The death of Rappel is not so much of an instant surcease, as a gradual fizzing out from the now. Over the years, as words loosen and then break away from his sensual hold on them, Sinn increasingly feels lost in the corridors of an immense maze cobbled together by the very same trails he used to know so well, remembering things. His final days though, are a tip-of-tongue experience where memories become mirages that vanish when neared.
The scythe and shroud at dusk
and the grinning countenance of bone:
the gossamer-wrapped husk
constitutes an artifact of oblivion.
The novel of his life starts to fade in the last chapter, font pixels evaporating, misting the very eyes that scan frantically to finish the book, the final paragraphs just barely discernible rows of glyphs, the erasure steady until the last page presents a frightening white vista. He walks on deeper into his final memory, the snow crunching underfoot, until even that familiar sound is replaced by the hiss of oblivion: absolute zero. Kelvin ZZZZZZZ evermore, sometimes a one. More 1’s later/earlier: sporadically; more often. Matrix of Cantor infinities.
01000010 01101001 01101110
01100001 01110010 01111001
Creatio ex nihilo —
a balloon blown from black,
one expands from zero:
the cosmos from a culdesac.
Amnesiac baseline hum,
the bell chimes, the carriage tracks.
Logic gates open and plumb;
the novel fills from clicks ‘n clacks.
Shortly thereafter . . .
the vermiform germ layers
unfold a new life.
Embryonic heart rhythmic —
the soul climbs the neural tube.
An infant reluctantly leaves his incubatory, dark warmth to enter a frightening, noisy coldness, the comforting, heart-beat tides of the maternal ocean cease, and the dryness of oxygen flow into his wailing lungs. The muffled sensory data floods into his pinkish-gray wrinkles in a curious manner, right from the first; his sensations, like his neurons, twist upon one another architecturally. Synesthesia: hearing colors or seeing music or tasting touches. The delivery room sounds red-shifted, Mother’s touch, marshmallow.
Of course, everyone experiences intersecting senses during the 49-day rebirth gauntlet, the karmic weigh-station, when the seductresses and demons cavort and affront your undead soul, probably uninitiated. However, in life-life, swirling senses are most rare.
The text of death and rebirth
spells the test on the Bardo
plane. The peaceful deities
followed short by the wrathful:
the radiant-Godhead soul —
recognize or be reborn.
Thus, Blwch makes his exit and entrance within the samsara drama.
knits the neural network strings,
Rappel’s spliced wires change like the stairs and hallways of Escher, Hogwarts: zero-gravity synapses. No lapses, all of the senses connect for unique integration of scattered input.
“Senses working overtime” — Andy Partridge
In the intrauterine clime of brine where the tiny reside, the amnion dampens sensation.
The fish gills flapping.
Napping . . .
In the belly of the whale
Sol rests for a while,
’til Leviathan expels
brightness from entrails.
┬ the space around you | ∑ the space you fill Ʒ
Month mammal mumbles mama.
Blwch realized material permanence quickly—sensation beyond his eyes. Aristotelian penta-sense plus other tunnels for mater funnels.
The Running of the Bulls. Data runnels.
*Permutations: 20, 42, 72, 420, or 1056 different possible sense pairings, depending.
Egocentric Sinn enters in from the bottle to a toddle,
the same waddle as the world
that revolves around the
There once was king named Rappel
who thought his opinions were swell;
with confidence unblinking,
and blessed with magical thinking:
disagree; he’d command you to hell.
Since senary satellites, seat soiling settled.
A projective synesthete, Blwch’s bleeding sensations surpass Shereshevsky, a reality of tasty touch and scented sound and hued hearing. Gestalt.
Rappel induces fractions of the Ground, ego reduced, fractals abound.
Reverse guru factions resound. Action all around.
The soul expression factored,
round impression cubed.
Ingenious imagination involving issue interjected.
The paw of the tabby claws under the threshold inducing the doorstop spring into the boing of longitudinal frenzy, a morning secondary alarm. The stretched sound flashes zig-zag purple, bristly on the skin. The mystical purr like rabbit fur and honeybun fills the empty nest, where woven feather tufts rock in the plain breeze like a supplicant mantis — stoic.
twigs for protection and rest;
the progeny niche
provides a base for the feast.
The feathers fan, then unleash.
Dead skin snows with every foot shuffle, pepper from a grinder; 90 pounds or 6.428 stone over the lifecycle. 19,710 L of bile; 32,850 L of licorice blood, 7,570 L routed through the four chambers every day. And, notwithstanding my continuously more scintillating tonsure, 5000 M of hair snake from the crown, although these do not chemically alter flesh to stone; interestingly though, the bony frame of permanence onto which the various tissue laminates are glued on for strength, stability, sound insulation, and appearance settle, simian arms, and sutures are smeared by limestone. Cost o f the body ? $1985.77 whole or $80,000 from a chop shop.
Cells issue tissue
organized into organs
interstitially awash —
that carries the ghost
overlapped by time and space.
The whir of the gears
slows to an entropic click.
Escape eleven systems.
The aches that accompany the slow downhill slalom toward an arctic Bose-Einstein condensate strapping the mechanism statuesque—the weak flesh —belie spirited undiscovered-country folktales and all that intelligent design jazz. Mutiny of the connective tissue; dialogue of maladies, clay so cold; the knotty arthritic hinges align themselves in preparation for the terminal handshake.
A slide-whistle signal sounds near the wormhole.