“They say the world is just floating with us, like foam floats…We are just floating, rippling on the water.” Ch’Orti’ Maya


Looking for oil, Valiya Mannathal Hamza

Found a river,

But not in the conventional sense.

Hamza means five,

Five fingers in your eye,

They say, for protection from Fatima’s amulet.

A mystical ‘H’ of Vedic phonology,

The Rio Hamza flows for two thousand, seven hundred miles,

Buried two miles beneath the Amazon,

Following its course exactly.

This is the Amazon’s shadow self,

Hundreds of times wider, deeper.

The hidden river is born in the place

Where ten thousand year ago giants,

Mystical patterns, star charts, and runways

Were carved into the earth

By forest gardeners

So the gods would see their efforts

And acknowledge their children

And bless them with rain.

Or as others believe,

To mark a glittering path to the stars.

To see Orion in the tail of a monkey.


North among the Yucatan Karsts

The Kuhul Ajaws, Divine Lords

Of the kingdoms of Saal and Kooja,

Saw the future in their obsidian mirrors.

Warned by the Death Gods, Kisin and Hun-came,

The Root, the Stench of Flatulence, Pus God

Crouching, arms-folded, grinning skulls,

They are called One-Death and Seven-Death,

They hunt the Spider Monkeys because Man’s destiny is death.

The Witch-Goats appear to the Kings

As The One Who Walks in Fire,

As The One Who Cut off His Head,

The Charcoal Eater,

The One Who Drops his Flesh.

Their sleep is the way of the violent stars.

They walk with another when they lie on straw mats.

The way Amazon walks with Hamza.

Everything has another soul,

A co-essence, when I sleep I became the other.

Hamza is the sleep of Amazon.

The rain that comes from Heart-of-the-Sky

Is young and strong, pure and joyful.

But it seeps into the ground, among the filth and decay and grows old and bad.

In the land beneath the earth

The four Grandfathers, lustful, drunken brutes,

The Drowned Old Men, hold the land on their shoulders

And will bring about the end of the world.

They demand drowning.

Their father, the Lord of Secretions,

The God of Dew and Semen,

Returns to the Lizard House.

Torch-Sky-Turtle sits on a throne

Beneath the water and his realm is surrounded by other water.

Earth is the other water, Sky is the other water.

All water flows to it’s other.

The word for water means Fire Pool.

When watery caves became dry

Lady Star-House, Lady Evening-Star, and Moon Blood Girl

Took their people from Itza and Uxmal

Back into the jungles,

They left their towers, they left the Flower Mountain

Aquatic, solar paradise.

They went back into the bush.


The river is what we remember

It is our sleep, our memory,

The thing that runs beneath.

It is born among peaks and condors

And flows to the Ocean,

To the soul of creation, the womb, the abyss.

The river flows through us,

Carrying the silt of days

On which the sun set long ago,

Traces of everything that came before.

Bone and blood calcified

In wise, enduring stones, the ruins of our pride

Mix in the mud and clay

And return, return, always returning.

The river brings back the dead

Ages return to the sea where they are molded again

In forms that haunt the future.


The Weeping Philosopher, the Dark,

Man-Hater, Twig-and-Leaf-Eater,

Wrote so no-one could understand him.

Wrote of One God among the polytheists.

Wrote of the Unity of All Creation.

Who learned by hearing no-one

The Philosopher of Rivers, of the Stream,

The Flow that never stops,

In which all things are dissolved,

And feet always discover the icy thrill that jumps into the gut

That accompanies the experience of the New.

We are and are not.

There is Unity in thunder when it strikes the branch..

The fabric of the world

Is made of raining waterfalls of fire

That flow eternally.

All things and times consist of this flame,

Shifting and changing as it pulses

Through the veins of the universe.

Fire is the essence of change.

Fire is the essence of water.

Fire is the principle of the cycles,

The transformation of forms.

Devourer, burning hunger, ash breather, digester, unmaker.

His harmony is obscured, it is shadowy and dark.

His harmony hides in caves and little places,

Where the light cannot find it.

In this cave, lives the fire that turns,

The path that is upward and down,

The turning that begins with the fire of the Ocean,

The fire of the earth and the fire of the air.

It moves to the fire of the Soul.

Misanthropos, he walked alone into the mountains,

And dreamed of a dry Soul, a Soul consumed with fire,

Pure and the origin of all things,

Shunned a moist Soul, wet like empty legs,

Wet like the smell of moisture that dries on the lips.

Wet like rivers that spill over thighs and bellies.

Wet like the Ocean that opens up within us

In the moment when we cry to God

And dive deep into the Soul of the World.

Yes, bitter man, who saw love in war,

Who dismissed Homer because he hated killing,

Thought throats slit with daggers,

Spear-blades thrust into intestines,

And husbands stabbed by wives in baths

Constituted justice because conflict absorbs opposites.

Thought it right to be crushed by great force

Because of the shape of the lyre.

His river is despair.

His unity is a mound of sweepings.

His water is weakness.


Where Hamza opens to the Ocean,

Amazon pours its wealth above,

Sweetness that is light and dances on the surface.

Hamza, beneath, breathes mud and spit,

Breathes crystals, roots, and iron.

With its memories, what life does it offer to the Sea?

Who lives down there, under miles of rock and clay.

Who is born and dies in the deep river beneath?

Things that give time its flavor of age,

Things that were old when moss crawled onto land

From smoking puddles.

Lightless things that play and hide

Among spines and pelvis bones.


Freud dismissed religion

As a limp reward for the renunciation of civilization,

In exchange for panting, shrieking, fucking

In dark wet burrows under fallen trees,

And vengeful fists sore from rivals ribs and cheeks,

Fingers in the hair of an enemy,

Dragged screaming in the dust

To die a wildebeests death.

Protection from riding hordes,

Who drive wealth and softness before them,

And are followed by hurricanes of ravens.

Such dry swollen stomach gifts

Will not satisfy for long.

He saw the signal of Thanatos rising,

Shards of the beast piercing a silken veil,

Blood and riot frothing beneath the fragile crust,

Wolves howling to be unchained,

The river bearing the barges of the dead,

Summoned by hounds,

He-Who-Hates, Moon-Hunter,

Fen-Dweller, embodiment of treachery,

The vengeful children of She-Who-Offers-Sorrow.

Surtr, the Swarthy One, climbs with fiery hands,

He will burn everything.


Freud’s anonymous friend

Challenged him with the Ocean.

Against a mind that saw into the den inside of us,

Where a child we recognize cowers and fondles,

All that needed to be said in defense of the magic of life

Of the transcendent universe.

Was the Ocean, the feeling of the Ocean.

Have you felt it?

The sensation of eternity, a sensation that has no boundary,

It spreads over you and pulls you to the depths of the world,

It raises you to the surface of clouds

And hidden Everests under the waves,

Things you will never see or touch

Open inside of you and extend forever.

The Ocean is yourself, it is every thing that breathes

Or died, it is the source of every dream,

It is what anyone has ever called God.

Freud replied,

That sounds nice but I’ve never felt it.

And he went on

Taking apart our lip-biting climaxes, our sweaty terrors,

The joys that make us see yellow all around us,

The sorrow that turns our heart

Into a brackish puddle.

And the things that make us scratch and claw at ourselves.

In my heart, I think Freud lied.


One thought on “Archaeopsyche

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