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Crisis Chronicles Cyber Litmag (2008-2015)

~ Contemporary Poetry and Literary Classics from Cleveland to Infinity

Crisis Chronicles Cyber Litmag (2008-2015)

Category Archives: Salamon (Russell)

Revising the Poet: The Dawn of Man (by Russell Salamon)

01 Thursday Mar 2012

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Poetry, Salamon (Russell)

≈ 4 Comments




REVISING THE POET: THE DAWN OF MAN
 
The language sits there having already said everything. Every word means something already known in existence. We cannot hide behind a tree, it exposes us. We fall in waterfalls, and we are wet by a known wetness.
 
What is still unknown is the poet. He practices unknowingness; he is a master. Sages point to Nothing as the place of being, but they offer no new moves for god. The beginning point of being is an unwanted state. Being is a forever by choice. Not being is wanted by people who want existence.
 
So then what? New games may not include enough infinity. One chooses himself to be the scope of speaking, but if one is a small life, his poems are miniatures. If he takes on a lover, then there are two lives against infinity. If one includes more lives, he moves toward the “universal.” 
 
If one speaks in English he excludes vast zones: zebras, elands, elephants, crocodiles, bears, Frenchmen, gnats, Russians, water nymphs, oreads (mountain girls), waitresses, dryads (tree girls). If one speaks French, he loses most of the planet. So what is left?
 
Poetry carries viewpoints in its words. It gives ways to be. It is something to do. And we are human because it was something interesting to do. We are dead because the despair of being trapped in human bodies drives us to philosophy. Philosophy kills. It sets limits on action. It limits god. It even kills god and replaces him with brain chemicals. It invents death philosophy to solve the problems of living consecutive trapped lives.
 
But what I am saying is philosophy, so there must be exceptions to death. What do we do then? How do we continue the game and still have us alive at the end of immortality? 
 
We revise the poet.
 
We grab him by his infinite throat and say, your god department is falling down on the job of creating civilizations. Right away we insist on work. The poems must sweat with eternal viewpoints. A poet is not a large enough god. We slap him about his soul.
 
The generals have wider death zones than a poet has living zones. The generals have better money and more slaves and cannon fodder and recruits for the noble purpose of giving one’s life uselessly for his country, out of love. Out of poetry. Death’s poetry is more awe inspiring. The smart bombs are more logical. The effects created on our friends, the enemies, are more impressive than a sonnet about love.
 
How do we revise the poet so that he can out-think and out-smart the glorious nuclear red glare giving proof through the night that we do not care for the infinite part, the immortal part of man? We crush those parts. We are tough guys. Don’t mess with us, we work with the logic of a cliff falling on you. We win, you die.
 
How do we revise poets so that they can carry superior ideas, the kind that will stop the fingers from pulling triggers, or pushing the red start buttons of the Apocalypse? Is life itself not a strong enough idea? Is it not dramatic enough? Do we really get empires and slaves out of life? Beings do not die. Opponents do not die, friends do not die. They are a delayed future fuse. The thrills come from making life suffer, from making it subservient, from the return of feudalism. From slave camps where you can hear medical diseases festering with unlimited cash from  health benefits. Then the fuse explodes, again missing the guilty.
 
Death is the only impressive game, and death owners are happy with us when we are sick and dying. They get our property, taxes, they get the universe as intellectual property (because they are more stupid?). The meek inherit nothing. The cruel steal and it works. They win; the innocent were not tough enough.
 
So how do we revise the poet to create life in the face of Defense Against Life Forms Departments. Where are the thirteen trillion dollars for the recovery of the soul? Oops, I forgot, governments are not allowed to believe in immortal souls, that would put them in the field of religion. But most certainly they are allowed to suppress the soul, even if they do not believe it exists. Then they can collect trillions to keep souls safe from terrorists. And from poets and artists too. And from love of each other.
 
What would be the superior ideas? Total personal responsibility for conditions in an ever widening sphere of ethics? Certainty of self as a spiritual being who knows that he creates forms, conditions, barriers, survival, life, unhappiness and happiness? Refuses to let anyone cut his reach into god ranges, nor into infinities of potential in other lives? Recovery of language so that it means what it says? Understood words of all kinds? Recovery in others of ability to look? The ability to play fair and honestly? Using new viewpoints to create constructive realities?

 

I know this is too cheerful. There must be cash energy in it and promotional energy behind such a plan. Nightly, hourly, ghoul news, cadaver updates, have unlimited communications lines. A poem has word of ear to only a few eyes. How do we revise the poet into smart explosions? We still have word of mouth. And because of Thomas Jefferson, we still have the idea of free speech. The idea of free speech. Nice idea.
 
We can hide poems in a song, movie, drama, political oratory. We whisper, “You are an immortal spiritual being who has been under attack for trillions of years and you have lost all recall of it. Now you are happy to be a wage slave because you get to kick back, relax, have sex and beer and then you die from expensive medical treatment, and this is natural law. Life as we know it. And you never have to take responsibility for your acts because it was a chemical disorder anyway. And if it is not too late, you can still pick up a drug addiction which will slowly erase your conscience and you will die not knowing anything about yourself; it’s how you wanted it all along. Be happy that you are dead. It is so much easier for you, and for us.” The deceitful inherit the earth. You were too much trouble as an immortal soul. (Be careful of that word immortal, it packs too much truth and it keeps you around dazed and stupid from lifetime to lifetime. We have almost gotten rid of that word. It is chemically not cool to be who you really are.)
 
We have the idea of responsibility for the creation of civilizations in the face of death. Dead people are a minority who have given themselves the power to die in public. You first. If we roll over we add our apathy to the bomb’s red glare we burn in the furnace of defeat. So how do we revise the poet? There are little steps. Answer your letters. Clean your room. Use a dictionary. Make it your business to have a living planet to get reborn to. We are our own future children. This universe does respond to reason and our enemies have found it useful to align themselves with bombs as a way of thinking in a flash of burning bodies. Their fingers are on the triggers and they itch. They do not itch with creation of life.
 
We need larger lives, larger beings, larger minds, we need poems that carry living cities in their words. We must recover abandoned creation powers. I do not know how to revise poets, nor how to rescue slaves, unless it is live communication among all beings. Negative conditions are created and probably wanted, reformers are a pain in the heartbreak. And the heartbreak is so delicious, it is a way to go extinct. Maybe each of us will have to find the first line of a living poem and step into its forward-moving tide. Other poems descend into the abyss: drug poems, war poems, angry poems. The intention to destroy shows off its power, but it is a parasite power. It can only destroy life. Life is the first power.
 
Poets are of the first power. They create the living eyes of living cities. The virgin futures are awake and waiting with open eyes. Your friends are already there among vineyards and apple orchards. The bread is in the oven and the butter churned. But what if we give a future and nobody comes? The poets, the artists, ethics magistrates, course supervisors, ethical beings, are planks in the bridge over the abyss. The poet may want to become a bridge with poems as transparent arms embracing his fellow beings. Poets may want to become recruiters for the Dawn of Man. 
 
I don’t know. Idealism is suspicious. So far “realists” have stolen reality and have unlimited cash and the votes. Under their care we have many ways to die and even then, we have not been “saved.” I remember having had this conversation in 548 BC under a porch in Athens. Personal responsibility for the city seemed like a good idea back then too. Didn’t catch on. A philosophy delayed personal responsibility by laying it at the feet of an external savior not you. You just obey now and you will be rewarded in the sky later. 

 

Elsewhereness, spectatorism, escape by death and illiteracy are still popular. Death is the easy slide out. But it has a drawback, there is no bottom door. We come back. Here we still are on each other’s nerves. What would be the idea strong enough to stop the encroaching Dark Ages?  Who is illuminated enough to flash over the land with unlimited future worlds? And who will bring us into being on actual dirt? 
 
I vote for us. Seems like it is our unfinished work.

October 25, 2003
Copyright © 2003 by Russell Salamon. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.



* * *


Recommended Russell Salamon works include Descent into Cleveland (1994, Words & Pictures Press), Woodsmoke & Green Tea (2006, deep cleveland press), and Ascent from Cleveland: Wild Heart / Steel Phoenix (2008, Freedonia Press).  You may contact the author at thesalamons@earthlink.net.

Embrace of Pretense (by Russell Salamon)

31 Monday Oct 2011

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Cleveland, Poetry, Salamon (Russell)

≈ 2 Comments






Embrace of Pretense

 

Do you feel this embrace of pretense,

two souls in joyous kiss? The less

solid I am the more true I am. No time 

passes; it only seems to hold our play.

We feel pain and loss, sensations and

depths of war, and action. There is no 

need to feel condemned by eternal life.

Life is not a life-sentence. It is choice.

All lives and forms are self-chosen

pretenses.


 

The great swindle was loss

of pretense–the effervescent

imagination sees things to see.

Let me show you animals who eat

stones–takes a long time in little

bites–lichen, the rust on stones;

lizards the slick thoughts of stones.

 

You know how much I hate serious

time. Let’s jump out of the water

as fish in big splashing loops and

breathe the air spectrum, one gas

at a time. How oxygen tastes, how

helium, how chromium, vanadium,

wampum; how silly the snails feel

walking on their stomach foot, tasting

dirt and plant juices. Ah, good idea.

Let’s stick tongues on our feet and

go walking in the swamp.

 


Girl With Green Eyes 73

by Russell Salamon
October 27, 2011



* * *

Recommended Russell Salamon works include Descent into Cleveland (1994, Words & Pictures Press), Woodsmoke & Green Tea (2006, deep cleveland press), and Ascent from Cleveland: Wild Heart / Steel Phoenix (2008, Freedonia Press).  You may contact the author at thesalamons@earthlink.net.

Invisible Poem 83 (by Russell Salamon)

21 Thursday Jul 2011

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Poetry, Salamon (Russell)

≈ 2 Comments




Invisible Poem 83


The mountains in non-existence
above highest peaks of souls
and even real time keep calling us
with strange freedom. They keep
making us exist for them. We sleep
through calling silences. We dismiss
their breath as winds, and sometimes
we think we are just imagining it, as if
because thought has no substance
it does not exist.

We set out on a windy day; footing
is treacherous on icy ridges, gasps
of depth follow us with every step.
If we did not know we are faith we
would be terrified, It is hard to be
faith at great heights in a body.
Easy to let go and be a native
breath in the white fire.

We see from small roof of the earth
a thousand of miles of cold land,
other jagged ranges of stone, but
the bodies are freezing and there
is no air enough to stay. We step
on the first air step in sharp sunlight
and we rise. This is not imagined,
we can see what we are doing. The
bare mountains of light are here.


 

—Russell Salamon

July 21, 2011



* * *

Recommended Russell Salamon works include Descent into Cleveland (1994, Words & Pictures Press), Woodsmoke & Green Tea (2006, deep cleveland press), and Ascent from Cleveland: Wild Heart / Steel Phoenix (2008, Freedonia Press).  You may contact the author at thesalamons@earthlink.net.

State of Man (by Russell Salamon)

02 Sunday Jan 2011

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Essays, Poetry, Religion, Salamon (Russell)

≈ 2 Comments

STATE OF MAN

 

The
state of god is the state of man. I want to make god in you. Hello,
hello, our resurrection devices, we lift each other into the hosanna,
hallelujah, en-theos-iasm of who we mean by Life. Visible Life can be
cared for, loved, set free, appreciated. Something can be done about the
invisible state of god by looking at visible life forms and their
conditions. The promised later states of heaven and hell are ways to say
how we are doing now. At C
hristmas
time (or your holiday) the good will, care, appreciation, the raised
emotional tones, the hints of heaven in your eyes, that is where we live
from. The Origin Point of good will is the divine point. It is not much
to do: one assumes the state of original Faith and breathes in and
out.. Make sure of the out. Holding your breath of Faith might turn you
into a winter scene with forty foot snowdrifts that reach up to the
power lines. I want to find the obvious divinity. You
smile–aha–paydirt, pay angel breath, payload. Repayment for all the
other flows of good wishes among the lives, children, women, returning
servicemen whose daughters have been longing for the moment of
astonishment of your return. Reconnection–the completed state of god.
We are doing well today. The future world is here for at least a few
days. Then the past may come with its baggage, will try to sell you a
disease or murder, but today, in this blue morning air cool as dreams,
spills all our good wishes across the land. Merry future world, merry
freedom across the lands and minds. We have been waiting to find each
other. We are found. You are so beautiful. You too, tough guy.

 
—Russell Salamon
December 25, 2010

* * *

Recommended Russell Salamon works include Descent into Cleveland (1994, Words & Pictures Press), Woodsmoke & Green Tea (2006, deep cleveland press), and Ascent from Cleveland: Wild Heart / Steel Phoenix (2008, Freedonia Press).  You may contact the author at thesalamons@earthlink.net.

Note for the Day 2 (by Russell Salamon)

20 Monday Dec 2010

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Cleveland, Poetry, Salamon (Russell)

≈ Leave a comment



NOTE FOR THE DAY 2

 

It is raining. New grass lights

green rooms where angels split

light into red colors and shout

green trumpet slogans: time,

time, delirious vortex, simmer

water, sight reverberations.

 

If this is presence, it must be

presence of soul, wash of slick

green water carrying sky time–

if these are real then real is souls

breathing animate stones. And

if this is imagination then life is

present in your eyes.

 

If this is rain then it must be

thoughts falling clean, clean;

light falling transparent water,

steam angels, green grass minds.

If you are with me then this must

be the eternal moment in your

consent to see universes.

 

And if it is time falling in drops

of known water, then wet skin

and cold winter define how

miracles drive green time.

 
–Russell Salamon

December 18, 2010



* * *

Recommended Russell Salamon works include Descent into Cleveland (1994, Words & Pictures Press), Woodsmoke & Green Tea (2006, deep cleveland press), and Ascent from Cleveland: Wild Heart / Steel Phoenix (2008, Freedonia Press).  You may contact the author at thesalamons@earthlink.net.

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