pomes in new era time

"A poem can act as a spell & vice versa--but sorcery refuses to be a metaphor for mere literature--it insists that symbols must cause events as well as private epiphanies. It is not a critique but a re-making. It rejects all eschatology & metaphysics of removal, all bleary nostalgia & strident futurismo, in favor of a paroxysm or seizure of presence."
-Hakim Bey, Sorcery

slice of life or occam's nib pen, the written word has much power to influence the ways we percieve and think about the world we live in, especially the age old art of poetry, which even today still continues to be a valid and valuable discourse on the state of humanity and where we might go next. On one hand it allows us to draw startling and worldly conclusions from the smallest moments, the ripples of a stone skipped across a pond, and on the other continues a lively discourse between those few sould who continue to stand on the shoulders of giants and reach even further for the stars.

last night I had the fortune of stumbling upon "You've a Nail," (caution, .pdf), the chapbook of wu, of mutato nomine recently printed on Lulu.com and spent most of the wee hours of the morning stumbling through this twisted and often abstractadly lucid one man's map of whatever god this is we call reality. I doubt that much I can say will really do it justice, so download the .pdf yourself (or better yet support an artist and by the sucker!) and form your own opinion.

but of course since I was in the middle of another insomniacal manic binge I coldn't help but forming my own the following poetic ramble:

Override
for wu

3:33
Another smoke curls
digital morning tea leaves
in a stranger's chapbook.
Somewhere fingers
wander alpha-numeric
replies that may never come,
home away from home away from
home.

- Where are you?

Jacket torn off the hook
dangles imperceptable
filaments raw and rerouted
to flatline buzztone crickets
and occasional drunken doppler.

No answers in the machine
roll under cracked date palms
tonight, the heart is just a muscle,
infamous in lack of metaphorical content
and unable to keep a steady beat:
a vice grip with your name on it
twisting lemons for tularemia.
Keep lurching interweb alleyways
like there was a roadmap of God
in some deadend bitrot dumpster.

- Stars? What stars?

Anywhere is not a place
to forget you're never alone.