when the problem has been clearly and relentlessly described as an overemphasis -- to soften it toward maximum inclusivity, as action requires consensus -- on teleology and the mighty though not necessarily righty phallic thrust, on overmuch ear shattering fuel farting forwardness versus undermuch rounded presentness, then the thing to do, in order to keep the wheel veering productively all around the circle, at this forward limit of the turning, is to stop  and let the present swell in pre-post-erous inclusiveness or catholicity, past and future rushing into burgeoning repleteness and forgiveness and rebirth....  That is wrong, this is right, is never right outside of the ever shifting context.   Just turn off for this timeless split second the jet engine of history and the protesting ones trying to shoot it down.  Do not tell those dying of malaria that there can be no progress, that's one direction among all the others that has its proper turn to hold sway, but it's a slow slow train, and the wheels must regress to progress.   and do not think that the marriage of discourse and art can occur discursively, art must orchestrate -- when discourse draws a line and art lies outside, art draws a bigger circle and takes discourse in.   Discourse can only protest and exclude, art alone creates and includes, however it does so by asserting itself against the hegemony of discourse and all other things that offend and oppress it and try to weigh and measure what is incommensurable and failing to, deny the actuality that is right before the eyes.  Be kind to the mental patient, we're all just mental patients, no some mental patients have no interest in your kindness, and they are not like you.  They are as great as you though, if not greater, and have as great if not a greater job to do, and no amount of holding their hands can help them until you help them do their job.  

forming a bridge back to two critical ones at the age of three, all my salient childhood memories are linked to this one. it so much moved me, it remains vivid as the present behind a curtain easily swept aside -- in my elder sister kathy's sumptuous room, which I slipped into whenever she slipped away, in the gridded twisted wire knoll chair with the thin red leather cushion, leaning back as the front legs lifted off the floor like you're not supposed to do, as holding the book on my lap, I held for balance onto the built in desk under the window where the June bugs crashed relentlessly in the wilds approached through an extra long blacktopped, woods lined drive hidden in the tames of Ladue, then a still being settled suburb of Saint Louis ... at age nine or so reading the orange book biography of Orville and Wilbur Wright, where it began, with the brothers as children remarking how everything that could ever be invented had already been invented, the steam engine, the sewing machine, the bicycle, the motor car, and on and on clearly the world could not support any more novelty.   I almost gasped at that eternal assumption being shattered meaning anybody could always shatter it, and I think then and there I resolved to.   however the metaphor much heavier than the things that weigh tons that they get up in the air -- breakthroughs, radical innovations, game changers, our ball and chain, weighing us down, more stuck to the ground than ever before.  as well as irrevocably untethered.  Well I did it, I broke through.  Maybe this clunky first model won't fly tethered -- like the moon floating like a balloon tied to a car antenna -- for more than a second or so, but that's enough to prove the principle is sound, it just needs yet more tweaking -- like those jets up there polluting the air, human flying a work in progress still in very primitive, early stages..

perhaps if I'd gone on that way -- and I am going to keep trying -- I could have stayed conventionally novelistic, in the genre that exhausts the writer driver so the passenger may enjoy the scenery and emerge somewhere novelistic, if not exactly novel any more, and feel perhaps more wholistic, if not exactly whole-- my favorite genre to read, as a hamster quite content in her well supplied cage -- but I've exhausted that novelistic genre for the present purposes of this blow hard project, which exhausts every genre and every participant equally just as it does go somewhere absolutely novel, lifts off with even more than the astonishing novelty of the first flying machine, and grounds us in what is truly the long lost, if were ever before found, ground itself, to satisfy that tiny  mustard seed of doubt as to the hamster being perfectly satisfied with its well oiled treadmill, however, being an irrevocably civilized hamster, quite happy soon home whenever it roams...

...what?  What???  I a prophet?  No no, this is terrible.   I love life!  I love pleasure! I hate pain!  I'm a normal person, too medium to be a medium!.  This is the last thing I want to spend my time doing -- writing one great line of what promises to be a great poem, and then subjecting it to micro-analysis, what a life!  Okay okay I'm just being a histrionic spoiled brat as usual, yes yes I admit that with all the agonies and ecstasies, it averages out substantially better than a day job -- my cup relatively runneth over!  -- I speak from extended experience from before I got my calling and all the miraculous sustenance and sustainers that appear on the way.   Of course that's before they burn me at the stake.  Then with all the agonies and ecstasies it'll probably average out even with the average average, that's why they call us mediums after they burn us at the stake, so maybe you don't need to bother. Nevertheless not my but thy will be done.  (earnest ironic ironic earnest earnest ironic earnest literal figurative literal literal figurative, nobody so far has guessed the right cup the one they're after is under in two out of three tries, so say good-bye to your cash if you dare to play...beware false prophets, accept no substitutes for clear water that with each meager sip slips through your fingers, but the well never runs dry.  

All bona fide prophesy, necessary, realistic, and as drastically more sophisticated as the drastically ever more sophisticated world, consists in one great line of a potentially great poem subjected to microanalysis combining all manner of rhetoric to argue its case as in the passionate rational (these identical twins, passion and reason, having been raised apart so not impelled artificially to differentiate, when joined in adulthood have the exact same tastes and favorite colors and wives named Gladys etc.) closing and opening of a trial in a court of law, toward a unanimous verdict as to what Albert Einstein (post-millennials may look him up on wikipedia) identified and deemed the key question -- is this a friendly universe?  On our answer to this question, but not on our being right or wrong about it -- the latter always more productive than the former with a work in progress eschewing any hope or desire for a static, boring final solution -- the fate of our race depends.) 

Warning: my writing is self-similar, every part mirrors the whole in complexity, density, and self-sufficiency, like a starfish you can chop up in pieces and every piece will grow into another starfish.   So please don't chop it up.  One, all the shimmering tentacles of the pentacle intact, is enough.  None is not enough.  It is the star of the sea.  

I'm not saying it, but everybody who hears me read -- the density so far has obviated anybody making the effort to read it themselves, if anyone has come this far I'll be very amazed -- is constantly telling me I'm such a great writer, but didn't they ever read the writers who tell you that the key to great writing lies solely in what the writing is saying.  The thing being said writes the writing, and the less that's being said, the worse the writing, the more filler and imitation of other kinds of writing, which even when impressively "crafted" lacks deep down fluidity and fluency, but nevertheless pretty much everybody who keeps telling me I'm such a great writer will give no credit whatsoever to, and pretty much completely ignores, what's actually writing the writing and has nothing to do with me, witness the fact that before I met up with it and it kicked me out of the writing room, I, being the writer, was a totally undistinguished writer. 

Cmon, it's like a finger pointing at the moon. Don't watch the finger, or you will miss all that heavenly glory!   Alas, who believes in the moon anymore?  

*****