Pseudonymous of Gold Country

Pseudonymous the poet lives in Gold Country, California. What does he write about? Everything and nothing. Phenomenology, science, spirituality, the mundane, politics, perception. All things pertaining to the mind. Whatever he feels like really. Most of it just comes to him in a flash.

He has been inspired by Peter Mathiesson, William Burroughs, William Faulkner, John Fowles, Henry David Thoreau, Aldous Huxley, Sasha Shulgin, Albert Hofmann and Omar A. Rodriguez-Lopez.

What according to him is the writer’s role in society? To illustrate and breathe tangible articulation to that which must be pointed out the most…or to simply just be…for that alone is enough. And what message does he want his readers to take away? That death is life and life is death. Pseudonymous blogs at Consciousness Creates Reality (www.consciousnesscreatesreality.wordpress.com). His wordplay, though mind-bending, can be strangely addictive. Read four of his poems below. You can interpret them the way you want.
 

CLIFFDIVING

 

Then I heard
two notes
like a piano
one pink
the other
light blue
when I
pushed off
the ledge
suspended
mid-air
that
feeling
of falling
for what
felt like
forever
in a
moment
plunging
hands first
into the
cold
deep
lake

 


THE WEEVIL

 

I move
with the grace
of death

no half measures
too late
for mistakes

one piece
at a time
not
all at once

it’s in the system
waiting

evade
the narrow passages
of what so obviously is

what could be

tiptoe thru
the traps

blending in
but never melding
with a hat on

knowing no
other way
head on
not quiet
not provoked

knowing it
will work
never knowing
in what way

 


SUPERPROPRIETARY

 

Reporting live
from the front lines
of corporate takeover

now
they want the market
they founded on
our criminal brick
bodies

our solitary confinement bodies

our shot dead
our stolen children’s
bodies

we got more in there than anywhere
dollar signs for eyes

time is running out
stack the cards just right

they’ll take half
they’ll take it all
it will never be
enough

no, this isn’t freedom—
this isn’t decriminalization—
not when you need a million
for written permission—

you’ll push us
further underground
where we will thrive
like our seeds

like we always have
and always will

without you

 


THE TESSERACTION

 

When we woke
there was a voice
saying each of our names—

Nothing would be the same
ever again—

Namaste in the way
we distrust—
extracting pure consciousness
just to drown in it—

Entire colonies were wiped out—
notes were taken—
the moon used to spew lava
but now it’s dead—

We were an infinite’s last ditch effort
just to show us what we had done—

We worshipped money as a god—
gnawing on nothing;
plastic skin smooth
as a succulent in the sand—
we could no longer keep quiet—
we deserted—

We burned the whole world
to the ground— we apologized
as a formality; we paid out;
we kept going—

The cancer of the last phase
of civilization reaches
into my voice—
my finger tips—
we held hands as we jumped—
we turned into liquid—

Prefabricated minds
spill down the grimy gutter
into the sewer that’s sieved
for bitter water; your river of life
full of garbage, human waste, torsos—
we wondered why we felt bad—
we were given experimental drugs—
we died in their hands—

We practiced medicine
by the fire burning into the night—
we could see into one another—
we carved our faces out of clay—
we wore the feathers of the dead—
we didn’t have an address,
it didn’t even matter—

There was nothing left—
we evaporated—
condensated along
the shattering glass—
biolumenesence; a map
where there was once skin—
we didn’t need to wear masks—
we were the reaching leaves
and the lichenlicked statues—
we sat still—
we wore off—

We got down on our knees
and pressed the white hot metal
gently into our sockets
with a singe—

They said that half the people
born this year
will never see the milky way—
never see their home—
never see themselves—

How many will be afraid
to look into the mirror—
how many will never know—
never close their eyes and dissolve—
never to see the stained glass
tesseraction aglow spinning slowly
hanging from an iron chain
in the temple of stone—
never to take a deep breath
or submerge their frigid bodies
in the cold clean river—

Never to have a vision
or a dream— you were molded
from the start— you sought refuge
under the wings of corruption—
even the vultures were almost gone—

How many will get the opportunity
and say no— or get a taste
and run away thinking they know—

We went in as far as you could go—
we were relentless—
we stopped at nothing—
if there were others
they were nowhere to be found—
we unearthed what they were hiding—
we disappeared—

We were not haunted
but there was something there—
we walked
until our whiskers froze solid—
until we could conduct
our final experiment—
we were ready
at less than a moments notice—

We didn’t know where we were going—
it didn’t matter—
we were already there

We ran
while we rested—
we were being hunted—
we had permanent files—
we couldn’t care less—

How many will never see the fog
thick in the morning under the canopy
of the forest— never to be stalked
by a mountain lion— never to lay
naked on a bed of pine
beside a fire of eyes with mydriasis;
we could feel it coming for us—

The electric fence no longer worked—
it was time to go downstream—
we adapted to being in a zoo—
we let them use us as lab rats—
we never forgot— we
could see it in the sky
reflecting off of their eyes—

We lit the galactic temple incense—
we never let the fire burn out—
it was burning us alive—
we scoured the dark grey landscape
for anything real—
we were sweating—
swatting flies like it was a ritual—

They tried to forcefeed us
their version of highest-bid history—
made a Greek tragedy out of New York City—
there’s too much money to be made
in destruction; it corrupted us;
it was more profitable than life;
turned people into monsters and slaves—
we were at war without end—

We had clay covered skin—
we drew spirals on the wall—
we could see them looking at us
while we slept— it was rigged
from the very beginning—
we carved notches into our necks—
we tattooed our minds—
we got as far away as we could get
as if it made a difference—

We foraged thru the ice—
we were surrounded
by a dwindling abundance—
we poisoned ourselves—
we were hallucinating
our entire existence—
we ripped our teeth out
with our bare hands—
we squatted on the tundra;
canoed into nowhere—

We were thin and getting thinner
like a rag wrung out—
like a hatchet thrown dead on
into a trunk—

We knew what we were looking for—
we were back to square one—
we had come full circle—
we weren’t coming back—

How many will never be summoned
awake by the call of the voice—
never to inject pure crystalline
lucidity on their deathbed intravenously—

 


Poems used with permission.

 

 


Follow on Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr. Info on sponsored posts is available here.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s