The Language Homunculus
The Language Homunculus "perceives" the world through hundreds of
censors connected to various parts of the reactor.
She can identify consciousness, not just organisms or entities in general.
Modifying loose connections in the monitor is called Biology.
The Language Homunculus is allowed to impose deletion rules in
accordance with the "Average Language Homunculus" or the
"Turbulent Inner Language Homunculus."
But now imagine what it would be like to follow the behavior of
The Language Homunculus and understand it.
Rules will be generated out of "thin air."
Hypotheses will be formulated and deleted "at whim."
We can understand the cardinal instincts of The Language Homunculus
without appealing to her When or Where, Howl or Whine:
nothing can stand in the way of her Desire
for she is a Queen, and she is a Nature Machine.
She can borrow a book.
She can walk and feign weariness.
She can gleam or glisten in the shadowy pool.
For she is boundless white and plunging, or tiny twisted columns of
moonshine from a flying temple crowded with rain.
Newts crawl like tiny dragons past her drinking bees, who economize
wingbeats to the limit.
She is instinct sodden with blackberry bloom.
She is a Garden of Eden blackboard on which erasing is taking place.
The Pomps of the Subsoils
"What are you digging up?" he asked with alarm.
The story begins with an exhumed puppet, a miraculated being soaked
It has huge bulbous eyes, menacing claws, and below its bared fangs
there is, voraciously, no jaw
—everyone feels a tickling at the heels; the little ape and the great
and attached to these jawless lips is a second mouth, a third, a multitude
of mouths, nostrils, vulvas, nipples.
Your body is with you, though you can't say how.
You just found yourself with it; you came to yourself and the world
together at once.
Sometimes you suspect it's working even harder on you than you are
For instance, the body you have may be stored in a drawer in the morgue.
Smells detonate softly in your memory like poignant land mines, hidden
under the weedy mass of years and experience.
Your fingers see in the night like cats, gazing into a black sky where the
star of ideas will rise.
Whether you sit on a park bench or wander through blooming azaleas,
your movements are not spasmodic reactions to clouds of atoms,
but a lascivious murmur of hummingbirds blinded by the midday heat.
* * *
Between the tip of the brush and the steely gaze, a volume is born,
pulling and pushing at once, growing and shrinking, either with or, and
at the end of the body, the mind; but at the end of the mind, the body.
An atonal logic, at midnight, no longer a thread unraveled through a
but a simple straight line, bewitching enigma, this siphon.
A white patch on a white ground: the openly novel blank.
Word responds to word in this gap, as each builds a humming of its
* * *
Where does this black sun come from?
This pain and this beauty are linked by their exactness.
Between us, the glass and I achieve a man.