Warren's Words: AVISO - BORN TO BE SCRATCHED - Brief Stray Blots on Complexes and Clotted Character, Grief Muscles, Symptoms and Symbols "Writ on the Skin" Toward Meaningful Dys-Ease

AVISO - NOTICE

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"Grief muscles. (Haz Clik)" - Charles Darwin

"A mule will labor ten years willingly and patiently for you, for the privilege of kicking you once." - William Faulkner

Complexes, like mules, are stubborn. They have a job to do. They form us, shape us, give us character, the word etymologically means " scratches upon a surface" thus we are all born to be scratched, scarred, and from such character is born. My tee shirt reads " BORN TO BE SCRATCHED" " BORN TO BE SCARRED". We describe landscapes and faces/bodies as " having character" and so complexes are landscapes, we are landscapes shaped by the shaping land, dirt, clay, mud, sand from which ancestral complexes were, still are, born, and borne generation to generation, person to person.

But mourning's that "thing", not hope, "with feathers", to argue with Miss Dickinson, at least this heavy-winged thing is part and parcel, tissue and fabric to my very being from earliest childhood - not playing the victim here but telling mule-ish facts, born into violence, into sorrow of mother and father at war with each other in the redneck, theologically regressive/dys-tarded primitive white south, my mythology unfolded and unfolds still though I am hard surrounded by concrete asphalt and steel where the wheel infernally drives literally everything in fabled northern island metropolis.

So, there. Etiology of my persistent skin rash begins in history, ancient history. The body, a body that I am, that I as Warren Ego inhabit, has its inexorable history and mythology genetically attributed and distrubuted cell by cell, dermis extremis, meat sack slackening but inevitable principled processes chemical and alchemical dry me out into blown-aboutness.

But I can sing. I will sing of such till I can sing no more.
Scratch as scratch can and down to a man, or sand,

whichever comes first or last or both, I will give voice

and image to the hard scrap, mule-kick mother, bearing

two mule names, who in a dream proceeding her death

intentionally, willfully escapes my grasp via mulish jack-

ass buck-kick sends me flailing from her into the ongoing

stretching aridity of invidious homo solitudinem -

"button, button,

who's got the button?

how without a mother?

how without a button? - Michael Bottas

She escapes to fauna, florae, vine-arbored densities,

massive hedged green-green sauvage riot tangle careen

plummet plumbs into born anew*1 as such (or suchness?)

or so much

underscored verdancy

does insist hinting

moistures,

buoyant, perfumed,

some thing beyond eye or thigh

the weight that Forever really is
or we feel it is, the bone feel, that
ever-so-slow-curve calcium makes
down, down, years of it sinking
and then we wonder our own being's

but rumor of thunder on Distant Mountain,
fire there, we are stutterers pegged massive
revelations, special effects parting waters,
walking sticks into serpents, bread rain and
and on and on and some wheres

we remember we ought to altar so we
relent even if it's the first and last and
only one of the heart but not only that
but the aged body parts once so primary,
the sagging breast, the sinking

balls,

withered skin still the longing there and
everywhere mere parchment now and
how we may then finally wonder about
religions of the Word, what gets written
where, once and often, on stone then
eventually vellum/skin, and bark too in
treed lands

So lands a Shining Stranger perhaps one of many
bends low forever writes with his finger in the dust,
but the word in the end may us an altar make as
hearing fades and the tongue thinks

"it's only water'' and

"can a man control 'is tongue?"

- it's Biblical

the question answers itself

a riddle:

''never, or rarely''

like my mother dying, rasps

''What's this all about?
Whatever. I'm ready to go''

as if she or any of us can really decide
that but will's a holy thing, asserts even
in the face of obstinate Absolute

that "Other-Than" is also truth and down
to a woman and man

we get to argue,

''I decide''