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Wow. Here we go. The seed's been planted. The growth has begun, and to what end the new life will reach can only be surmised, yet the temptation to fill out anticipation with details befitting a full disclosure and compliance to the root of beingness itself is itself a new life, apart and together with the physical and psychical, the delicious marriage or two inseparable entities. To step back from the canvas allows the view to reveal itself as the virgin painting once again striving for a consummation of intent, will and the voluble creation of something better than hate.
Accomplished, yes, with the finality of cheer, as the glorious upswelling magnificence of the tunneling through the crusts well done rises to a pitch like the howl of all the holocaust souls at once in defiance of the monster that lives in us all, lest we become too proud in our closets standing still before the mirrors to see what must be seen, felt what must be felt, taken to heart as the source of all forgefulness at the core of blinding arrogance and pride spitted to a mind beholden to its necessity of being above the squalor and shame.
Rules...the means of death assigning a number to the prescribed box into which the voice of soul of mind cramming body is etched to the designer's delight and scorn befitting a wistful enterprise denuding nothingness for nothingness' sake and the next American Idol fantasy icon to be distributed accordingly on T-shirts, tattoos and the occasional cereal franchise meting out a really big mega-buck deal...so how can the children expect to keep abreast of ambition's ringing in their receding ears trying desperately to keep up with the market's sagging reviews of love American Style in the ovens?
Swelling days, becoming of the sun suck parade by stations yet to man in the back room message center, serve gusts of desire world-wide, conserving waste in the vantage point made crystal clear for groups consisting of incommunicative aliens patiently sitting for names to be called. The rooms are being built fast as the unions will allow thereby compressing talent to the iron tables where hefty anvils do most of the work where thought police used to rule. Well, no matter how efficient the new system becomes, the more the old guard misses the way it used to be.
The perfect segue into realizing an imminent departure from the hard laid plans sown onto the brain by the best of the worst intentions with all defects screaming for attention like the crippled ball-room dancer needing a good fix of dance videos in the store-room where costumes of old become alive anew and free as raptures coiled in desperate avowals and fears of being seen as adequate, comes to light in a bareback fashion, disguising of what could be by what could not, then sowing the fixtures of new intent on well worn tights of best oiled reviews.
...And I have it, I have the box, or I don't have it,
as it really only haves itself by itself for itself,
a box with no need to be anything
but a box with no definition other than a
box and the mystery associated
with being a box, such a delight or pain or a special kind of nuisance, a grievously cool mystery that
all boxes conceal by need, a thing that
makes boxes intriguing, a necessary thing
for lovers of mystery and lovers of boxes, both
the same and different, but it's hard to say...
it's a mystery
Boy, oh boy, it never stops, does it, and that's good, I don't want it to stop. It can't stop, better not stop. Won't tolerate the idea of it stopping, no matter how many out there want it to stop, I don't want it to stop. My mind, my heart, my soul, all of them say no, not a jot of wanting it to stop; the crest of thinking divides the quality of needing into wanting mere feeding for the lack of, and how that configures the jollity past the notion can only vet going against the nod of stopping.
This is the day I celebrate the passing of a life of pain to celebrate a life embedded within the life hidden within the context of a tortured mother who hadn't the wherewithal to see beyond the black face swelled with hatred drawn from oppressions barely recalled, never seeing sufficiently to sense the love shackled in the dungeons swept and cleaned with Lysol till it felt like a good place to die, as well she pondered in its cells, as often as she wanted nothing more than to be absorbed by the mute rock screaming out her love for me.
Now's the time for beginning again, for beginning, yes, beginning again and again, beginning, yes and yes, even more beginning to begin again, and then again, a beginning, sold, signed and sealed for someone not yet announced by the leaders in charge of the game...that was the rag on chewy fat lozenges made for antelope rhythms and sad old men living in the flop-house on Bowery and Grand, or so they all said. I didn't buy it, made little or no sense, and the grab-ass clerks in the bodega next door agreed with me; that was cool.
So the words aren't following the intentions like a rabbit in reverse of the hunter, the fox in reverse of the hounds, the war in reverse of the soldier on the hunt for his weapon on the deck of the ship after the jets haven't landed in view of intense safety concerns reverberating off the cyclical amazement in reverse of the vernacular suitable for a ritual made for easy conjurations left behind for the high priestess' embarrassments, not to be taken as lightly as one might imagine might feed the needs of the secret society as a whole in part.
Right slide and down, blown to the top, bottom side leveled up for the flow over the edge and the tanked mind caving in for diamonds in the sky with the bravest idea of beingness undecided between two people supposedly in love but too separated by lies for any hope of falsifiability, then becomes a rotating smirk of an invisible desire boiling up from a centerpoint skewed by decision. Among the shadowed inhabitants swelling with a false pride, there's a growing concern that not all of them will find disagreement satisfactory for the duration of the intermission announced in madness.
There's an idea of beauty repulsive to a mind beset on terror fed notions that mustn't be idealized or emulated except by murderer's and CEOs of major corporations with speeches designed above and beyond, moralizing to the crowds about "what's good for you is definitely better for me"... so the hands are in the cookie jars for as long as is necessary to upset the balance between the good and the bad, forget about ugly, we don't recognize ugly, it's an old device, no longer suitable for wiener eating crowds and neo-nazi groups specializing in kosher cuisine and etiquette.
This is that day called by any other namer naming but a fooling day for the weak and infirm of mind that would bend to the supersituationalisms unbecoming of unregistered sex offenders who enjoy talking about their first time at a Baskin Robbins' 31 Flavor joint surrounded by blinded loving mothers buttonholed by an over solicitous janitor demanding they clean their feet before entering the sacristy of holy raptures held most sacrosanct and secret by the chosen few who actually believe this shit. Don't ask me if they come calling after the basket has gone round the umpteenth time again.
Befallen onto faces of the past a soul is grievously tormented by nothing seen or felt or heard but by the indisputable depths of mystery fluttering like an invisible bird of great potential, beauty and ferocity with the wonders implicit to the realms of gods, long forgotten as anything but comic book curiosities swelled of tarnished honor screwed to minds fixed on distractions dancing like baubles for a junky's melody machine matriculated to study on the mission to obliterate, if not to bemuse the momentary glimpses of reality still quaking for regard and digestions too constipated for anything but strain.
Locked down in the underbelly and sweet warm sweaty by the dawn's early blight....God, how I love the MTA, how bleary you make my eyes in septic wonder of your creaky bowels where I wait and wait and wait while crackly whispers gently rasp my flowing, rat- sucked patience. Oh, the mystery of mysteries, carousing through a nervy chortle by the odors of your fragrant mummenschanz, the reciprocity knowing no bounds by the count of ticki tock tock flock o mangled rats in circle jerks on a third rail ecstasic glam fad gorgeosity...always bleeding the right fever cum.
Glory days of my after-youth by the indistinct yet blazingly clear residuals of reasonable considerations of a complete anti-schizoid man flung together by the upsweeping conjurations roused in the underbrain of the dirty wedding unsoiling a platform on which flight may be assumed for seeking the real thing forbidden by its own designs of West Village Love past walls we yearn to tunnel in the deepest, darkest nights of sweaty overcooked burritos for yet another great escape where Steve MacQueen the optimum uber lust machine merely resides as an afterthought for savage insertions no school girl could ever turn down.
May the night combine the heat of day with cool of sleep by the vortex of carousing lights no photon may own or vilify for intrusions unlike anything a likely confusion might clarify by opposing gestures on the centerpiece called I of eye unseeing for reasons of prejudice and comedy, the delightful combo we know and dread from stages worldwide where ovens still burn brightly for reasonable fees of overhead and projected claims of profit the smartest guys in the room couldn't or wouldn't accept as an alternative to sex, such a roomful of ninnies overwhelm reruns of Gilligan's Island.
Could I backtrack on the cool connivance that's infecting the momentary lust machinery of a diagrammatic fever adjusting itself to become what I couldn't if left to my own devices? How is it possible I'm attaining the most I could hope for by becoming the least I could be by exhaling a dream of dying to the envy drying up the better angels of my soul? This is the day of my best efforts to stay ahead of the spiritual weight threatening my equanimity as the give and take, push and pull ebb ever closer to the edge of wholeness.
So, the seared soul, like an overcooked bratwurst, spits and sputters on the greased pan of decisions drawn too hastily in favor of the avenues of distress describing a path I was led to believe by a supreme liar being the true and only one for a nice little Christian boy like me, like the little madman I was becoming, dipping ever further into the tunnels of anti-answers digging out nuclear questions for diamonds of mind less likely to crack before my mind could heal the way it was supposed to without the fear this was a total bust.
Good fortune finds itself finding you on the slopes wrestling ambition with the graces of humility that could couple affluence of spirit in the soulless coin of the realm...such is the paradox that greets the mind in collusion with the body on bad times beckoning the crank turned to the max feeding the flow taxing vessels feeding organs of increase by savage descent on the slopes of need grabbing after carrots dangling in the winds...so fires might be fanned, stoked by flammable blood, sweat and tears. So heavy is the cost of denying the plenty thrumming your ears.
Spinning the wheels of luck for a compliance invested on the means to vet circumstances lent too quickly in the fighting pits, blood and money intermixed on a bed of easy nails bought for the bad mother traded off love tracks in the OTB vending head, there you know how certain it sits, teetering like an old, dying man off the edge of his launching bed, his finer nature qualifying a pleasant image soothing eyes in the halls of a faux purgatory designed with honey on the tables spread thick over papers waiting to be mailed like his sour soul.
The true design for living conceals it's particulars slyly on a dime flipped for the reasonable doubts assigned to notions too vague to itemize or detail for federal records' department equanimity, let alone the rash sensibilities of its minions soiled and viciously abused by every sore sucker client east to west to the nearest crack house or church mission statement author on welfare all vying for the next cool handout, so why is it that every time a person nods in deference to their security, they nod enthusiastically for the next way to dodge, defeat and disassemble the straight record?
Not interested in interesting myself with uninteresting anal retentive instances of how to make a cake the right way with the same things, till madness makes the pudding go bad in the oven cranked too high. It's the way of the clock meisters demanding the hand be on the number exactly as the class decided, or else what seems clear will become blurry for the parade goers so dedicated to reaping rewards for ringing the bell at precisely the right moment...one goes on and on...no other way to say it for the records fixed by the anthem God.
It can get away from you if you don't watch yourself watching it become the thing you fear the most tricking you as the thing you love the most snuggled in the comfort zone, appearing the most satisfying and compact when solving what seems to be the most difficult problem knocking on your heaven's door, and the least irritating or annoying to the mother at the moment when some kind of rare device is tuned to the task of compressing the confusions into one great heap of Christmas morning surprises...and you know how much you like Christmas morning TV.
Several days have passed since I wrote to you. I'd like to make up for that by constricting the words I devise for salvation's made-for-better-sex redemption in the underwater pool struggles for easy swimming through the darkest cesspools designed by the cleverest tour guides hired for NYC tourists begging to be hazed and confused at the least suggestion of a good deal of a super compression of truth and lies. So, you know I'm thinking of your best interest on the dime flipped over so many times you can't tell one president from the other or not.
There you go...better than the last time, you bet. In the outer regions it's a hazardous enterprise when the bad boy asks the good boy out to the dance, and no one stands up to the dynamic, even when the police show up for the apple eating contests and blood letting in the sheep shearing bins. Well, what did you expect? No separation of the utter source compilations could wander away with such finesse and crawling with the bugs we invent to keep from going to school, and such a light is needed when that sheer black rushes in.
We can scrape away best we can but always seem to find the same stain coming out of the wash again and again. No matter what ideology we took on, no matter what evangelists we listened to, no matter what soul softener we used, it seemed to come out the same. We took to beating the clothes, hanging them up in the hot sun and pummeling them till they were bloody clean, till the wrinkles came out; we took to running the clothes over by the machines we made to run things down so they were smooth again and again.
Onto memories locked often under ground behind casual thoughts avoiding the blood, a day beckons a truth be sworn by faith to the uttermost convenience a person may evolve from fear and disgust...this megalomaniacal dynamic suggests a feast be had in honor of those who walked through the gusts of fire they themselves conveyed as words in the heat of arguments above and beyond the means to wrangle like back porch quarrels begotten from days when bullets were dreams and words fell not like bombs but constructions vying to this day for dreams they hadn't found the inevitable extensions.
In the cat space of rendering simplicity as a faux diversion leaping from one landscape to another by way of fences erected as medians by which eyes can fasten to eyes without the bother of collecting dust or gun powder residue for the interim's examination by authority figures too established to evolve means to communicate effectively when one subject fails to comply with the strict commands via control centers hidden from conscious view...so it's all a joke, don't you see? If such a regimen had been suitably constructed, no one like me would've guessed the truth of its lie.
How can I allow what scares me the most to bleed from the head of my ambition when all that drives it to excel is the river of angst overflowing the banks of the channel made to order by the ideas created especially for the vision I have of my matriculation...the war had been fought; no one could blame me for how I mounted my patched ego wrapped in carefully folded gauze of imagination. What seeds of deceit could I have avoided when I was assaulted by the ones who sell them without conscience? Where could I have hidden?
The still of the hand conveys a serene simplicity to the predetermined construction of the sentence not knowing how it'll fend for itself once motion decides the shape of sounds unmade with or without lips; the slight twist of the fingers holding the stemmed thread of ink fidgets ever so slowly makes its own kind of mouth trying on alien shapes looking for the right sounds, a kind of slow motion befitting the delightful and playfully deceitful, an old fashioned style picture show where the good guys win and the bad guys die but never bleed when the damsel sings.
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