December 17'TH, 1994 (click on heading longer than email)

12/6/2024 YOUR LIFE IS FOUND POETRY

OMOLU HEADWASH December 17th, 1994
Con/Jur/d, 12/4/2024

We came home, 
                        THE HOUSE WAS FILLED
WALL OF:
*noise *cooking; we went to use the *bath-
room *water-closet *toilet, and found 

the source of a pervasive, *iron
*fresh *meat *umami odor, the frozen 

HEADLESS
goat corpse, hanging beneath the hot 
running shower, let’s back up

Although, you were not there, you can
imagine, Berkeley in December, the wet
that gets, in your bones,
                                       IN YOUR BONES

You can’t warm up, everyone is sniffling
the bookstore is cozy, the way when 
surrounded by combustibles creates
creates a crackling kinetic potential for fire
while books, 

THE BOOKS, 
                       with their everpresent
threat to burn away the world
(after, we will look at the falling ash and see 
as if, for the first time -- movies, sometimes,
too) and we don’t like the line break, so

LET’S BACK UP

Our brother visiting, the tailend (as
opposed to the clawend) of our panic 
attacks, the preemptive Kundalini
Strike, we didn’t see coming, (*obvious *after)
and we brought him along to see
                                PARTY FOR THE GODS

there was something there, something scary
something profound, and the day-to-day fear
was alleviating; going whenever we could, 
and when they would 
                                  LET US IN

we’d never gone under, but had felt 
the tug, 
             the muscles and nerves 
not under self-control, the thoughts
*nott *knot *not your usual

yet, hadn’t, not yet
and the drumming, and the singing, the 

NAUSEATING, 
                    depth control of tobacco
smoke, and he sees GRANDFATHER,
and we SHAKE (palsy) he starts crying

WE START CRYING

and we FALL, in the distance
(*foot *millimeter become continents

SPINNING AWAY

gravity a fundament, really, just suggestion
hardly worth being called
a law) someone yells, 
                                   GET THAT BABA

A CHAIR

and then the ecstatic dark
without dream, without pretension
the stuff, beneath everything

AND THEN

during the *re-formation, of this
you know,

*THIS *THIS

ice water buckets, one after another
down our back, in our shoes, white
garments  soaked through, and they 
KEEP repeating 
while we 
*splutter *moan

                        HOW WAS THAT?

and we say

HOW THE FUCK WAS WHAT?

back forward, we’ve left our job at 
*SCIENCE FICTION *FANTASY 
*USED *NEW *BOOKSTORE, whose
logo *blackcat *‘50s bubble *space *helmet
*distant *star, and we’re on the short bus
the one going out to the backend 
(EAST BUMBLEFUCK)before it dressed 
fancy, even then, a boutique junk/reclamation 
yard near the infamous, all ages 

PUNK CLUB

and the burrito shop, by the rail tracks, 
above which, we lived, between bouts 
of work and drink and being youngish
and the poor bus driver is snuffling
and blowing her nose, and we’re
thinking, POOR THING, we can fix it
and get up to heal it, the bus *sways
*rain *Steam *fogged *occluded *windows

HALF WAY
down the 6-chair deep aisle, to lay
on hands, when we rememberour
response:

WHAT THE FUCK WAS WHAT?

and, we get the job (as it were) the point 
of the exercise, was not to rewrite
what is, but to see it in its 
undefined glory

AS IS

Now, that doesn’t mean you can’t help
“as is” along -- that’s why we have bodies
and physics, the goat had arrived 
unexpectedly frozen, so if Baba 
was gonna eat anything but meatcicles,
beer and smoke, the divine cook, uses 
the hand that is dealt, plays the ball where it
lands,

              WHERE IT LANDS
now your caught up 
don’t want to go all shaggy dog on you
(yes, there we had those)
                                         THINGS HAPPENED
 
YOU NEEDED TO BE THERE
(superstition and presumption free) 

30 years later most of what happened
is gone, most of it by December 18th 1994

in the morning, and we woke up our 
future-wife snoring on the otherside 
of the vigil bed

THE VOTIVES had GONE OUT

beer bottles and straw bales 
ashtrays overflow with cigar stubs/cigarette butts 

OUTSIDE THE ROOM

we close the door quietly so as not to wake her
or the cluster of guardian bodies, on the 
rug before the door gently breathing

                                                                        THE SUN RISES

reveals bones in the sink, plates and drums
ritual cloths, sacred kit and caboodle  
rids the flat of its pesky right angles
replaced with lumps and fractal
Geometries -- you can see it

CAN’T YOU?

Much, much love,

Con/Jur/d, 12/6/2024