Koagulation of Love in a Minor Key of Redemption

Koagulation of Love in a Minor Key of Redemption:
Will the K Fok of Corn Flakes be Announced:
A turd of Ku once to the 3rd and diminished in a minor 7 relative
to the instigation of love itself:
Or merely
dig
dug
to the transcendent Ku.

1. A Pagan’s Te Deum

The scene of the crime always littered with clues.

Some may even considered the brain scatting high wire flagellation of love in guise of a poem to be the paragon of permutations – a mind twisting – instigation of jAz po ology.

The jAz poem by the jAz Mu ologist Neorotica Namaya was displayed at the Gallery, the oohs and ahhhs of his verbal and textual prestidigitation was unprecedented, no creases, no folds or wrinkles, it was a smooth canvas sail of images tightly stretched by the nor easter of his ever fulminating fulminations. Gaseous some might say! Flatulent! Though Namaya, ever a transcendentalist, engaged in the trance and the dance of Ku, kwa, ki kooo bop and the other 56 and a half colors of the phonic lexicon of the keys of Love.

Clanging, changling, chingling, and the gate keepers in the guise of a tranny with a predeliction for leather opened the room.

I thought she was an angel, said the poet. Then she ravished me, lubed me with every ounce of lasciviousness, but not an iota of concern for my virile beauty, instead she squeezed ever errant Mu, Ku, Kwa, Ki, and vagrant diode of phonic assonance from my soul. I was flopping fish milked for my eggs – Or in this case for my pearls of Mu, Ku, Kwa, and Ki.

She had a little stove in the corner, changed into a cliché of a French maid, pumps, aprons and all – whipped up a soufflé of vowels and purring permutations of luscious lilac fragranced reveries.

I was bound by straps. Naked, on a bed of broken dreams, if I turned too far to the right or left, one shard dug into my side, a thorn, as he was pierced with the Roman’s spear, eyes to heaven, realizing the terror – no god, no past, no redemption,
and though glass can be recycled – our humanness demands ash to bone, earth, mingled in the refuse, broken, but in that moment… Belzubah dressed as the whore tossed the soufflé with the caress of a mother to a new born child.

The moment we are born we are torn from the womb of the dreaming ocean.

We are killing the dreaming ocean – Gaia mother – dreaming – love—and lying naked.

She knelt down and fed me a spoonful of water. Vegetable brain soup, indeed.

The concordance of love in the concupiscent intersection of time. E M I T alluring T I ME turned backwards is a beam to E M I IT to EMOTE - E Tome. Strange that an E
Tome is a tone poem.

Drunk with ku in an insidious state of nu, entre nu, a perfectly intimate state. On the stage alone with my words, that seem to have separated into their own reverie

The terror of love is a far more compelling argument


2. More Arguments with God

god and I were making passionate hip stirring, soul vibrating eXtatic love as the pink blue light rose across the Eastern sky. we were shacked up and nestled between two palm trees on the north shore of Kauai. The hammock was rocking and swaying in the morning wind.
Though she looked from all appearance as an island girl, beneath the foaming waves of concupiscence and love divine, in our wordless Ontological rocking, seeking the union of
Shiva and Shakti,
“Shimmy shake and co co bop, my love.

But she was wordless in the conventional sense; nevertheless, all my arguments with god, the audacity to question, was subsumed as the morning rose across the ocean.
We laid back in the hammock nestled into each others arms and watched the storms and clouds and burgeoning sun argue with each other

I need to kick in the gates of heaven. Instead found consonance in our love making by the ocean

Consonance.


3. Art and the invincibility of Love:

Art that soothes and comforts.
Oral Sex in a hammock, a Maraguerita in one hand, the languid dreams of July are rolling by in a cloud, a yellowing sumac leaf seems to stay aloft forever.
The slow climaxing of two virgins in heat rock the hammock. We roll down the grassy slope to the pond. In the high grass we made love with savage hopefulness, 69 as the transcendent value, if that is not the quintessential prime number, then we are not a culture engaged in revelation.
Fuk sake! The poet maybe finally on to something. Is that clock broken again? Twice a day – right again – more than Bush in 8 years savage bungling.
A culture not engaged in revelation, eXtasy and the journey to the dog god Sirrus disguised as God.
A culture that is not engaged in eXtacy is one that is engaged in its own annihilation.
In a solitary orgasm, clitoris erect, moist with expectation, salvation
Two lovers, long legs splayed akimbo to the sun, rolling and tussling while the sun and shadow played amongst the maple trees.

We keep waiting for God, hoping that she will step off of the cross town bus.


4. Brothers and sisters:

Crazy! Fuk no!

YOU ARE THE OUTLIERS. YOU ARE DREAMERS. YOU ARE THE EXTATIC POETS. YOU ARE HYPERACTICVE> UNABLE TO FIT INTO THE NORMATIVE WORLD>

They will give me disability for hearing voices.
But they won’t give me a monthly stipend as poet.
They will pay me to keep the voices medicated.

I will gladly take your money, pretend that my divine attunement, my attention to the language of angels and demons is a disability. It is not, I simply need to pay attention when I cross the road. Look right and left. And that is ALL perfectly wonderful. To wind up as a grease spot on the grill of a dodge truck is as ordinary as Gaudi was divine in his vision. He should have been more attentive.

God spoke. He listened. The carriage was conversing with the road.

5. eXtacy: The Journey Again

I am an eXtatic person living in a non eX Tatic world. A world, rightly or wrongly, more concerned about static cling and the statistical necessity of war.

X marks the spot, right there in the space of your deepest longing.

The Stasi were the East German secret police. Heavily starched briefs gives the needed support to the state power structure, but the STATE of POETICS killed by its own narcissism, addiction to prosody, verse, nicities--- well starched BVDs and poems in America have a growing commonality: Well creased and ironed. Augusto Pinochet poured into his uniform every day

I don’t flog the conformist, though they should be, I’m too busy -- enchanted and eXtatic. My pain is my separation from the dreaming ocean of reverie

Academic verse, is eXtacy in reverse, screaming fearful, obese, flatulent and waddling towards oblivion.

Quack said the clack with obsequious genuflection. Car insurance and personal assurance, has a greater ascendant value than the language of eXtacy and revelation

Imagine living without fear?

Imagine attuned to the whispering of the divine?
A stalk of green dreaming the earth, piercing the earth, thirsty for the sun and the imperative for air?

Watching a line of cars caught in a traffic jam for several miles on Monday morning, each person tuned in to a radio, cd, cellphone, planning the day, SUV with two hundred horse power ready to roar in the opposite direction of eXtatic revelation. So many beautiful men and women, children too, collared into the uniformity of social control and making that Do Re Mi.
Rake in the dough. Buy more shit. Deeper in debt. Rake in more dough. Watch ` the yeasty condition rise in the dough pan. More fat, more dough.

Fat people do not make revolutions. Michael Moore aside. Fat people can’t waddle eXtatically and storm the gates of heaven

I will always storm the gates of heavens

Keep the pernicious vices to a mild roar. The vices that bring you true eXstacy
liberal doses

Okay, so what if you’re not attuned to a cosmic frequency?

Take one minute to watch a flower growing in the garden?
Rip off your shirt and stand under a downpour.
Allow a piece of dark Belgian chocolate to melt on your tongue?
Walk naked through the garden of your imagination.
Howl with glee at the new dawning moon.
Or turn off every noise, beeping buzzing intrusion, and listen to the quietude.

Astonish your soul!

Jiggle. Wiggle. Piggle and Po
Tuuuu. Pooooo. Zozzzzz. Zeeezzz and Xhen.
In the Kingdom of Xanadu where King of Ku
ku blai khan was the hippest koolest cat
who was kogitating on K ching!

The euphonious rifting of
KC and the Sunshine band.

More love and hope, more redemption than window pane, blotter acid,
or Sunshine itself.
Oswald the Magic Hatter willing to kick open the doors of Paradise – well, at least
to allow a ray of light through the bathroom window.


6. War Against eXtacy

A tribe called Love

In the West the creeping pernicious insanity is the war against the exTatic celebration. Not just the giddy, shaking your booty, and dancing naked in your mad love for the divine; but the
e XortatioN
eXALTATION

to live your life with a profound intentionality.

Unblocked by fear of the X tatic what would you create in your life?
What would be the extraordinary instigation of madness that would suffuse and inspire the soul

p.s.
my soul is opening a window

The Ku Ology of Love in an Existential Key that guarantees no exit:

Introduction

Om, mani padmi Ku, Om mani pad mi kum,

om mani padmi kum,

Kwam, Kwam. Kwam. Kwam. Om Mani Padmi

kumm

Om. mani padmi katti kati Om. Om mani padmi

kati Me. Ka Me. Ka Me Om. Om Mani Om Mani

Love. Love. Ka. Ka Mi. Ka Ma. Ommm Kammma

Kamma Om. Ommmani padd mi kaddmi

ommm.

Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku KuOm Kap kaddda

omn.

KuoooooO. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love Kamma

Love kamma mu. Love kamma mu. Love kamma

kamma. love kamma kamma mu.

l.

don’t worry, this

won’t be some far out

instigation of madness, some

meandering words that

vanish in a sentence or

leaves us dumbfounded

and flottering on the flotilla

of irrationality,

flumfloxed by vowels and

consonants that

refuse to behave in the rise,

fall, declination

and the silences that occur

between each note

in the key of Ku.

Jazz has become excessively

addicted to rationality,

a victim of its success and

its failure to venture

into the key of Ku.

Flats? Sharps? Minor chords

that lead to a window,

an insight.

In the key of Ku the obvious

would be that there is

a Kool Olgy, mentholated of course,

since all Jazz Kats and Kitties

aspire to some degree

of hip step kool.

2. Be Bop: the Cool Bee Bop Thrill of Ku ology

The Ku of Kuology

Kool ology is something like Be bop blues

descending once to the minor

key of ku

transposed to a sixth

A… P!

Not just your ordinary sloppy pea

hanging out on the edge of your

fork waiting for the buttery comfort of

mashed potatoes:

No,

ordinary Peas in a pod nor

a podunk piddly pish tosh P:

this was one who wore a high top,

spats, tails, and did a two step

while rap tapping of the sixth suavely

opened the door to T hanging out

on the 9th of T. Curious, how a ninth to

the 3rd will leave you six more than

the 21st letter of the alphabet.

The Tautology of Tu tantalizing to

the tumescent reality of

Te Deum in the glorious swinging

of the 9th that rests so easily

to swinging on the saloon doors where

kUuuuu most easily hangs.

The Kutology of Ku wherever phoneme

enKapsulates the kwintissential

Konspiracy of love.

Bee Bop Blues

is transmuted to the sharps and

flats of love:

redemption:

fire!

In the inspiration and exhalation of love,

the minor rolling keys

Ku

Po

Tu

One, six, and nine with a fleeting scat

and rip tap thrill to the third.

Ku

Po

Tu

A periwinkle sagacious blue

sailing out to the

potent personal

tu.

Sotto voce, mi amour

Sotto voce.

Who could argue with perfection?

Kuology of Ku is a bee bop thrill

of words

dancing

in

the round resonant

kuuu esscence of Kool

Ku

Po

Tu

2. Kuba Libre

After all that hard voyaging on the seasons of love, there is nothing like a rum and coke,

drinking to the revolution, to the liberation of all sentient beings.

3. Kwanza KU

Ku A ba Ku A ba Ku

Ku a Baa Ku. Ku a Ba KU

Cante Libra

4. Kudos for the Kosmology of love

In the first and last syllable of

time, when god first

breathed and whispered to being

the infinite colors of

love

in a minor key

that will open

the soul to a more

profound loving.

4. Change of Profession: Ku to the Nth Degree of Love

Reverend’Jazz AKA Dr. Namaya has given notice that he will abandon his

homeopathic clinic, his avocation as a performance artist

and poet, tennis maven, humanitarian, vagabond, poseur, aspiring pimp, and the miscellaneous tasks associated…he is devoting all of his creative and professional talents to his new profession as a Ku-ologist.

In this nascent emerging field that Kombines kutaneous kumbustion,

constant kinetic motion that incorporates the 2nd law of Kosmetology

and its relationship to kosmology, kastor oil and Kastididitation and

personal flagillation of love unlimited. To paraphrase, reiterate and hold the mirror of the sainted first Bishop of Ku Olgy – the Hip Gan, “Dig infinity.”

“But Rev’jAz what of your parishioners? Oued Kirk? Isn’t this your chapel?

Isn’t redemption worth more than the price of bread? What of the salvation of the A minor, the comforting kind of words that leads to a narrative, and the chambered nautilus of desire?”

The Rev reported to have said, “Ïbbbidy bibbiddy bop.”

Appointments are available on request at 1 800 Ku Ology. Of course needing

to find the right band frequency of Ku is imperative. You Kan NOT, even

hope to wander in the klinik or Kuerk of Ku without some earned karma. To be an initiate in the Kingdom of Ku one must first speak some basic Ku.

One Kan not enter into the Kingdom without some kind of Klue, key or kwaint kombination of Kuessence.

Reverend jazz will abandon his profession! Dr.Namaya will fall away in the Ku essence of words and sounds:

K falling,

Ku whispering

of Kacophony

Ku Ology

The Rev and Doc will fuse to a new identity Ku as the kwintissentially Koolest KuOlogist of Love.

But Rev’what exactly is kuology and one of your verbal presdigitation?

Ku is the indefatigable derrigible that sails serenely in the face of such maddeness.

Konnaissaince? Por Que Pas! In the kingdom of Ku there are Mu and Loos, secret potties that lead to the chamber KaKaphony, where Karping Karp o philiaXs, Kopulate at noon in the Kwiet river of Kwai. It is better for kwiet when one is communing with their kolon.

I shall not walk or tumble, find my way

Don’t fraternize with the inmates! she said. I am the Queen of Ku, what ever that fool by the name of the King should decrees it is Ka Ka Kakophony. A distant sound resounding in the far circle of hell where the K mart fled. A flatulent fleeing fleecing of sanity. All the K’s are on sale, having rowed down to aisle 3, lingerie, kitchen ware, kar parts.

Aprokrophia the Memory of Love

“I was a child and she was a child there be the kingdom of the seas…”

As a voyager I am kareful to leave bread krumbs on the trail, kasual reminders where I left all the k’s the Cu’s, the reminders of love, the sheltering and shadowy images that saunter like a mistress on Place Pigalle shaking from the jones, tubercular coughing, and mascara tearing. She was a marionette with exaggerated mascara dripping from her eyes as we parted.

I paid for the visit and we stepped inside the cubicle, the size of a confessional or a koffin depending on your perspeKtive, she was a frail, but to me a holy grail, her tubercular white skin stretched like a corpse, her blue bulging veins at the temples throbbing, needing a fix in an hour or two, bonny blue eyes that dared to look eye to eye with the black Krow, her feet filthy comme une pied noire, mais cette femme habite dan les soutterain de Paris pres de catacomb. Peut etre aprez quelle que mois elle reste ca, avec les autre que reve les memoire des autre, toujoure nous avon le memoire de soleile, le memoire de vivre, le memoire respire

Yes, I am paying, and I would like you completely undressed. Mais oui, complete, pas de vestment.

She turned the lights down, but the blue muslin curtains blew back. She was a cadaver posing as a young woman. I was a vulture posing as a saint. The stained bra thickly padded fell to the floor, flat chested as a boy. Yes, the underpants, the pelvis as clear as a skeleton in an anatomy class; black tracks on the arms, behind the legs, and speckled on the pulsing blue veins. I took my undershirt ripped it in half, dipped it into the sink, and with the shard of soap washed her slowly.

Ultimate of kinky ain’t it? I was naked sitting on a stool in a room that size of a large coffin washing Marie who was sweating and shaking simply wanting to get the 50 euros and buy a fix, but she stayed and sweated while I bathed. The other girl outside the room was shouting and screaming, “Fifteen minutes. What the fuck do you think you are – A courtesan! Get out bitch!”

I threw ten Euros out to the hallway. For a day or more, we stayed, laid naked in the room, but oddly we didn’t fuck: We sweated, puked, and cold turkeyed in the cubicle. Tout le meme. Hundreds of clients who fucked on this foam thin bed, the hundreds of hits of heroin shot up here.

A child is starving in Darfur, I’m spending a 100 euros on salvation. A 9 year girl is sold as a slave in a Mumbai brothel. A six year old black boy is working in the tiniest seam of a coal mine in Brazil; the fat rich man in Hollywood dying of loneliness, the last tree in barren north Dakota chopped down: More pain on the planet that the heart can hold in an hour.

At 3 am Marie had a seizure, the bed rattled, banging on the walls, as if some demon was trying to escape, and then she died.

I left her there on the bed, covered in the white sheet, the blue pulsing veins disappearing into the alabaster skin, the face drawn like a cadaver, she was already half way to a skeleton when I met her, now a few centimeters closer to redemption

I walked through the catacombs later that day. I snorted a bag of heroin for courage, I couldn’t take the needle, it violated my privacy and her memory. I tuckedher blouse in the crevice where two skulls met: the hollow eyed sockets peered out through

Yum manni padmi. yum mani paddmi yum yum manni paddmi yum

Yum mani padmi yum many paddmi yum manni padddi manni padmi ku

Yuman Manni padd mi Kummm. Kummm mani padmi Kum

Yo mani paddi manni kadd mi yom paddni kom many pad me kom.

Duhm

Dah

Dahm

Dahm

Dahm. Mani padmie dah mani. Mum. Mooom Mooomm Mooom paddi

yum paddi yummm, paddi, mummmmmm, paddi yummmmm, dumn paddi kom,

paddit humm

Redemption. Love. Fire.

Five votive candles in each eye socket and made a pentagram on the floor. In the five points of Kardinal love – the immutability of love or desire – each placed in the corner:

Ku to the nth

Mu in a minor key of love

Tu a transparent intimacy

jAz as Murder

Ineffable: In the effable instinct is murder

The Immutability of Murder in the House of Love:

As far as I am Koncerned she said with the well flossed vowels of the Windsors

Speaking of which for a Kommerical notice: There is a Blue Light Special at K Mart. Have you noticed how strange the customers are? Not quite from Kweens or Kondordia, the Place de Koncorde, where the Kween Herself was severed from her spinal Kord, another kord of wooden souls stacked up in the shed of karmic retribution. Innocently she said, “Eat Kake,” That begat the revolution. Did she know there was no bread in the humblest of hovels. If a gateaux would it have inspired them to nibble on toes?

IN the Konstellation of Ku, light transcendent from here a million miles up the Kolon of the Universe, with none of the charm of Kologne before of the war. Do you remember the sekret alleyways in the narrow steps that lead to the inner sanctum of the Kathedral, a winding spiral step down in to the belly of church, the Navum, where the first stone was placed. A church is kryptonite to spirituality.

If a god wanted to make a True church he would say, “In this meadow: On this field of grass: All shoes removed, all soks, all Klothes: Naked as the moment of birth. Niene de Kirke. IN truest sanitorium is Oued Kirke, Neue Kirk, all the children of Babylon gather by the river to pray and ask for redemption.

` The Anti-krist in drag comes strolling in like Marlena Detreicht in the Blue Angel; not that I didn’t not love and adore Marlena: Adolf did and why can’t I. When the allied destroyed the old Kathedral of Kologne, a thousand years of prayers fell beneath the bombs. The leaded glass with the stations of the kross, the ardor of god’s love

Om, mani padmi Ku, Om mani pad mi kum,

om mani padmi kum,

Kwam, Kwam. Kwam. Kwam. Om Mani Padmi

kumm

Om. mani padmi katti kati Om. Om mani padmi

kati Me. Ka Me. Ka Me Om. Om Mani Om Mani

Love. Love. Ka. Ka Mi. Ka Ma. Ommm Kammma

Kamma Om. Ommmani padd mi kaddmi

ommm.

Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku KuOm Kap kaddda

omn.

KuoooooO. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love Kamma

Love kamma mu. Love kamma mu. Love kamma

kamma. love kamma kamma mu.