Milton's Eve Speaks

That first sunrise of remembrance, you have those first inchoate visions,
Your nascent eyes lead you to believe you’re the horizon,
But slide outside the womb and I’m agoraphobic
And full of doubt and every morning I’m aphasic
Without my cuppa, full of doubt
Like Milton’s famous dreamawhile Eve.
Did she have that last noble and prelapsarian infirmity? Was she sick
Before she speechless swooned? Speech. Speaking again. Do we have to talk?
But talk is all we have – it’s our only tool. Speech the only analgesic. Narcotic words.
And yet descriptive power. How can you build a massive tower and bridge
Without good words? Inevitably, ineluctably the silent knight with lance will come
With arms and fire to sack the citadel and storm hallowed environs, laying waste beyond
And leaving hollow dunes. An ossuary and bony mausoleum. So Eve’s body is a temple. She sacrifices every child, she bears them up to death. There’s a bunch of nothing down in her no-matter and some panting. Mum and dad fuck you up awake. Already we are born out of the deep and lunched upon another. Lunging. We are launched without permission. Christened, godspeed, no matter what we think of christ. But Eve was made to fall. She’s the offered evve. You. Born, bearing, buried. You. Slay and slaughtered. Yes, she was made to fall. God the father slipped a satanic fancy In her sleeping ear. She did have Adam to talk to but he was just another babe in the woods. Will I be just like God? A god? How is that possible? There was silence and a bunch of nothing. Nothing and the rest was dead silence. Before I was there was nothing. But nothing comes from nothing. Am I already God and this is my creation? Is this only in my
Much deluded head? This dream is real, though. Things change here and stay that way. A fallen tree doesn’t right itself. These phrases don’t form themselves. But do I form them?
She wanted to know. All she seemed to know was like looking into a glinting pool. I’d make A very poor kind of God – waiting under weight for God only knows what. But how can he
Know? If he does know, is this the world he wants? He wants this dim confusion? If I were God, what would I say about this place and all the work of my creation? I’d have to say something, wouldn’t I? I mean, I’d be having thoughts about my thoughts so I’d have
To say something about something here since here is everything and I know all about it.
But what? I wouldn’t know where to begin. Did I see the beginning? This world was here
Before me, this world all before me, greater than me. So all I would say would be nothing,
really. No matter -- burp -- no mater -- no matter how many countless untrammeled attempts to tongue it out, all it would ever be is – north to south – some meaningless terms mouthed by a parrot. There are the parental patterns of repetition. I think I'm going to be sick. They start with me and that man but in reality they must start with God. I didn’t just come up with all of this on my own. God put them in our heads. So the kids will be repeatedly repeating. Just like cattle make cattle make mooing cattle. Old wood never becomes a tree. So all these reiterations to the point of idiotic imbecilic entropy ad infinitum. Ad nauseum. Odd. Eating and regurgitating. Burp. I’m choking on the serpent’s ruminated words. I’ll die of bellyache. Or hunger. Pass that apple. I’m talking God with you, snake. Ralph. I’m speaking of your God. Ralph. Ralph. Belch. Gurgle. Ralph. Gott.