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The slow time is gone, and the fast has become the medial assumption rush to the head of my going and coming forth from the hot and cold insinuations bedeviling my skin to reshape itself to desire's quality, though quantity steps up to say high on the list of wishing, not a swamped, crashed or lost sense of being alive, no, I'm rallying only the thoughts I've established as the means to combine what I have to what I want, you, who have allied yourself to my ambling mind driven to excel the speed by which we feed each other.
Oh god, the heat drives itself to a flame out, and the body curls inward on the salvific idea of being alive only to satisfy the carnal urges without thoughts or feelings addressing the soul to its begetting. This, my journey, has led my heart to a plateau, upon which you sing your song, and I'm with you, I'm walking alongside you, I'm inside you for my desire to feed the need not just for me, no, but for you. My mind has turned to you, where my soul has folded itself into an origami of a bed to burn.
Thus, can I see how fearsome it was to wander outside the shell wherein I'd made a comfortable home, or so it seemed, for years. A connection has triggered reconsideration, that my shielded heart has fissured, that my soul has opened a gate, that the horses, starving for the open desert have finally fled, they've left the corral I assumed was good and right, was not, and in their ferocious galloping in the red dust flaming, they are thanking me. No words. None are needed. The emptied ranch is bidding anew, reaching out anew, and it has found an angel.
So long it was on the desert fondling its arid beauty; none so lost to my flesh tendering a falling up of that which was thought lost, this thing, this conjunction by the metered head of two into one has released an enslaved soul, that the measure of who I am or who I was has reconfigured the space wrapping me to a faux security and revealed the long concealed gold, this, my stretching forth by holding the hand of one whom I never thought would be, but a kindred, has flown into my mind and laid a golden egg.
The miracle of being. Such a trite sounding thing. Not. For how we've rallied ourselves to common entrapments, slavery to that which feeds none but its own proscribed notion of safety, security and a fumbling carousal of life that is no life but mere existence. What can be, is but a choice away, a mere wish spoken from the deepest well of our own begetting, then can the fire be released, then can we feel its salvific power to open the fashionably closed eyes and see behind seeing the sights, the possibilities, the rapture of release and letting go utterly!
You are here. I can feel you. Here. You are. This strange and mysterious combining, that such chance might derive the capture, how absurd to even think. It is. Had to be. No chance. Not a flip of the die. That, from our touch, which came as it was from time before this time, might generate that which will surprise, tantalize and confound; from this magic might spring a new form of ideas, yet to be seen, yet to stand tall and proclaim its right to be, so be it, and I shall praise that mighty surge with a kiss.
Surging the flighty words like crazed sparrows off the boat from a salty voyage on a withering sea dried to a bed of flowers leaping in wild, moist colors to the lick of my tongue on your writhing body moving on the sea boiling us within, roaring our waves, pounding our breakwaters drenching our skin to a diving up of glee, ha, that it's come to this, and all that might be...in the clapping of words shared innocently, rushing outward, being what they are, feathers of a bird, a great colorful bird, yet to be conjured by our waves.
Fine how words lip-synch absolute assumptions of being the best you could never be, but to arrive that plateau whereon grief redistributes its plentiful ardor into what's suddenly and simply felt as the necessary conjunction of light and dark, we say we know. We say we have the correct chemistry, that nothing might confound or corrupt the purity of this simplicity. We kid ourselves, though the mainline avenues we've stimulated for our sanity in the face of utter loss have allowed passage onto broad realms little known,little imagined, even less dreamed; it is this very creation we seek.
Then can I say how this evolved, I cannot. Then might I say how this begot the heat wherein I sink my flesh having been frozen in a tundra wasteland for days, weeks, decades, seconds without the timing or the precious reminders that the clock is ticking, then might I say how the tick-tock lies to its followers, whereon you've taken the key from the box under the boxes forgotten in storage and placed it cleverly in my mouth, like Houdini's wife on one of his escapes, Then might I be the one to keep this key for you.
Oh, you say it's time, and I agree, but what time? The exactness escapes us, and I don't care. Neither should you, but you are you, and you must follow the roads blazoned by you via your fire. How might this be the missing formula? I don't know; never will know, but that's a knowing without ultimate sensibility. We do love our thought experiments, don't we? On the first wave, it's felt and forgotten, fought against, even reviled for the absurdity of it, the impracticality of it...then it comes to its own senses, bidding us see how it grows.
In a fever I awake to the face of you smiling, and I nod to its light, then darkness bids a closer look; I do, and the delicious violence of coming together frightens and tantalizes. It is not a violence that one might fear but a violence that one might own for the peace it affords when the conjunction renders us one. Such is the singularity sought by the ocean's magic, such is the delicate frenzy we feel overtake and drown us in its boiling waves. Does this become us as an end or a new beginning? The ocean knows.
Sans the indifference once beholding us in stasis, going neither forward or back, quivering in the grip we fondle the handle. We stand before the door. We do not know what's beyond that door. It entices. It bids us through. We wait. We stand and wait for an answer to come, but no answer is forthcoming. The answer is just another question, and the door a seductive phantasm, a focus that distracted. We have already gone through that door, and the desert born of eternity stretches before us. A voice rises quietly in the distance, and without hesitation, we follow.
Yes, yes, I feel the rising. It becomes me to know its heat. The flesh, phallic and singular, mounts its own wonder why or how or even can it be? Yet, there, in the burning wind it quivers for a voice to bid its nodding. Such was the time I've found to be what trembled as a fearsome thing, such was the mass blending vessels surge with coming forth, being its necessity and completion, but not of its own right or by its right, for that was the illusion I crumpled under, never again; to the source I finally go.
You have appeared, and have become the mighty warrior shimmering in the dusky winds. The sword, worn by your side, a valiant companion, a servant to the needs arising, obeys your command. As one blending a life into a furious rush of creations' plenty, then fashioning a means to battle the cross winds to meet the urgency, you derive and complete each moment of creation, spinning the whorl in a world without time, flooding the heartthrobs, splashing colors to meet the soul's rapture, arrive and depart at once, never going, always going, being still and dancing continually, in artistic bliss.
You took me up in my fear and were not afraid to soothe. Such as it was, the conflict mounted its heat, yet there was no retreat. You took me in the crook of desire, wrapped me in warmth when the freezing fear possessed me, and simply said, "Yes." In the singular decay I felt, ashamed and fearful of reprise, you bid a new garden grow. Thankful? An absurd understatement. You do not fully know the gift you gave, the chance you allowed, the wonder that aroused, as I sought the secret, you placed it in my heart, the rapturous kiss.
Diving into the gorgeous mess, heat falling up tired flesh, freed of its cage, freed of its fear, free to plunge the inexpressible, derive its form on acceptances beyond mere desire, beyond the addled and over wrought plasticity posing as prototype and master of love, all but lies and smoke, the death of love its true desire; free now to be with one who sees unlike all who have blended seeing with me, to feel that kind of coming together, to allow the means to overtake the obstacles thrown in my face for the alleged futility, I say away, demons!
Then comes a bizarre conveyance of beauty I cannot fathom, the depth of its charge, violent and full, fondling the very entrails of its form, a leviathan heart meant to draw the mighty fears from their secret habitats, to bid the ingrown eyes flee their arid orbs, to finally see, to be consumed in the fire of its vision, a holy vision, an ocean surging vitality we crave in our darkest moments when all seems dead, dried and barren, the flower cracks through the debris, ascends to the color washed crest of its firmness, and feeds the addled soldier's eyes.
Oh, yes, a viable thought, yes, a juicer to save the lost from certain damnation, and by God, yes, you heard right, a juicer that juices for the God in you, juicing to release those pesky non-nutritional and vapid spirits from your morning with the juice that'll end up saving everyone, even those who don't want to be saved. It's a matter of real choice, not the kind of choice offered as some kind of panacea of all ill, but the one that means the everlasting can have a place in your veggie basket, and make the rapture right.
I can field how I will, then the enemy can have its game. I'm ready, will not bend to the fever grist of failure as a way of life. This mainstream device that absorbs the energy to forge ahead must never establish its home in me again. I have seen its muscular lying. I've felt its presence glower over good sensibilities that haven't the wherewithal to stand up and fight, but sit down and grovel by the lies for a crust of nothing to satisfy nothing and accomplish nothing. The walking dead have had their day. Now, it's my day.
The trauma revolved unto itself and came undone in my hand. The grip released the fire, and the wildfire spread through the neighborhood. Few survived. I did, but not without sacrifice. I find it's necessary to be alive as I can be without the gratuitous denunciation of self by the empty words of those who promise everything and have nothing to offer but confusion. They are clever. They devise and conspire with elegance and power. Their words can fool. Only those who have been burnt like myself have learned ways to avoid them and to be aloof of their games.
Suddenly a blast of pain assaults. It dives to the core where love generates, and the vitality I had but minutes ago dissolves into worry and concern over my love. Being sick happens. We all get sick. I don't like her being sick. My head's awhirl. The possibilities can only be narrowed down, sown to certainty only when details orient themselves to my imagination to reign it in, where incipient health might change the doubt draping over my thoughts of ill. She has changed my life, and I can only be as I'm becoming, the combination of her and I.
Do I assume this pose as a reminder of a reality I once thought possible or even real, in the sense of providing anything useful to my world of being outside myself for the sake of surviving a world that wanted me dead? Certainly not. I am assuming this stance as a means to gather intel on the inner rumblings of psychical beasts still alive and breathing in my face. It's being a spy in the truest sense of one, wherein I can cull clear ganders at the volatile ministers of suppression dwelling in the otherwise inaccessible realms of soul.
This is it, the optimum, quintessence derived, not sought, but by the inner winds, evolved by the unseen evolution, the diabolical alchemy all crave, all possess without possession, all require to become the other of themselves not seen or felt or known but by the chemistry colluding one to another to one again, and the assumptions taken as certainty devolve, as they must, into dust; for ash of the bed by which the phoenix arises, erects itself in the heat of evolution's crucible. It demands by not demanding, possesses by not possessing, colludes the night into day for mercurial light.
The mystic furnace is alive in us as a being without definition, location or excuse. It merely is, and reflects a face to suit the heat. Shiva's face, whose gaze floats through our maze, wherein we cheer as controllers of our fate, masters of our psyche, drivers of our deepest engines...so can we not therein see the game being played? Can we not accept our places in the furious melt of creation that knows no boundary but for evanescent ones we draw over playing fields of light and dark? Can we not see the ineluctable mutability? Yes, we can.
Day falls...and the bright bite on reality's cheek arouses the chortling laugh bristling in the quiet heart with a private cheer. Such is the realm of mine, whose playing on the fields has fallen to the height I can now barely assess, barely see as a conception both necessary and real; such contains the astounding ascension I've assumed after hubris collapsed inside its useless waste. I see this. It is not a lie. It is brimming, alive, taking shape, being what it is, nothing more or less without a reckoning as to what it is. It merely is. Us.
Cold with a backbite and the flush of gassy steel under break of climbing dawn past the chains of my solitary spying, Brooklyn clambers into day, while I reflect the continuation of a new sense of being aware, a newly burgeoned sense stifled consciously for a decade, a private sense opening pores long forgot, flinted and sparked, flaming to a blaze assumed suddenly, mysteriously, deeply burning on its own magical course beyond any ken of mine or hers. She, being this harbinger of awakening, stirs not merely the silt of sensuality to bluster gusts, but the whole of my being.
Daybreak, and the dawn of a new trembling of the clasp in a darkened laire where suddenness conspires to riddle certainty with rash questions, dash conveyance of expectation to tinders feeding the fire, feeding the expanding shape no ones knows, least of all, us, yet the joy of this expansion exceeds all bounds we've broken; this, by semblance of secrecy sundering soothe in a sacristy where love is a byword, the bond, by which all has occurred glows like a new born star beyond all hands reaching for a reason of us. There is none. There is only the bond.
Be assiduously attuned to the core unfolding lights shaping the darkness. Let the fires within inscribe its explosion of conception without. Let not the fevers of fear brake the inception of going forth, nor should consciousness of rote obligation vent away the pressures beholding you to you, for the regard is the swelling heart with untapped voices, sheathed swords, the quantity of horrors and delights to shape awareness of self otherwise obfuscated by convivial conceits in boxes held as birthday gifts telling you how and why and when and nothing more; then should you break from the fold and fly.
Trembling on the plateau of silence with screams shredding expectations devolving how and why you become unto yourself as the intrepid journeyman toward the unseen lands, untapped questions, untouched flesh awaiting the bright ascensions of its quality; therein we see the fashions we don to block and dissuade, the dressings of night and day to bend illuminating lights from sudden sight. We bear our blindnesses like coiffed pets to the fairs to be judged, weighed and appraised for their propriety and safety. We assume the temper of the age of entrapped stillnesses as the means to march toward certain death.
Driving down the unknown highway, my dear, crossing the glades of ever dark and the upswinging clarity that dives below sight as the process of primary seeing, I clear myself away from debris devolving quality and the fervent desire to be inside the body of your eye pulsing out derivatives of the unexpected touch and cross anticipated caresses; these, of the deepest needs I see when our seeing together brings the fraught deliciousness of dashed answers bubbling up such passion yet untapped can only be the source kiss of our union, thus will we become our happiest tear wrapped scream.
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