My Ineffable, Eastern Capitalism

Reality was a fresh squeeze perpetual
In the shadow of the city of dreams
The jade of New Amsterdam
Wrought from the palaces of Vienna
In the cathedral of a home
Climbing with the vines of the ego
A temptation to cover
Thy nude embrace
And the glass apple was melting beneath the sun
Set through the rift of the bay
Like the great white and gold fleet a sailing
And a western light was calling
To the rising of the east
On the loose strands of capital investment to cut
And the long debts of immediate return to meet
The ambiguities of olden souls
Alleviated in the measure of enlightenment
And forced to dance in a communal reason
The severance of the ego in a united existence
Upon the alignment of demeanour
A façade of mutual agreement
Superimposed unto itself
In order to dissolve into the machinery of legalese
A misanthrope
A harlot of high esteem
For the absence of any attachment
And drew many a groping phrase
To let them go into the solitude of thy night
Like no one was ever calling thy name
Out from an ecstatic moment
Wherein the ego becomes to the world
A simplicity tending to nothing
The limit as approaches zero
The product of emptiness and a variable whole number
That is
Emptiness always reproduces its own
The world becoming to the ego
Should the ego monetize itself
In the columns of an expense report
Generating one nuance at a time
Stripped of entropic potentiality
And by force of reason to fall in line
A dynamic structure of one’s imagining
Drawing the commune to season

How long were we sleeping on the harvest for?


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

My Ineffable, Step Up

The witches sat in an intellectual circle
Collecting their charms
For witty gestures of the abyss
To cast into the souls of their desires
Fishing for a surreal evening light
To slant through the gray summer haze
And stray the clouds
To return their ephemerality
Pour from the hands of their blessed gods
A wealth of dark wisdom
From the inner reaches of the ego
Struggling to maintain its image
Consistently against the wanderings of the mind
A mystic, Hispanic osmosis
That drove a coy, harsh silence
Into the shallow smiles of the lookers
A comedy of the true spirit
Spinning like the wind
In the plaza of the golden elephants
Dreaming all the way back to India
Where the fountains gushed
And spouted of the east
And children came to play
I was playing in the empty forests of the west
The fronts of easy despair
Watching the image unwind
In a crisis of economic confidence
All Bohemian contracts satisfied
And an alleviation of the sin
Devil’s kiss
To hold a light in dark places
Washed out and unstrung
Unraveled by the needle
From which the canvas was sewn
The betrayal of a reason
Akin to the falling of the angels
From the shots of rain
Soaked with lust
For the inner movements straining resonance
Out from the skin of reality
Stepping to the structure
Upon a relief of chaos
That congealed the crevices of a loose mentality
Wherein darkness might (rain/reign) in the moments
From the voice of the muse of logic
The blessings of the corporate gods
Come through in a cool standing
Basking in the aura of the current fashion
Like it were something sacred
Something to be left untouched
Unmoved


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

My Ineffable, Stutter the Violins

Stutter the Violins, a short film

In the dissemination of a little life’s work
The stutter of the violins
Was silenced in the cool flow of things
A tango on the pavement
Echoed in the ice
A crystalline nature of mathematics
The columns of numbers
That define the power
Like the pillars of an ancient temple
To gods that danced with men
That now step to the product of enlightenment
In the digitization of symbolism
The mathematization of the arts
Or the revelation of the formulaic essence of nature
A linguistic necessity
In the patterns of the molecules
That give birth to life
Upon each and every conception
No child of the universe forsaken
In a squander of love
I let go of the rain
To dance in the hood of darkness
Thinking in the palace of light
To dwell on the quiet edges of the streets
Working on the conceptual rim of the castle
That would stand in lieu of peace
For the satisfaction of the irrational number
The chaos that trails off to eternity
From the most definite structure of a reason
Unraveling the mind
And cue the violins

‘Stutter the Violins‘ is a short film casting elegance on the struggle of structure and chaos.
Filmed and Edited by Kevin Yee, Thomas McGovern, and Sean Keane.
Featuring rollerblading and poetry by Jason Greendyk.
Incorporating J. S. Bach, Violin Concerto No. 1 in A Minor, BWV 1041 I. Allegro,
digitally remastered by Jason Greendyk.
/
‘Stutter the Violins‘ is a part of the full length film, The Shock Video.
It is a byproduct of The Apple Juice, the epic poem of rollerblading by Jason Greendyk.
The Apple Juice is dedicated to Sean Cullen, creative of the infamous ‘The Apple’ film series and mastermind of INRICLOTH.
The musical component of ‘Stutter the Violins’ has been featured in NO!R NEW YORK‘s Ceremony of Innocence, December 2011.
Love and a taste of The Apple Juice to BLK DNM, KOEK NYC & I Roll NY .


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

My Ineffable, La Petite Mort

Last harvest moon I prayed for rain

And my prayer was answered

With the precipitation of a samba

On the old haunts of the east

It came in like the devil

Had fled the western oppression of His soul

A dance that knew no bounds

Before the dark stares

Of God fearing reasons

And I the advocate

Draw from a deep well inside

That no matter how glorious the heavens poured

No matter how proximately my prayers were answered

My banishment would mark their faith

Brand the intellect

For all the reasonable persons

Whom believe in perfection

And never fill my soul

So that I could always stand opposed

With only the shadows of rain to guard me

To leave me to cleanse the debauchery

In the washes of the afterthought

The channels of the desert

That hold the precipitous flow of the mountains

With unwavering consistency

Arid lands never shed a tear

And sometimes we need to dwell here

To purify our lust for the heart

To revel in the falling of the heavens

The squander of the beauty

Writing my body into the night

Dancing with the ghosts of Loves past

And the shadows on the wall

Hollow shells of what was once a moment

Now an incorporated personhood

Reasonably consistent in its allowance of emotion

Asexual complacency

The calm hunger of the lion on the savannah

Just waiting for the right time to run

To flee the carnal oppression of his wisdom in a feast

And to speak as if the possibility of losing thy mind

Were some well of intoxication

A reason distracted by a deep Love

Drawing from the madness

The rationalization of the status quo

As that which is the canvas

To paint new life upon

Wash out the dirt and the rubbish

The psychological infrastructure

Whose categories oppress the new light of things

Cast upon the composition of history

As things come to past tend to nothing

Hold their light and carry their shadows

An itinerant chiaroscuro

The elegant desert hand drops the glass

In an august flight of angels

For the devil tied to the bottom of the well

Must mimic in His dance

And I the advocate do dance alone

With all the spirits of the angels with me

And all the Love I’ve ever been

Exudes the apathy of desperation

To be one and the same with dreams

Unfolding in the motions

What might we throw in our Love

To catch with our reasons

To carry us beyond the lakes that feed the well

Out to seas that never cared

That never left us in contempt

But left us filling our desert with an ocean

And eroded the well of our souls in saline

Gave a light kiss from the rim of a glass

Which fell to the floor in such a way

That only the stem had cracked

And internally

To leave the piece unscathed

A newly embodied perfection

Save for the scar of western history

A God faintly calling from the heavens

Whilst from the bowl

Pours the seven deadly sins

Into the gullets of the devils

The spirits whose salvation

Seeks a better end

Than to live forever in the cradle

Of abstracted personhood

Than to hold a child’s lullaby

At the essence of the heart

That rather Loves so full

Would dance to foot with God well grounded

And carry Her off to bed

Where then she might enjoy the pleasure

Of dying just a little death

Insofar as the rhythms of the universe

Would ever give a damn


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com