Monday, February 9, 2015

Canto 21 - Gilgammesh

Canto 21


He resigns or the like a little stream beyond the email
 and no one knows where it's going or what it's been
 least of all students have been crammed into
 little boxes mu back and they all look just.

 once on a time people would reading and writing and staring into space
 thinking thoughts have reason,  have no rhyme
 is mainly they want to know that they are the cells
 and they find someone that they can find.
 and belong.

 because what they are imagining they are becoming
 is just degree,  because who knows what to be they will have,
 is a concept that they even ignore
 it may be  Bilgamesh,  but it is like to be gone.

 they  different than they were in the middle six
 and they haven't been written
 that's because there is no market for this kind of thing
 the older wiser camp of troops,  doesn't really want.

 even though there are more, now, than ever before
 and then some and then some


 why do we talk in circles talk circles
 as is something would come out with these conversations
 and boards that show, something that has.
 a sweet a question in meeting to be filled out in triplicate

 their people who just want you meaning in their lives
 no matter how they get.
 then there are people want a rubberstamp
 and they don't care if nothing in this place touches them
 it doesn't matter,  if you ever did

 because the buildings need of the contact,
 are not buildings that are there now,
 teaching is really the subject at the school,
 the real subject is building that they control.

 buildings and architecture and others stop
 that really has no meaning you education
 which is performed by drones who speak Chinese
 or Hinde,  more a tribute to language which no one really wants to know the name of

 take Tamil for example,  you have worsened out
 prying  limb from limb as the persons mother was teaching something dirty
 or maybe it will be Korea
 which dirty secrets come to presence past.

 all the languages which the professors
 never speak in class
 even if you do use one,  it's not dirty secret life
 just doesn't have yet

 because if there teacher does not speak one,
 he finds it coffee like a foreign tongue,
 that he doesn't share.
 and if he does slipage out  comes as a jerk secret,

 usually to student which has not mastered
 the finer points,  and teacher slips into that netherworld,
 simply teach the student that those words are dirty.
 well not dirty,  but not clean either.


 the teacher at the top of the room
 is trying to make one person understand
 what is the passion of her or his existence
 and of the rest to get a grade which will pass out of existence

 because its  it's meaningless,  and really someone else will say
 you need to do this,
 so you can get on with your life,
 and give the professor what he wants.

 but I was saying something about book  Gilgamesh,
 who was   Bilgamesh,  which only a few people study.
 the professors want to reach
 someone who doesn't have a name.

 they want to make art,  but commerce is King,
 and queen and do an Earl and  Barron,
 because after all what have they in common,
 but baronies on the Lee,  vying for things
 whose name means something in French
 that they have all been taught to value.


exorbriant  is the crossroads that we command,
 to exercise the things we don't wish to see.
 and expedite the wishes we don't want to have
 an exposé of our inner strength.

flouts  convention at every turn
 and it's fluoridated gardens are but a single stroke,
 that in times will be fêted,
 and it wound even been known whether its yesteryear
 or some illusion that binds the flesh.

 for who could no that a 1950s fact
 bears no resemblance to the 1850 illusion of itself,
 because the 1950s in 1850s version are both in different
 to what really was, and could have been,
 the actual truth of what blight have been.

 both are false in different ways as they flounce
 across that fluent meter that you and I both, dream different
 each in our own way,  and each differing from the way it was
 in might-have-been.


 now a Holocaust of poor inscribed and insulin
gilgissh is his name for he is closer to Hebrew
 then whatever was when he was
an unknown author in an unknown tale.

 we do not know what Sumerian was like
 it may have been like  tongue  of even elder then Greece
 were even its unpronounceable's are unpronounceable,
 like dead Etruscan,  it stares at us and  mocks us  with its fluidity.

isooctane  in its lifts the way
certain numbers can only be known
 by pairing them off one by one
 until only ones which cannot be our,  and nothing more.

 junk it may be,  but this is how I used to write.
 line by line,  syllable by syllable,  until everything was
 with purpose and form,  crystallizing by another time
 where only I could read,  and write,  with a vision that only I knew

Limkin  it was,  a sort of brown
that seems natural to a wet loving Earth
lineate  by flesh that is made under Liden  tree,
 had spreads its arms out in graceful ascendance
 for very God of very God,  and under repose.

 It may be a placebo,  plaguing in plainchant
 in plainclothes  placenta notwithstanding
 plagal  where it is neither major or minor key,
 but something so unique that our hands study closely,
 and finally give up the effort,   for it is music of another time,
Gilgammh  stands beside himself with rage,
 for he will not see  Enkidu anymore.