Everyone will remember Oilcan Boyd, the desperately nervous hurler for the ’86 Red Sox who used to make little anxious circumambulations about the mound in preparation for every significant delivery. Oilcan meant “juice” or “sauce” or “Source,” depending how far gone you were in your devotion to it. I don’t think anyone would have called Jack Spicer “Oilcan,” or Franz Kamin in his drinking days, or GL. It was a “Southr’n” thing, no doubt. Or a “class” distinction. But there was a certain demonic positiveness in these persons, delusory no doubt, but pitched from the trough nevertheless. To be certain, to be positive, to possess gnosis, is a terrible and ambiguous thing. It doesn’t require that one believe that god or the gods are a party to one’s internal ruminations. I should think that in fact, the latter might positively get in the way. The possession of the Bezel, however, is another matter. Rising from the Bottom, where all is murky and dim, however radiantly nuanced a hew of murky and dim, a bottle of Stolichnaya is it? a bottle of whatever gin? And above it a membrane that veritably severs the worlds. And above the membrane, if not the Bezel itself-I mean the gem that sits in as the Bezel-a luminous topos prepares the opening in Being wherein the Gem might scratch the itch in the loins of extremity, if one might put it thus. And far above a vast expanse, another membrane. And above another membrane, what you do not see is the fingernail of Rudra, attached to the fifth head of Brahma; what you do not see is the naked body of the god covered with white ash, or the wives of the sages that flock in lust to be possessed of him, or the vast atonement that crosses Being herself as the deity wanders through the manifest cosmos where materiality and quasi-lawfulness betrays an ambiguous grimace and positivity…the premonition of rebirth beyond rebirth…a mask of colossal loss…a dance in the pique of nuance…a shout of wild renewal…a silence “copiously culling the flower of fire / from the pinnacle of sleepless time” [Fr. 37]. (And the Bezel was a penis and the penis had wings and the winged penis was a shrine and in the shrine…and above the shrine…and in the mist, murky and dim, above the shrine …
10 June 2006
I knew Franz Kamin in his drinking days. Back then he was known as Tom. Nothing else, just Tom. Some of his girl friends liked to think of him as the “Mad Genius” who could produce gifted babies, but Tom always denied that capability. It was always Tom, until of course, he went to New York City, a place where the past is lost and new personas, if not names , rule. Then Tom became Franz and the rest is history.