Manifesto (Howl Jr. (Jasyphus))

Manifesto (Howl Jr.(Jasyphus))
When, at last, it Struck me, I sat dumbfounded: I lay Stricken...

We stand at the second derivative of chaos.
We look behind us and see an ether through which
float flashes of incandescent genius.
We look before us and we see an infinitely untenable synapse,
a Styx whose gondolier waved from some undefined
center of pre-chaotic bliss.

We wonder where we are, and discover
that we are not even there yet.

The next level begets the first,
and our quest for the reigning in of those ideas,
however distant and entropically-placed they may feel
(or may have felt)
bring us to the approximation of what we sense.
We are engrossed with the least squares line that
charts our progress(?) heretofore,
and utterly disgust the aesthetic in our pride.

We stand at the first derivative of chaos,
and its name is beauty.

Beauty is the named means—averages not.
Chaos is our desired ends, a mythical achievement.

To achieve plateau,
and to imagine a "next" is a lunacy
upon which the whole of man's
knowledge is courageously and blindly placed.

Tangency is as unfounded in the realm
of aesthetic as teleology is in the
art of the inextricable.

My job, my occupation, my life's work: bask in the beauty.
My job, my occupation, my life's work: add to the beauty
and reign in the flashes of genius which surround me.

While I detest the teleology of the least squares line
upon which I stand, I comprehend the necessity of the mundanity
which it represents.

Though I detest the means—averages— (and I digress),
I-true to the paradigm whose mastery is measured monetarily-have
come to a point of comfort within it.
These provide the discrete tools of measurement within the ether.
The interrelationships within the beauty reflect
the immeasurable substrata that underlie the quest.
Reports and dollars are the tools with which we define our past and predict our future.
Discard these tools!
Relationships and self drive us inward.
Embrace these tools—means—(and I rejoin)!

Each day,
each moment of each day,
each moment between each moment of each moment
of each moment of each
moment of each moment of each moment
can last forever in our destiny and in our destiny unfulfilled.

We must strive for the latter:
for the chaos:
for the self and the multiselves
with which we can surround ourselves.

Blink, blind, and for some eternity we can judge ourselves,
not by what we have achieved,
but by all of those things that we have sought.
Blind, and for us the beauty...

No two moments are identical:
Einstein's special relativity:
Poincare's fourth dimension:
Picasso's spatial simultaneity:
each occurs at the same time in the very same
beauty in which we stand, blindly.

The moments,
spatially and temporally,
occur still, and we exist in that same ether.
Once we understand
this-once we can lasso these concepts-and
can make our place our own... We own beauty.

Chaos: Let us approximate it:
The beautiful:
Struck and Stricken.