Tantric Disposition Matrix

'One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star'- Nietzsche

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A doctor once asked me why

stones should not be thrown

in houses made of glass.

They should, I replied

I said, they should

How else would one get out?

(Or think of Alice

at the core of mirrored shingles—

mind-menagerie, jungle of fragmented self—

ogling or smeared leers and everywhere eyes

with nothing to wipe away

distortions, but bags

and bags of broken stones.)

But he was not amused

and scribbled and smiled and conjectured

with his eyebrows. I glared

through raging eyes glazed with fear

and darkness all the way through

the Rorschach blots

building beaming rainbows to castles

and castles of refracted logic.

(Tears are constructed of such rainbows

and rainbows of such glass.)

Fingers pressed to the window pane

with the world whirring past

I wept cold as any stone trembling

all the way to the facility.

Picture time gone

and a world turned to glass.

Here, a glass man holds a white glass

handkerchief to his red glass nose

in a city park where the brown glass boughs of trees

jiggle brown glass leaves and dwarf

the green glass blades of grass.

In the distance lie enormous glass turquoise mountains

where waterfalls of silver glass stream over glass rocks

while the jagged wings of birds hang overhead.

And all the colorful glass people in all the glass towns

look on and look on and look on.

Suddenly, one marble statue topples.

The glass world buckles and shatters

and the stained glass sky comes crashing down.

And in the ensuing silence the smashed glass world

shimmers like a dangling neon jewel

under the gleam of a midnight sun

while the face of a marble nihilist statue

stares out coldly from beneath the rubble

of what was.

 
John Hawkins, October 1983, The Mass Media (student publication)

Under a red and rolling sky

as haunted as a Rorschach blot

Energy finds the middle eye

and gleans the epiphanal polyglot.


Now rose, now lavender and gold,

the clouds combust and burn away

shimmering light bursts through: behold —

the awakening we call day.


O, this grey pulpy mass of brain

like a recalcitrant ghost

ratlles the mental window pane

where dull memory stands engrossed.


Yet is shaken from sleep again 

as the Sun rises like the blessed host

and gives the middle eye a toast.

  • John Kendall Hawkins

 

On an overcast day

a sunflower droops his head to snooze

and dreams nervously of his idol.

When I wake up

and drowsily lift my face

will I see your flashing eyes?

(Groton, 1976)