's left alone at best and rehabilitated at worst. There is a junky ethos. It's the purest variety, a prelapsarian innocence of nature and animal, beast and man. The perversion lay in the manipulation of resource to the end of collecting the most standardized commodity. No, I'm not speaking of sex or real estate, but currency. If every yuppie popped into Starbucks, and every blue collar into their Dunkin Poppies in the morning for their constitutional we'd see the violence, the exploitation, the wars, and the lies dissipate. Only recently, within the past 150 years or so have we been to righteous to claim that Bartenders with their alchohol (and it has had its own character dissected) and Doctors with their pharmaceuticals have the piety to serve these tonics.

"Opium is mentioned in the most important medical texts of the ancient world, including the Ebers Papyrus and the writings of Dioscorides, Galen, and Avicenna." ‡

I've heard it supposed that the great architectural wonders of Egypt were moved by the men in a Pascalian Army fed on a nectar of poppy blood. I've heard a lot of things, but I'm more prone to share what I've seen. When fruits aren't forbidden, they lose a bit of the sexual lustre that illuminates them and draws the hand. When we can learn to tolerate that nature is nature, and nature is never wrong, we may finally accept that narcotics are a force majeure. Take that to court in any philosophical justice and invite me to bear expert witness.

Stealing is wrong. It negates the natural sense that the Universe is as it should be and we as actors in it are playing our parts well. Murder is a transgression that has precipitated societies to murder their murderers; a paradox in plain light. Rape is an opportunistic predation that takes from the most beautiful, fair, and gentle their freedom to grow, to love, and to share. Financial and more abstract crimes are no less significant, though the smoke and mirrors, the language and imaginary entities protect in proxy the men who perpetrate enormous covetousness, stealing, and false witness. These men are the most loathesome of all, and their psyches get the sexual high from getting over the walls built to keep the great unwashed out. We all pay; this I know. There is no cheating the muse. It cannot be done.

So where do we place our gypsy junkie thieves? Do we deport them to uncolonized islands to determine the level of threat established societies may pose to further exploitation through guns, germs, and steel? That hardly seems fair. No self-respecting Juif would tolerate sharing one of the Nazi's death machines with such a goyish jeer.

Perhaps, I propose, they possess a history and a vision. They carry with them a talent and a code that we may learn well from. The old expression, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." Which of our accessable learning institutions offer the Adsincani tradition, the lore, the art and the ceremony? I find snippets and bickerings, but not one example of a credible first-hand account of the experience. The junkie culture in the Americas alone has a broad spectrum of subcultures, leaving out the consideration of the European, Asian, and Africa.

At this point, dear reader, I'll apologize for the grandstanding and defending the loathesome. Really my aim is to inspire just one reader to consider that even the most feared man has a heart, appetites, fears, hopes, and loves. Along with that a divine art communes us all, and when we seek to decypher and appreciate it we gain from it. We gain humility and the ability to alleviate pain and solitude.

Magical thinking is the only putty I know of that can fill in the fissures between the atoms, the gaps between the protons, the voids between the stars, and the seeds and eggs between the legs. Love will conquer fear all times. We are all felt alone at times, and we are all never more loved at others. We get the breath we breathe, the skin we spin, and the water we are. Threats are not weapons. Honesty counters threats quite well. So, my friends, my junkies, my gypsies, my priests, rabbis, and soldiers; even my temple money changers and the tax man: I love you. What more have you got?

‡ Please see the sources for http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opium

Coda Novo

Don't fight him, the thought to himself. He'll wear himself out. Play the rope-a-dope; when he can't breathe he'll be all ears. The punches landed quietly on his arms and elbows, and he pulled his abdomen. He could hear the quiet roar of the lights, the silky sweat and vaseline and the taste of metallic wax in his mouth. Not so bad for now. Soon enough it will be time. They can't go on forever. Forever passed and he could sense that the bull of a man was unsure of his work. The natural confidence fed him security. That security was a lie.

"I'm a razor," he claimed. He slid right and hooked the cocky bastard in the temple. Bouncing back off the rope, he outstretched a pissed off right. Naturally he gave him a left in the side and pushed off of him and around. Now he was free, light, and fast. He tapped the elbow and as the body spun around clockwise he wound counterclockwise. He connected with a leading chin and knew with the cleanness of the snap that his opponent was neutralized. Somehow the brain let the rote reaction through and the equal rode the spell through. He was tired, and drunk from that blast and had misspent his ferocity on the wall the razor had made.

The razor was in a surreal realm of his own. That wall wasn't without it's price. His organs, though purged of their routine duties by adrenaline were making desperate negotiation with each other. The mind of the razor knew his heart and allowed it to lead for a while. The bell rang and he shuffled over to the southeast corner. His ears rung and echoed the bell. The towel served to even out the silk, saturated and soft. When the time was up, he was going to end this thing. "Just be -you-!" Bill told him. Bill knew who was in charge of the fight.

Time and he walked calmly to the spot. Glove and back off. He let his man sink himself. Around and around he trotted. It was the easy move. It let them come back, recenter, and bank some energy. Geometry was prominent in his pummeled psyche. He saw the triangle of the shoulders and sternum and pushed around to tap it. In being too nonchalant, he caught two quick lefts and missed his fish. Never underestimate, he remembered, but do what needs doing.

His man got bold and aggressive and the razor let a big right swing past and brought his own into the center of the chest. He could feel the air leaving as he pushed his fist through and he sprayed bloody spit as the energy echoed up his own frame. Quick enough it was back where he needed it and his left let the man know it was time to try again. He saw the pain and anger in his eerie blue eyes and closed them with a well constructed right. The man went down on his ass. The fight was over.

"You are going to lose big if you keep that bullshit up," Bill scolded him. He smiled. "I'm trying to tell you something, man, and you think it's cute! You'll end up on the wrong side of it. Believe me, I'm serious."

The shower felt cold even though he knew it was hot by the steam. The oil would take like 3 days to come out. They had some nice soap in the bag though. Some nice smelling soap. The smell made him think of hay and saffron. Like some kind of curried grass that was washed in the ocean. He felt satisfied. His body hurt. The blood made the back of his throat itch. He shot out bloody clots from his nose.