The Poetic Self

“In the House of Afrioca, Great Otogoya sleeps.”

The poetic self, is legion.

One, mostly mutilated, prompts with pain and torture porn.
Another: morbid, purgatorial, criminal; hunts in the ever dark.
Ah Teck, filming up-skirts and pissing on feminists. Ah Teck killed by self—censorship (beware, a second coming?)

Then there’s nonsensus,
a consensus of cracked minds (and a muppet)
sucking on balloons, fucking chimpanzees, communing with decapod crustaceans.

Sometimes, the mythic ones, appear—
archangelic, aliens without genitals, conscious fractals at acid raves and ayahuasca huts.

elsewhere broods the cop: jaded, alcoholic, lonely and eating cold soba in a claustrophobic night scene from blade runner.

up there, off world, the organic occult satellite watches,
remote, complex, inaccessible.

As planet, full of foreign species collecting ancestral culture coding.

As Night Station, astral outpost, broadcast clinic, dispatching self—drones into third world soot streets and basement dance halls—tracking killers, doing drugs, talking to the dead.

Entire eras wait in mental vaults (or institutions)
in cryogenic pods, on arks building arcs, expecting new breath.

The poetic self is everywhere at once.

one thousand one hundred worlds
multiplicity / menagerie / marketplaces
nodal points sending distant signals back to he
hoping data isn’t dissolved in translation
lost to the tides of dream.

Nothing returns cohesive.

Therein lies the pain and pleasure of reconstruction.
Therein lies obsession.
That desperate work, to make the elsewhere real,
for the weariness of this world is more than one poet can bear, even though the poetic self, is legion.


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