too much History
Posted: September 23rd, 2009, 10:28 pm
Whitehead said "we have too much history"
if history walked into a museum and asked
for a guided tour of its own preserved hallways
and commented on the modern art
next to the wreaks of the ages
what would it say about its own reflected image
that the worst call themselves the best
that the victor is the one who wrote it
do wolves wander the isles through the sculpture?
are red worlds tossed into the circular fire pit
in the center of the town square
what does history hold back for itself
does the black name speak the language of stars
nieth the towers upsidedown in the earth's blood
when reigns of terror look into the ancient mirror
the hurtlers of platitudes at the multitudes
affairs of owls and electric spinning tongue
the torrent of shadows fingers the holy relics
this is what happens we have been told
that history will repeat it self
yet everything that exists, that has existed
somehow stands out side of recorded events
somehow the philosopher's have known
thrown the stone across the ripple face of the aether
what the philosopher poets know
too much history
and one such seer of the beyond within the known
has uttered the golden letters through the torn mists
on the other side of the curtain great statues rotate
he spoke the music of the spheres
counted the sequences of the signatures of things
yet history stood like a beggar in an empty cathedral
loath to meet the unconscious content of its own sign
standing on a landscape of multiple horizons
appearing in the transcendent manifold transformations
an object in a dream, like a tall stem rose in an alien
looking vase, is there something we expect to contact
in some forgotten moment of mystery beyond itself
all the lost moments that elude us, some maze like muse
can we enter into the eternal return of the same
after the will to power has appeared in gaudy lacquered mask
in the final game played on all sides, looking through gone eye holes
appearing on the last stage in the tragedy to end all, this one task
have we been preparing for this final war of wars before it all began
within the torn cruel heart of the western movie
and I pick up a lost Kafka manuscript, and instantly turn into a scarab
too much history, and the sands of time are running out in the cobalt-
hour glass, but as the last grains of immortality drift through the narrow
waist, a voice is coming out of the desert totality, a whirlwind replaces
the sense, and silence caresses the end flickering flame, a voice
but not a voice, a word but not, a last sigh, some timeless nod
and she climaxes, its all too much, the rain falls through the moon
if history walked into a museum and asked
for a guided tour of its own preserved hallways
and commented on the modern art
next to the wreaks of the ages
what would it say about its own reflected image
that the worst call themselves the best
that the victor is the one who wrote it
do wolves wander the isles through the sculpture?
are red worlds tossed into the circular fire pit
in the center of the town square
what does history hold back for itself
does the black name speak the language of stars
nieth the towers upsidedown in the earth's blood
when reigns of terror look into the ancient mirror
the hurtlers of platitudes at the multitudes
affairs of owls and electric spinning tongue
the torrent of shadows fingers the holy relics
this is what happens we have been told
that history will repeat it self
yet everything that exists, that has existed
somehow stands out side of recorded events
somehow the philosopher's have known
thrown the stone across the ripple face of the aether
what the philosopher poets know
too much history
and one such seer of the beyond within the known
has uttered the golden letters through the torn mists
on the other side of the curtain great statues rotate
he spoke the music of the spheres
counted the sequences of the signatures of things
yet history stood like a beggar in an empty cathedral
loath to meet the unconscious content of its own sign
standing on a landscape of multiple horizons
appearing in the transcendent manifold transformations
an object in a dream, like a tall stem rose in an alien
looking vase, is there something we expect to contact
in some forgotten moment of mystery beyond itself
all the lost moments that elude us, some maze like muse
can we enter into the eternal return of the same
after the will to power has appeared in gaudy lacquered mask
in the final game played on all sides, looking through gone eye holes
appearing on the last stage in the tragedy to end all, this one task
have we been preparing for this final war of wars before it all began
within the torn cruel heart of the western movie
and I pick up a lost Kafka manuscript, and instantly turn into a scarab
too much history, and the sands of time are running out in the cobalt-
hour glass, but as the last grains of immortality drift through the narrow
waist, a voice is coming out of the desert totality, a whirlwind replaces
the sense, and silence caresses the end flickering flame, a voice
but not a voice, a word but not, a last sigh, some timeless nod
and she climaxes, its all too much, the rain falls through the moon
