At the Limits of Unsaying

At the limits of unsaying, where multiplying words full silent, I find God and the body – my body – God becoming Body – unsayable and unthinkable – an affirmation that turns negation around on itself saying the divine unsayability, giving itself as if to be said, while eluding the language in its presence.  The beautiful body is apophatic, at once overfilling and overspilling the event of its manifestation.  The body     the benjamin body     the divine body.  I like and love the body.  God becomes most apophatic, most boundary-burstingly unsayable.  I’m returning to the body: I’m returning to a copy of the body outside myself: my self to God.
But if submitted with resignation, not the less I searched for the unsearchable – sometimes in Arab Deserts, sometimes in the Sea moving of execution
At that Word
Oh, Apostanate!  That hastest death, and chaseth from the pollution of sorrow
Oh sweep away, Angel with Angelic scorn, the dogs that come with curious eyes to gaze
People are so obsessed with the surface that they can’t see the connections, but they are there.
Everything connects.  Everything leads to everything else.

I listen to Sun Ra.
They talkin’ about nuclear war
It’s a motherfucker don't you know
If they push that button, your ass must go
They’ll blast you so high in the sky
You’ll kiss your ass goodbye
Radiation, mutation
Hydrogen bombs, atomic bombs
What you gonna do without your ass?
(We’re all fucked except not it’s probably climate change.  Do I take my writing too seriously or not seriously enough?  Ladies and gentlemen, please don’t associate me with any of this – this is not jazz.  These are sick people.  Jazz is sick.  I love the sickness.  Jazz sickness.


Not by might and not by power but by my spirit – says Yahweh Saboath

Might

I murmur might softly, enmeshed in mirror nets nude nests, and I name naked: naked mind nude message.  Might masts most moods, red and blue, and I beat my breast begging God safety and solace, but nets jettison my soul sonorous thunder, the thinking thinning my skin.

Power

Power punches and pushes: power pumps and pistons, packing pure lure punk, the pretty person in pink pissing on my carcass.  My carcass and cask lacks power, plucked from knowledge needy knuckles striking skull after skull, and I listen violent vision.  I liaison bloody dreams damn and doom, lifted into outer darkness.

Spirit

Spirit, spark the spell spelling anything: Spirit, spoil spool the spawn of letters lashed to hidden divine names, and the spirit loosens me loser closer to Adversary.  Spirit, save: spirit, sage from my sorrowful saga, and I sacrifice my self to gods and God.


It is only in language that the subject has its site and origin.  The language disappears.  The language disappears at site and origin, and I disappear in the language.  What is this language: the God language and Christina language, lost lingua and I loose tongues, and the tongue topples and twos, and I disappear in linguistic scripture.


In the world of ancient Near East, the gods demonstrated their power of the world not by creating matter but by fixing destinies: so the essence of the bara which God performs in Genesis concerns bringing “Heaven and Earth” (a set phrase meaning everything) into existence by organizing and assigning roles and functions.  In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth; during the beginning of God creating Heave and Earth… Perhaps as a writer, I bring nothing into existence but only organize the existing elements.  When in the beginning God created the heavens and the earth was untamed and shapeless.  The Sons of God sang when the cornerstone of creation was laid.

There was a musician once who came up to Miles and said:  Miles, you’re my man!  But that new shit you're into, I just can’t get into it!  And Miles answered, Should I wait for you?  My writing transforms into new shit: literal new shit, maybe!  But I’m having fun for the first time in a long time.  Stay there and don’t follow these motherfuckers.  Bitches Brew has a kind of searching quality because Miles was in the process of discovering this new music and developing it.  The writing has a searching quality because I’m in the process of discovering the writing.  The underlying unity of earth, sky, divinities, and mortals – the simple oneness of the four – the fourfold – the transformed notion of the world.


All collecting was marked by curiosity, shading into credulity, and by some universal underlying design.  I collect texts.  I collect Books and Bibles.  My Book accumulates text: the collection of texts.  I admit I do not always know what to do with the texts: I struggle with the texts and I struggle with the Book.  I wrestle wit hteh Book as I wrestle with God (strange repetition: acute repetition).  But I am always curious about God (I who am curious am not curious about God.  I am curious about God and texts, and God becomes a text: in the beginning was the Word.  His specialty was repair congenital anomalies, cleft lip and palates, and club foot; he also collected medical oddities, tumors, anatomical and pathological specimens, wet and dry preparations, wax models, plaster casts, and illustrations of medical deformities.  I collect Adam and Adon; I collect Adam Kadmon and dam.  The Body bold and the Body brilliant.  I return to my collection of bodies, bodies as texts, bodies as commonplace Books, bodies as remix tapes and mix tapes (the Book is the mix tape and the remix of the mix tape).  Is this a return or a renewal?  The renewal of the text.  I realize at some point:  I don't care if the writing is good (although I do care), but I care about the acting of writing itself as a thearpy and medical intervention.  The Word from the beginning is therapeutic.


Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.  I believe in the Book!  I believe in the Body.  I believe in the Above and Below.  Yahweh, help my unbelief.  Such as the Father is; such is the Son; and such is the Holy Ghost. The Father uncreated; the Son uncreated; and the Holy Ghost uncreated. The Father unlimited; the Son unlimited; and the Holy Ghost unlimited. The Father eternal; the Son eternal; and the Holy Ghost eternal. And yet they are not three eternals; but one eternal. As also there are not three uncreated; nor three infinites, but one uncreated; and one infinite. So likewise the Father is Almighty; the Son Almighty; and the Holy Ghost Almighty. And yet they are not three Almighties; but one Almighty. 


We’re in the most extreme and utter region of the human mind, a dim subconscious of the underworld.  A radiant abyss where men meet themselves.  Hell… we’re in Hell.  Hell the hodgepodge and tapestry of quotations, a thin tissue curtailing the Book.  I flutter these fragments: Hell fragments and Heaven fragments fragged the force and filament full texture and full tissue: my human tissue, stacked papers and notebooks.


Writing becomes archaeology.  Writing becomes discovery.

Benjamin antiquarian (we speak from facts not theories.  Systemic collection of all relics.  Systemic collections of all relics from the past.


Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief.  So the Father is God; the Son is God; and the Holy Ghost is God. And yet they are not three Gods; but one God. So likewise the Father is Lord; the Son Lord; and the Holy Ghost Lord. And yet not three Lords; but one Lord.  The Father is made of none; neither created, nor begotten. The Son is of the Father alone; not made, nor created; but begotten. The Holy Ghost is of the Father and of the Son; neither made, nor created, nor begotten; but proceeding. 

here are knives that glitter like altars in a dark church where they bring the cripple and the imbecile to be healed.  Knives name: knives name naked and nude, sharp to the skin.  Knives comb compact over the cusp, the curl of hair and horror.  I save the blade succinct: I calm the blade cool and cold, and she glitters the girl for sacrifice.  She glitters Shekinah in the dust, and the Church craves Christina.  The church dark dreams diminution, the shadow and reflection of the moon, and the mirrored shine shares light, a holy healing wholly healing.

Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief.  So there is one Father, not three Fathers; one Son, not three Sons; one Holy Ghost, not three Holy Ghosts. And in this Trinity none is before, or after another; none is greater, or less than another. But the whole three Persons are coeternal, and coequal. So that in all things, as aforesaid; the Unity in Trinity, and the Trinity in Unity, is to be worshipped


Taryn’s white body, her rough surface that reflects all incident rays completely and uniformly in all directions.  Taryn’s silver body, her moon body, and her seas reflect all sun’s and son’s rays completely and uniformly in all directions.  Her direction is the Desert.  I enter the Desert Often.

I struggle with Christianity.  I’m reluctant to call myself a Christian because what passes as Christianity ignores social justice and egalitarianism.  I’m discouraged with Christianity.

Taryn psychotasia and kerotasia.  She weighs my lives in the balance; she weighs my fates in the balance.

Benjamin Horned God KRYSXTRYN Triple Goddess / union of animal and divine.  Sun God     Sacrificed God     Vegetation God the personification of the life force energy in animals and the wild.  In the name of the Lady of the Moon and the Horned God of Death and Resurrection.


Yahweh I’m not sure what’s happening right now: another transformation?  My writing returns to catalogue and library: the archive and I love the archive.  The Book and the Archive are one.  The Book and the Library are one.

Then they devoted to destruction by the edge of the sword all in the city, both men and women, young and old, oxen, sheep, and donkeys.

Devote me to deconstruction: destroy me in darkness: I die exiled in the desert forty days forty years attached to my flesh, and manna extends the death.  End me by the edge of the Spirit: Spirit spears sword sinister, left-handed judge and justice, and I'm judged severely and righteously.  I judge joined to death.  Despair decides to death, a division and divide.