Excerpt from Untitled 15th Book (And When Jesus Saw)

And when Jesus saw that he answered discreetly, he said unto him, Thou art not far from the Kingdom of God. And no man after that durst ask him any question. I feel unnear to the Kingdom. The Kingdom crows at a length, and this length lords light over me, a littling darkness, a deep darkness, a darkness that drives e out in the dessert. I feel far from the Kingdom, my flesh in repetition to the darkness, and I contemplate the darkness. Through contemplation, dark kingdom, dark Kindred, Krystal to my darkness, and I search for Jesus. I search for his body, his flesh, his physicality, my wounds matching his wounds. My wounds match his wounds in darkness, in desert, and the desert never leaves me. The Kingdom and the desert intertwine and twin, twisted sisal rope reaping from end to end. Jesus sees me: Jesus saw me: Jesus saws me in half, two halves of the covenant, and I make a pact compact to Christianity. The writing renews me: the scripture revives with each repetition, and writing repeats sacred repetition the seasons. Thai writing reinvents but repeats, a repetition of the invention, an invitation to the Kingdom; Kingdom cocoons creativity, a catalyst for transformation, and the Christian desert purifies me. The desert Kingdom crucifies me discreetly, a secret stigmata, and I wash my wounds in the blood of Jesus. I cleanse my cataracts in the cataracts deep calling to deep, deep darkness, and my contemplation always darkens: moonlight night, new moon light, night sacred and night discreet, always in the secret of the night (dark night of the soul: dark night of the body: dark night of my breath, and I breathe the bounty of the belly of the whale. I breathe the burden beneath the great fish. Fish reflects light, light into the eyes hallucinating Philip K. Dick, and light into the alloy and hypostasis of Christ. Kingdom devours and eats: Kingdom chews and consumes. Kingdom blots out my Church with bruises and blood, and Church challenges and confronts. Church, Kingdom, and Desert trine, triclaves triplets and Trinity. I enter desert without question: I enter Kingdom with no questions.

And Jesus answered and said, while he taught in the Temple, how say the scribes that Christ is the Son of David? Answer anew from the realm of the Desert: renew the answer in the jaw of the ant lion and the teeth of the young lion, and the desert pit where mandibles make a mockery of humanity: nevertheless, I enter into the desert. I make haste to the monastery and its monastic mother chambers me in the prayer labyrinth. I slowly walk the labyrinth as I slowly walk the desert. I slowly walk the labyrinth as I slowly walk the prayer garden. Walk this womb of Woman, Benjamin, and be born again. Be born from above a Son of Christ and a Son of David. I feel myself as a Son and sometimes a daughter, but always a brother and sister, and the brothers and sisters of Christ search for him. The brothers and sisters of Jesus speak not understanding as holy mother and sacred siblings, but sibling as a scribe. I scribe writing of the desert and visions from the monastery. The monastery is seven sisters and seven volcanos, and their magma matures the melt, and I melt into the majesty of the Godhead.

For David himself said by the Holy Ghost, the LORD said to my Lord, sit though on my right hand, till I make thine enemies thy footstool. Benjamin Son of David, Son of Judah, Son of Seth: Benjamin Son of Saul, Son of Reuben, Son of Cain: Son to all souls and seeds. Son to all seeds, the seed of Seth and the seed of Serpent, my mirage and mirror of mixed multitude and Messiah. My sonship – an adopted Son through Christ to Abba, Father. My sonship soars Coltrane’s Sun ship, exceed and overlapping the binaries, an altered and alto altissimo, and the son stretches and snaps. The Son and Daughter stretch and drop adopted through Christ-Christina, and the Divine extinguishes difference through Eucharist. The Divine divers destroys as a dive, diluting none diversity but the nothing nixes and nyxes, the night. The night renews Holy Ghost and Holy Ghost possesses a Son (I feel a Son and often remain a son) of a United Methodist and a son of Episcopalian, and a Son of a Roman Catholic. I son sons and the son of my offspring, Solomon together Absalom. By the Holy Ghost the Woman appears to me as a Wesleyan; by the Holy Ghost I become an Inquirer of the Order of St. Luke, and a Camoldese Benedictine postulant of the Monastery of the Risen Christ. Holy Ghost dunes: Holy Ghost drums and drascles the Taryn Trance, a shaman speed. Holy Ghost drips grit and grass, the glass glowing, and ghost grounds the Artist, Healer, and Prophet / Advocate, Nurse, and Seer, and I see the Past placed in the Present, narrative netting narratives, and Holy Ghost experiences. Holy Ghost exudes experience, the experience of every person and the LORD says to my Lord is KRYSXTRYN says to the Woman, and she says Writer and Word. She says Lord and Logos. The Lord said to my Lord: have Benjamin prophesy. Have Benjamin scribe. Benjamin laws his lawlessness, a Christ-Christina covenant. KRYSXTRYN says to the Woman: have Benjamin heal healer and heal Christ, a Christ to a Christ cloistering Christina. I sit in the butter of my oblation and I burn the blunt of burnt offerings. I sit the oblation of my Om, Aphex Acid Coltrane, and lip lectio divina (Lord open my lips, and my mouth shall proclaim your praise). I lip psalms and Divine Office (Lord, Come to my assistance: make haste to save me). I sit in the sistera, my sister with stones, and I cind a circle in the desert drama. I sit my threat at the throne, and the hand holds my hip in the desert dance. Desert dispels my enemies in earnest, and I heap hot coals on their heads, a purgatorial piece and peace towards reconciliation.

Excerpt from Untitled Book #15 (Search Sheets of Sound)

Search sheets of sound and Coltrane changes. Search sound swells and Coltrane collision. I’m always searching: I search for that silent storm streaming God and Godhead, Christ and Christina. I nurse the search. I nurse midnight and matins, and I pray furiously and fervently the psalms as arranged by St. Benedict. I nurse close and compline, and the Book of Common Prayer peeks peaks prodding my contemplation. Dig in the dirt, Benjamin: be depths dirty hands hazed into the holy. So I dig and I’m not sure what I’m digging for, but I find fragments of fossils and dinosaur bones: I find the skulls of giants, and his spearhead speaks as a cudgel. The song Digging Up Bones by Randy Travis echoes through my own skull: tonight I’m sitting alone digging up bones, and I clip modal to my childhood. Childhood curls Stravinsky assembling his serial compositions / Threni and Agon Trinity and the den, a dark dwelling. I nurse in darkness and I write in darkness, the distortion and density of the last My Favorite Things.

I always return to John Coltrane; I’ve always to capture his music in language (an impossibility): the language that laughs snow and rain, the language that unravels as a musical scroll, heavens partings, and fiery chariots descend, triplet figures from Symphony of Psalms. The written language musters and mustards musical, permutation and combination, the spellwork in improvisation. I improvise closer to the Godhead: I write and prophesy close closet to Christ – Repent, the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand. Repeat, the Kingdom of God surrounds as music, air vibrations and aether visions. The piano drops out and Elvin Jones thrashes polyrhythms. I do not have writer’s block but I fear writing. I fear it will lack beauty. The goal to write: Beauty? The clanging assonates and alliteration sparking stones to star flesh and spell work? No: the goal to write: prophesy. Son of Man, open your mouth and eat what I give you. Eat the Divine Office and the Rule of St. Benedict. Eat scripture: the law, the prophets, the gnostics. Eat epistle and gospel and revelation. I eat Word as Eucharist. I eat language as fiery tongues french kissing Taryn. Eat and write, even the boredom and ugliness: the prophecy will beautify it. The prophecy will make its mercy mercurial and miraculous. Write your life and your living: write through scripture as Lectio Divina. Pray the mystery of Matins. Laugh Lauds and Vision Vespers. I always return to John Coltrane: I listen to his furious and frantic soprano saxophone solo from Afro-Blue Live in Japan. I move through the alterations as an altar, and I reconsecrate this Temple. The Temple is my body, and this body prays and writes. This Temple improvises its liturgy through prayers and the written. Offering: Live at Temple University. Those paragraphs and my block chords planing in fourths and fifths.

Excerpt from Untitled Book #15 (Benjamin, prophesy:)

Benjamin, prophesy: Benjamin, write. Prophesy Ghosts: First Variation and Ghosts: Second Variation. Prophesy Spirits and Vibrations. And I prophesy that saxophone solo, the vision vibrato: and I write that timeless free-time, propulsive pulse and pulse heart locomotion. I search for new sounds. I search for new grass, music as the healing force of the universe. I search for new writing the local is universal, and Benjamin begets Godhead begets Benjamin. Son of Man, Human One of Human One. Benjamin Human One: Benjamin Adam Kadmon: Benjamin as above so below, and I crop in the crow the birdsong cinching strange alchemy and strong alchemy, an alternation and alteration the altar where God lay. Benjamin Christina Christ Alpha and Omega, beginning and ending man with woman, a magick music marking and mimicking moment miraculous. Spirits rejoice: saints join the antiphon and rejoinder. I search new there’s nothing new under the son I search new. I search new to renew and refresh. John Coltrane listening to John Gilmore. John Coltrane listening to Albert Ayler. Far Out: the New Thing. The New Thing at Newport. Nevertheless, I write: I play. I write the improvisation and I improvising the play. Sometimes the new skills subtle as a serpent crafting compositions. Sometimes the new transfers transfiguration, the figure of the human one scattering much seed, and the seed attaches to my sinews and grafts God as an olive branch branching branches. Benjamin branch beer bear beautiful and write beatific and beatitudes. Write the exaltation and exoricism of experience. Search sheets of sound and Coltrane Changes.