Power of Negative Thinking

Via Negativa

Not going to crack the nut case shell bone castle impenetrable
 sealed-in  home land of any other or my own self no matter
what’s revealed on the Oprah Winfrey show or Dr. Phil’s: it’s
not going to happen.

Best I can maybe do is work out a routine  of  remembrance
reminding me of my  oblivion. Itprobably won’t make me  a
better  listener which seems a  quality-of-preference these post
millennium years but it may keep me  tuned-in to my  deafness.

Via Negativa: to watch the ways I accentuate the positive so
as to steer clear & consider the remainders of the daze eclipsed
by my sunshine &  banished as misfortune, boobies tossed out
with the bath water and  know that noise is always source and
resource for the news. 

How to contain the common sense so it don’t contaminate

uncommon know what I’m saying? Some  hokum’s razor

needed to cut a sharp line dividing cross country roads where

common  sense peters out and nonsense begins to play it up

not to mention no-sense-at-all hovering its universal presence

ongoing going on over the mother of the mothers of invention.

The Children of Unity are drumming in our pavilion gazebo a

unison  rump-a-pum-pum singing the bawdy electric of all one-

ness boomlay  boomlay boomlay boom: dissolving the

incommensurate separateness of small ego-consciousness in a

moment of grope awareness:  differentiation for the moment

banished in the consummation devoutly to be desired: crying a

novum organum organic organizational orgy & orgasmic urge

ergo energas working-IT working it out.

The group generates animosity throughout the communitas each

summer indulging their unificational practices, bulletin boards,

poster-bumpersticker slogan seeming indoctrination of youth

by groan-ups: the child is father to the myn and the blind pass
on our culturally relative traditions of  particular  allo-variations
on deaf & dumb one-eyed vision in the valleys of the blind as well
as bromides  for peace of mind & un-un-un-un-post-poning of joy
& who can critique  that?

Well: I feel the same kind squealing when Quakers arrive, or

historical re-enactmentalists, & soiree-ists. We had a convention

of dowsers a few summers back and I sat in crude judgment while

they hugged an ancient tree outside Sunderland, invoking their

druids & dryads & I confess the same thoughts fly in like crows

& jays when MFA and Swannanoa Gathering arrive and play their

poems, mandolins & hammered dulcimers all over the place &

swim naked in  my pond—my inner Hitler grinding up a

gastroenteritis & groaning, the righteous bastard.

Call me xenophobic. I hate tourists in my martha’s vineyard, invading

my nantucket: aliens, alter natives. I wouldn’t say such things to

their faces because that would be rude—but  behind their back is
a horse of another collar.