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Dr Strange #6-13 (Feb 1975-April 1976); Marvel; writer: Steve Englehart; artist: Gene Colan





            the always-aslant encounter
                                of humans and street
                      making their lives
                                in the grounds they see
            in the grounds they have been given
                                           constant encounter
                      as variable as the daily

                                           for those who see
            elliptical to the happenstance
                                the skyline to the treeline
                                           the glide to the cobble
                      the palm to the point
                                the both-step-aside to avoid each other’s path
                                and collide
                                           Hopper saw it
and Colan saw it and Strange had already
                                stepped into it
                                           stepped through it and out again


                                           but now
            his pupils are that much more round
                      the trashcan tilted
                                the better to see now
                                           the street
                                                       the face in the orb implied
            that everything had changed and that
would never be the same again

                                continued …


            … things are the same again
                      always have
                      always had
                                the second half of the twentieth century
            incorporated it
                                you either had it or you wanted it
                      either way it fed the corporation
                      everyone fed the corporation
                                           by wealth by health
                                                       by belief
                                this is the way things are
                                           dwelt at the very heart of the world
                                                               turning growing and fiery
            there comes a time
                      when the power
                                and the beauty become elliptical
                                           to each other
                                           to themselves
                                                       then chaos will come
                      you mark my words
            thinks the aged Genghis high on the edge of the world
                                aged enough in life
                      to see beyond self:             there is nothing there
there is nothing there


                                a colossus
            strides effortlessly across canyons and generations
                      fed by the needs of billions
                                engorged enough to consume
                      it speaks with a flaming head
                      too much
                                           too much that
                                it will disperse itself even as it reaches
                      the needs of billions
                                flooded through a world of veins
                                           like tumbling yellow fat
                                                       the mother is bound
                      the father is blind
                                and only all the words of worlds
                                                       will speak
                                           while Strange and devotion
                                           expand through dimensions
            growing alarmingly through the stages of their lives
                                quick to get there while
                      wanting it all
                                a son sits ‘by the blackened wall
                                           he does it all he thinks he’s died
                      and gone to heaven’*


                                there are ellipses yes
            but Strange has long known that they are doorways too
                                           he can step through them all
                                in the twinkle
                      of anyone’s eye
                                           he can see the aches
                                of option and perspective
            he can see the nightmares
                                of polarity and stasis
                      bounding towards him
                      but never approaching
                                           me             ME

                                his own speech
                                becomes the twinkle in his eye
                                           he steps
            and with a flourish
                      the sky takes a form of the whole universe
                                to talk:


                                           has undone you
                                you know of all others’ success
            and see only your own failure
                                you will not have ignorance
                                           you would have all knowledge
                      all the words of worlds speak
                                           and from each word
            you draw more closely in upon yourself
                                unable to settle on shared or
                                           compromise ‘… stand
            on their differences
                      and shoot at the moon’ ***
                                each man must win
                                so all men must lose
                                           all expansion
                                                       must take the turn of contraction
                      you cannot have
                                           sustained growth
                                ‘first comes spring and summer
                      but then we have fall and winter … Ben’ ****


                                the twinkle
                      becomes my eye
                                           I see my life
            from inside the many faces I have worn
                                as I contrive power and plan escape

                      and failed every time I act
                                [and compose]
                                the more I do
                                           the less I get anywhere
                                and the more
                                                               my selves multiply and reside
                                I could lose
                      the whole world
                                           through my asides and schemes
                                                       my power and play
                                all of the ellipses spinning
                                           to conjure my face
            spinning fit to vortex to hold my face to the world
                                           and the more I am
                      a sorcerer supreme the more
                                I am grotesque
                                           the more I gestate the mad messiah-killers
                      in the backrush and tail-

                                                       I hadn’t thought
            I hadn’t given
                      I hadn’t laughed
                                I hadn’t loved


too late
            planet Earth is no more
                      for all my fighting and struggle
            I have achieved only the madness of Mordo
                      the whole span and play of existence
                                into its opposite:
                                           is the same as it ever was but
classic classic comicbook
                      it was all just a dream
                                it is everything that is dream




* Steely Dan, The Royal Scam, The Royal Scam, 1976
** Steve Englehart, Dr Strange#10, Oct 1975, from p.15-16
*** Paul Simon, Cars Are Cars, Hearts and Bones, 1983
**** Being There (1979), dir: Hal Ashby, Chance the Gardener



being wormhole: what comes first … // the poem or the content … // the shamatha or the vipashyana … // the posture … // or the sitting?
change & Dr Strange & & Edward Hopper Gene Colan wormhole: Dr Strange #6 (Feb 1975)
doing wormhole: writing is not a container of reality / it is being the reality / itself
dream wormhole: dream / 150910
emptiness & Have wormholes: poessay IV
reality wormhole: the bottom line
society wormhole: poessay II