REPORT A PROBLEM
Vital expansions by the mobile extraction we fund by the designs of us winding round our primal core, by ecstatic whirligigs in the heat digested fully through the violence combining the outer with the inner flames with the forms we create changing by triumphant ascensions, one peak after another through mysterious storms flinging us toward and away the kernel of love God herein seeding our drifted desert space populated with mirages and convenient illusions volubly dashed by the eating lights illuminating our passions by talk and touch for the ineffable arousal of spirit in the holiest conjunctions of artistic flight.
The space we claim as the one wherein Alchemy divines material as one might summon fire from mere dreaming, stands sacred and necessary for the protected heart of the artist to burst in showers feeding the unfed mind, necessary for the holy blood of new light to flow through the inner valleys thirsting for that special drink, that one mysterious elixir tapped by the diamond pick of inspiration to prick the golden flame that none other may touch, may see, may feed upon, such that all that drives within the private matrix is called to life by that one conjuration.
Temporal fevers bleed their flak, those righteous residues sprung by coils of flesh unbending their devices of being for radical unbeing, for the completions of creation dissembling the rise to fires made manifest in throngs of thoughts screaming from the heated brain like terrified prairie dogs scrambling for their holes in the burning deserts of soul we've buried for their inconvenience, set aside as unwanted playgrounds, sinful landscapes where excess of spiritual play is encouraged, the very beaches upon which the sea-bound creature seeking earth crawls ashore for the sky fretted air, the sustenance of Apollo's palm of sun.
Can we reside in the dull zone, the silent cacophonous zone, the place of dreamless smiling zone, that wondrous zone of nothingness so touted as the home of rest, resting home, hospice of the mind and soul where the brain-belly is aching for a meal, soul-body is craning out of a nightmare hunger hunting for the will to hunt, scanning vestiges of a one time enthusiasm, wilted in the gray zone? Parking is free, lots of space to let, space for letting go of letting go, harbor of the landlocked ship, where passion has become a obituary notice.
The battlelines are drawn under indifferent glossed eyes fashioned as the comfortable windows on personal delusions of security where the means after the end preclude a beginning of another end as precipitate to a desert suited to its arid display case of fossilized souls heaving up their puzzlement while killing fires spread liberally for appearance' sake, as the masks donned to deflect capture by self, lest self be not assuaged for the trudging balm assumed the sure reality over shifting minds eroding in the dry air, crumbling like week old sugar cookies sprinkled with shards of one-time penetrating eyes.
Sedimentation that wallows in its fever to fly given the abundance of affirmation unbegotten of desire to meet demands all too unwieldy, all too undiscovered to be drawn from anything else but a vacuum of spirit where substance of beingness is questioned, where attitudes of disbelief resound in parties bound to petty prejudices and the taunting livelihood of frightened minds terrified of their own terror, are contained by invisible agreement that nothing but the lack of fear has any validity, such that the matters ascribed to inspired artists are eroded by fashions of censorship where the inner man has vanished.
Head's fogged the downpour of upswinging smiles swerving sideways off a thought deriving the new matrix where the captured fashions dance in colorful parades to seduce the new avatars and bury old guards of abandoned towers that once stood proudly afixed to the world we agreed upon folding in upon its own conception, where all the inhabitants, believing in the cleverest of lies, have fled to greener pastures and oblivion, where the new population might create a world where thought might triumph and creation for creations' sake might carry the day for night and serenade our aching hearts to sleep.
Hefting quantities of doubt reflecting manifestations of realities befouled by dreamings' escape routes, the serpentine scrawl of paths like Kells inscribing scammed patterns to mesmerize, fashioning the mundane for taut regards over suspected supreme and indisputable accords of ruling threads sewn tight over eyes and souls stitched on themselves to prove wrong is right when all the means to establish integrity have dissolved in frenzies of rash flows of lust without reason, desire without form, wants sans needs, the satisfaction of hungers circumambulating the bloated shape of gluttony, galumphing giddily toward what matters of delight become shadowed by cogent deceptions.
Holding oneself off the fogged gate, ambling in the nexus' alley watching the dead being dead with all their mastery of denying life, howling their minds and hearts for naught, driven by the fashionable guise of allowing rules to rule the fears, fixating them as necessary tapes to play at needs' calling, their drumming stiletto voices activated by thoughts of actions, plunging the vulnerable flesh as becomes its passion for living, setting fire to the dried limbs wanting what they cannot want, rousing poisoned ash as acidic salve to burn the limbs, lest they reach for the forbidden cookie jar again.
The possession of possessing remains as its own device to control controlling, its fixed parameter as the occupancy of itself to feed itself as the passionate actions deployed on its occupants to thwart, discourage and dismiss any dialogue from without, lest that dialogue be heard, lest that dialogue might inform, expand and divide awareness beyond the faux walls erected, lest that dialogue touch the hearer, bade the hearer question its domain, ruler, rules, such that the fortress might quake under breezes of mere words, may it crumble under the gentle caress of forbidden love, collapse at last by a kiss.
The time demands the undoing of time's dominion, time's directive toward its own sacristy, over what time calls its base necessity, time to redirect the fashions ascribed by time to meet time's demands to appear the way it needs you to appear, to recreate however it shadows itself in the proper designs regarded appropriate for its smooth operation, time to reshape the idea that it mounts itself on a platitude where nothing and everything is determined by the rotation of constructions demanding the ignorance of all who reap these constructions rewards, to be silent, obliging to whatever demands they make.
The ever ready fever of addiction divides the mind from the skin of the mind, burning the flesh of desire's pattern heaving a sticky web over self like an electric tarp suffocating the senses, fabricating a consciousness without reason's force over cause, that effect activates like a wildly spreading cancer, whose nature lives outside the realm of awareness' eyes, whose driving force exists below all devices to assuage progress, and the decay creeps lineaments, corrodes likeness, that reflections may only fright the afflicted, that such means to recognize self are discarded for items best thrown away in someone else's garbage.
Our touching revolves about the untouching of desire divining a touch that fashions a touch to become the cancer of touch, a frenetic assembly of touch becoming the soil and seed whirling in its mess, our limbs dissolving, faces melting onto faces, all personas describing the how and why of nothing to be undone but everything in the ploy of masks stripped by the trillions in the delicious violence of flesh on flesh, minds reaching into minds, fingers of thought, like the penetrating kiss, plunging deep the physics sacrificed for the creation of that which has no name but love.
Turning it over in our mutating hands, the volatile and unfashionable, wild and tame, blustering and coherent incoherency, the black and white, full and empty, the frenetic and calm, all threads of feeling tangled in whirlpools of thoughts mangled, the perfectly ordered disorder, that which sees eternally, that which sees nothing, the blithering brilliance of idiocy, all the particles of the particles, all that which subdivides for its growth unseen becoming the towering sun drenched cavern in utter blackness, our violent peace, all these things spoken and unspoken, we have taken to our time and place of becoming indisputably one.
We, of the vigorous largess that communicates itself through a silence wide as the universe shrinks to the size of a single wondering eye where all that becomes the mind to possess as its right to hold, leave the world we know for the world that holds us in the imagination, for in the wide expanse where we flounder for fears unnumbered, there exists that renegade particle of hope without a need to be known waiting to be known, existing for its right to exist, even as we exist to rise beyond our quiet though persistent need to truly live.
A blithering maze of actions map actions, a mobius twist on the diabolical and divine predicating what completions may be effective to resolve fury within and without. Sans the delectable confusions, I parade my instincts toward resolutions otherwise obscured by fears of fears and the concomitant distresses dialoguing with the rational mind. Attributes concealed for obsolescence are resurrected for the redemption of self; such as it is, the quiet rules by serenity in the whirling storm of fearsome knives no longer demanding what it may demand on struggling captives bound to the kingdom of fears adoring the ruler of confusion.
How does strength flow through minds wrapped in stone quilts of fears, how may it bore a hole and tunnel the self made dungeons we design so cleverly in our quiet times to assure the quiet at all costs? Can we not see the avatars of destruction waiting in the wings upon the stage of our intents to ply their devious machinations on our delicate and pure designations derived by magic within our ancient animal core to survive come what come may and corrupt intent with patterns of cleverly disguised death? We are what we are. Shall we own it?
Residuals of fear come as ghosts in fashionable costumes to bemuse the traveler to dissuade his or her arduous path taken for an easier path laden with rest stops and the cubicles of mere dreaming set aside as games alone; yet how often do these games become the salvific reality, our only reality, as we work hard to retain dreams for potential truth, as the ghosts ply their ancient occupation with intricate matrices insinuating the soul as a cancer might without symptoms until the symptoms are all that pulse with a life devoted to death, and we become a memory?
After a cool fashion away from the clutch we conceive as the limb of private passions we bear in our heaving minds as the hot quilt to bind our hearts to the oven of desire, a pattern of symbols are aroused, logos derive logos, and what becomes the thread assessment as a missile of thought penetrating the trembling device of denials buried deep within the vault where fears fondle themselves for delight of being leaders of nothing to be done but fondle nothing's treasury of insignificant baubles mesmerizing the keepers, the thieves of love steal the royal jewels with impunity.
You thought you knew the way to go, but the way to go sent you hither to the unknown. You thought matters of love were settled on the landscape fruited by vines of one upon another in the fond embrace of marriage. You thought the truth was driven unto itself by degrees of blessed words spoken under the golden rain of intoxicating pomp and the circumstance of well laid promises. Such as it is, the matrix of life stripped the mask from that body of alleged certainty, and that which was molded by one has been re-tooled by another.
It drives one to the frayed edges of its own question and begetting of its necessity; the mystery pulls at reality's hem, it pulls it down revealing the nasty bits, the untold bits, the secret bits, what drives the mind to certainty's undoing, as the matrix shudders and quakes, shreds the web off, scatters the filaments, reveals how vital the awakened eye must become scanning its own scanning as to how the lies blurred sight for so long, how deceit, coming on in droves of righteous politeness, corroded as it penetrated, till the spirit, finding at last its freedom, sang.
Then to the holy mess we collect its roudy minds, whose appetites are thick with asking, riled with a deep momentum pulsating for the plenty, seeking, if not satiety, then understanding the hunger, for as the hunger grows, thoughts combine in a spray like a million fishing lines thrown to the boiling ocean within, where beasts of its begetting thrive on agreement they should be there. So, into the larger mind we plunge, spelunking the tight passages where secrets fiddle their arrogance to be inviolate, clambering to the fits, once found, to sort our means to unravel their incipient carnage.
Exacting my bliss in the dimming light of oppression undrapes the majesty, the miracle of the opening skin, the yielding eye fleshing the inner eye, the eye of the eye, savoring the delectable, the nutritious, the virulent and capable sumptuousness of being alive in love, being able to say yes when all the no's parade and scream from vantages of fear and suppression; such is the delight you pour into my heart flushed with saturated essence flowing like a raging river through my elder limbs coming alive by your touch, rousing the roudy to its fullness and savage, smiling joy.
Impossible uncoverings are rendered incomplete when the dreamer misplaces the dream and replaces it with an expectation hefted on a raised platform in the back of head, back of going forward, along the path of an intent to serve intentions implicit to the rights and privileges most associated with an intemperate climate or bad mood in general. Thus it's made clear by the heat of claiming when the integrity bars the value system its falsifiability, whereby it can be seen how easy it is to confabulate the rituals of the right in the face of the left, being everything inconsequential.
Dove time, angel time, slipping through the cracks time, making time on the upswinging time, backwards falling up through unexpected time, we have the momentum granted by the mysteries tangling threads seen and unseen, by the regal and lowly, by the sacred and profane, we keep to the course laid out, and in the frolic we savor the grist granted, the chewy freedoms made plentiful by our acceptance, acquiescence to a power no one may know but by the knowing, the fond agreement slipped through our smiles blending smiles, flowing through kisses that disappear even as they bloom like stars.
So, it comes slipping smoothly through accepting brows decking eyes burning cool, like heaving ocean forces bursting through arctic landscapes toppling ancient visages of arrogant ice, collapsing what rose through eons of indifferent evolutions only glanced by sentient pride in the last few seconds ticked for panic that all might sink out of view before the eyes trained in thudding arrogance might actually believe the beginning of thinking might take its mind to the limit and descend to the ascent granted by impatient whims on the heights of Olympus, and by the nod of Grace who must think it funny.
That it might settle into a kind of soft awareness is like finding the fish before the water and the egg in brews of briny continuance, where substance of soul attends its necessary complexities, that all which consumes itself might fall inside the rising sense of being attuned to life's very essence and life giving lights, such as we search so valiantly for that which can only find us, we become our own blindfolds; in our thoughtful gaze we trip upon our going by our leaving, and in the awkward fumble, there may come that moment where we truly know.
From afar comes a touch, from a mere wish to feel the warmth, sip the light, eat the might delivering what mystery may only dole by Grace, by the soft touch of absolute might comes a feathery sensibility that many pass for conscious ignorance and the delight of their own fears and sadness redressed in common harrow for sliding through the maelstroms of wavering steel and glass monoliths erected for arrogance' pride, so in the fevers we suffer for the passions we grasp as means to live while hiding from ourselves comes a tickle, a poke to say, "I am."
Oh, that we could share, riding the sparks we flint, that we who feed off fires flung like spit splattering newborn stars blown from our laughing screams from the pit of our passions, such that what is ours might flow through the body of him who nestles in fears he cannot see, that he might learn the freedom we have found, oh, that we could speak, that we could show, that he could celebrate with us. Such is the wish I carry; that we cannot, how it hurts my heart. Yet, we must travel the path we're on, none other.
There is that thing, yes, that thing we shied away from by its sly approach to ward off our fear of its coming and going with impunity as the accepted way of dodging the bullets shot by imagination's pride, that we should be worth the bullets or the rabid attention of paparazzi bulbs as kisses from swart lovers in the dark under docks or wet covers grown from the hideaways where we sought satisfactions aplenty without fears of reproach or the odd regards made manifest in honor of seeking love for its own merits, such as it is, we thrive.
The Tip Jar