Root Cap

Matters

In the absence of emptiness there are aggregates, and where emptiness is present, there are pores, and the “necks” of pores that connect to other matters, the absence of which is the matter we know. The matter we know is consumed & reduced to excrement, to the voids of death where it is ravished by the mysterious extravagance of this emptiness.

But the matter we know gathers & penetrates: humic clay, bacterial ooze, root exudate, mucus of hypha, waste of fauna; dispersion forces, filamentous actinomycetes, sloughing of root caps, genesis of meristems, adventuring mycelia, "hands" of the fingering protozoa, biofilms of considered agglomeration, & by virtue of those who open & skin the emptiness, biopores that feel their way through soil—all these "things" that touch us when we die & spire us with such as we grow.
But what is touched is mostly untenanted—these “holes” & those held in place by aggregates, in great excess, grow together as the "matter of space". Captured by the dark of our universe, light is neither the matter of emptiness nor the matter that makes us. It's sorta like encouragement.

The Power We Live By

What passes, either as the thought of a thing perpetuated or the thing itself, serves to elect us though we forget the critical allegiance, remember at best, only its enduring solidarity. Death is the performance of great citizenship even as life affords us its only office.

I Kings 2

To Solomon, King David spoke: “I am going the way of all earth.” So it be the perpetuated solum to sink us into immortality. But who among flesh, that sleep with decay & dream the sleep of the dead, will not wake from this unsettled beyond in a stench of lion by the old bone fence & a heart stamping the dark till a sun decide?

To coil & flop like a snake pinned by its snout---raptor of our wasting, of our worries to squeeze breath out of thought? What king-to-be not fear the ease of ruin, the grazing fauna hidden in spoil---the void of soil & its perishing film, water of last-flora to take us out of life? Digest & excrete each david, solomon & rehoboam (thus this very loam) because nothing is left that is not everlasting?
The horror of putrescence it seems is the the shame of a naked singularity?

Inside Novelty

The thought of a thing precedes the thing itself, but not its potentiality. The unthought thing, never certain of its potent "to be" (to be decay’s necessity & increase’s sufficient determination) cannot conceive till thought itself & of things passing, be perpetuated. This means Memory is a power we live by; learn of by the likes of the dead & of sex----our more celebrated among  "recent", thoughtful perpetuations (lest we forget gravity, time & emptiness).      

Appetite

As the perpetuation of the thought of things, memory is the errant power that figures in all the genesis, pollution, compenetration, association, dying, decay & preponderance of ancestral stuff that spires us, be it the light that quickens the thinking tree, water that flees the fingering root, or the beast’s great annuli & its years that flee; figures in its rings of lignin & that lignin's rings of phytonutrients, companion energies of bond as those of division, each sink & fountaining, every ascent out of the emptiness, every ascent of remembrance touching the ineffable newness of what is not yet a thought of a thing, but will be.

To learn is not unique—we’re certain that knowing is as abundant as all the time & emptiness that floats & currents the variety that makes for ruined pines & whispering snow, or the oil of worms & their heated, unguent holes; that quickens mycelium threading its chalk-white hyphae through naked waste, or makes its way among the excesses that commune as humus; as common as the breathing fundament that exhausts & issues—learning is the effort of the ignorant: of silt loam, of root, of nematode, of protozoan & dying bacterium, of the discarded feathers, the ravished carcass, the corrupt bark & tree-throw, the gravel bar & braided river, the foot-hill of breccia & lava flow, the abyssal plate & whet sierra, the fire of viscous plumes engorged & frenzied for these heaving seas, fossil light, not even plenished, penetrating vast distances, laboring thought through all this dark & all this emptiness.

Egg

A black hole must be erumpent, or else be absolute, just as the dispersed must nourish or else starve immortality. Even the dead must grow—the increase is never everlasting else what lived was never dead & what is death has never died.

Erumpent

Nothing ever of fruit or of appetite; nothing of the egg or of the shallow grave; nothing that was, is, or is to be; nothing that carries us away into the emptiness, nothing that gathers us again into emptiness; nothing of you, me, a dog, a dragon fly, the river & trees, all these moribund stars is ever is finished, ever complete, ever entire & therefore ever perfect, ever ideal.

Though desire maybe the push of the perfect, the push of the ideal, it shoulders not into the Pure, nor into the Complete; it presses on with accident, endeavors the unexpected; it shoves & grunts & cruses the mean effort---this earth where birth is Witness against platonic certainty. New life cries: Truth is born of failure.

For instance, look at how the Absolute never pollutes, never corrupts & never becomes soil. How it never abounds; never the particles of carbon that quicken from nuclear fire; never the knowing larvae that abide the incited scat; never the scant crystals of silica that help cohere the knowing diatoms, nor gaseous nitrogen fixed by blue-green algae; never the polymerase complex of a few tens-of-thousands of atoms that labor eukaryotic transcription; never the dirt animated incomprehensibly into eukaryotes thriving—protist, fungus, plant & animal alive & thoughtful by the generosity of how many specimens turned to soil?

Look at how it is not even empty of all making of dust & ash. Void of the dead in our backyards, void of the remains in the crook of a tree, of the waste within an ocean trench (indeed even so much in the din of turbulent upwelling), never with ground’s potential in planets adrift the dark wash of emptiness, never with till in the cold gas of stellar necromass; never with bog soil & desert sand, alluvial fill & abraded loam dread with error—soil’s kind not unlike the litter of an island universe reconsidered at the core of a black hole where, like every protist, fungus, plant & animal flourishing the earth, egg & appetite incite the Hole to know.

Thinking is shared by all. Heraclitus

Emptiness

Empty is the search of space that carries an island universe as far away from its Ideal as it does from every other, & within each, that selfsame breadth of space that is this going away distance between every starry rudiment, which is the selfsame breadth of the deep that divides an electron integument from its pneuma, & that from its germ, & those, theirs, just as any of a kind is to its embryo, as that is to a planet, & as that, to the new universe (how many life-times away?) that becomes by chance & happy accident the satisfaction of a moth, the intent of pregnant bindweed, & the mind of either animated by consideration of  how so much variety is One (is Whole & Parented), how its gathering increases, how its unity elaborates, beset as it is with all this empty awayness which even now is penetrated by solitary half-spirits (half-creatures? half-children!) that pass through us in numbers that are half-infinite, as they wander on with less effort than the sweep of an eyelash—these evanescent angels lost in mere space, afflicted with the Absolute as nothing ever is that loves, that lives & dies, ever is.

Remembering

Plant birth,
that naught mark of history, yet axiomatic “O”
(a priori these wholes that stiffen into memory)
eventuates planet understanding
wherever the limbs cohere & aim—
this tree-simplicity of joining ring to ring
so Spring becomes where love
will bind & increase
tend to green.

Where the Dead are Buried

Is Love the fly of increase?
Or issue the egg of Love?

Like a wrested woman
from pupa's head
torn from a dying one
Imago must influence
the maggot she once was.

Blood in her brain.
Fresh blood flushed
from her animal heart.
Blood in her brain

to womb a thought
quick with light
why air is pushed
how earth is brushed aside.

Her women gather
loins swell & shudder
spear the dirt to let life
back into matter?