REPORT A PROBLEM
In the fluid vitriol beneath thought, I seek the plenty that has no substance, the verbiage lacking logos, sense without sense, the articulation behailing what rumbles deep within a blink, sidling in sloping wariness within a shadow of shadows that remain hidden from all light, settling on the flows sans any fluid drowning the quantity oft sought that keeps the mind anchored, the senses secure, the body covered, letting all go, allowing the idea of death to savor its own as illusion and thus vanish for such ecstatic revelry, one might only fall into a swoon as the doors vanish.
Yet, how quaint when irony shouts its claim over the grist of my desires, that such desires sip on logos' form, that all sought in the ether under all compliance with reason takes from the turned back, the averted eye, the stilled mind, how funny that the cat slithers while the tongue plays, while the body slumps as if ignored, yet pumps its volubility as means to step aside the wonders of spirit, as if the spirit laughs while the flesh stoops, and such regard derives its own plentiful material gathered by the strains I engage between here and here.
So the mountain roars, the valley stretches, rivers wind, as the spectral feline we become in our raptures to rediscover the mind as we fully occupy the totality of seeing, how the eye must close with the glaring brilliance, and suddenly open within the darkness to sip on the fountain gushing sustenance without the need for the mouth to take, the body to stoop, the muscles to act, merely to fund itself as the urn of beingness, wherein all that unfolds from the fashion of reality's limits contains the fires and ash of all that has ever been and will.
Oh, the humors contained by the flood crammed inside the mind gelled on making breakfast seem rational, by the gestures sweeping the hallways where the homeless find succor and a place to disappear, for so many minds are clumped in rerun schedules, cramming their tiny pocketbooks on the investments arranged carefully in the morgue for casual reviewals when wakes haven't been fitted to the need for unconsciousnesses rising like weeds in a garden unkept by their deceased creators suddenly say what they wanted to say for eons, finding the audience bereft of ears, shorn of eyes, making whoopie with ash.
It came to this, the one redoubtable stroke of anti-luck, that the complaints of the neighbors couldn't rest with the availability of the watchers to regain their composure as the concert started without event, proceeding through its thundering silences to the end that had no crescendo or respect for those present who hadn't been warned of the concert's intent to continue even after it ended, yet didn't end by any measure or rallying hail to the chief; so, the muscular ramblings of those standing to the side couldn't find their reasons full enough to leave and let it go.
The careful wild, innate and savage, sweet and sour consumptions at the table of our private feast, we serve ourselves to the fires, lavish the hot sauces, tender meats, succulent fruits of our kisses, at the hour appointed we dive to the core, within the blazing darkness we fill it, we devour the sense of touching, becoming touch, becoming the dream of us, the very soul of us, that we bend to the flight, the leaving off of here to here, ripping away expectation of being two, toward the substance of no substance, curving about our rest, curling into one.
Having found this enchanted island, this rare oasis from all that drove me into the lonely welter of loneliness and despair, I am new to myself. I have been revived. Reborn, it feels. And the matrix of my life, a complex array in constant motion, shifted. Myriad paths, once known well, came undone. The way of my beingness, spiced and colored, shouts loud in a special silence of this precious gem, this priceless orb, this magical light called love, and I can only shout back, I am yours. You have given me that which I'd given up on, true joy.
Spirited, this fleeting gust of light in the clutch of our smiling, from twist of time to time's unbending, the grateful reminder beaming of all that isn't locked to form, lending hands to hands a ferocious glee, like at a rave in smoke filled garrets of old where eyes were gathered for the scooping, sight punctured to the gaze within by all gyrating without, membranes folded over forms dissolving, stars falling in droves, a heaven fashioned for the fleeting, moments studded with that which forbade ignorance, stamping the retooled time that made its own become unique, high as spirits blazed.
Soft is the settling fury of our thoughts blending body and mind to the edge of us, how we meld on rivers under sight unseeing. Eyes wide shut for loving play on passions for the meat of kisses spread over sheets crumpled in dreams so vital, our skins prickle by the heat tongued by my hardness blending folds of your wet, delicate acceptance, how we fling ourselves to the embrace while miles and miles apart, we are met, over and over, tilling our garden with tender intent and the volatile plunge of a loving, so unique, we laugh out loud.
The draw is taken upon the deck exploded in my hands, and the ship in full sail flew off the waves, slipped from a poise to deflect concern, landed in my dream, the eye of its narrative, and the attitude flexed a muscular fondness behailing keen lust factors and the correct stewing style of marinated meat was celebrated; your fingers played in the moist flesh ready for the pan and the shifting ocean voyage, dressed for the undressing in the private cabin, our delicate designs rose from our engagement while the meat sizzled, the sails billowed, and the ship dissolved.
It's assumed, though denied viable as meticulously suiting the gathering temptations wrapping round the swollen party room breathing like a maddened bull in the ring of the accepted undoing, I could say, and pronouncing the rounded vowels as associated with the appropriate verbs in the matrix stew, I might even scream the rallying has made the grade to become like a well practiced choir singing for singing' sake alone, that no one should be alone when we take our passions seriously as laughter might assuage the feeling we're falling when we're actually rising in a light created just for us.
Savage golden light by a fleeting touch through waves of thought, we combine dreams in fretted fondness, as the gray day washes into purple extremes for our intent to serve our appetites raging from within, roaring from the quiet place, the serene harbor where the eyes of our eyes dance in delight of expanding certainties, that the earth upon the world we create revolves as it should, that we might ride the waves of our churning ocean, finding the center, the very core of us, that indescribable blend, the perpetual wrestle, bead of the opposite's union, the totality of all.
Stunted on a blunt regard twisting its wide lack of action over a landscape having no form, waiting for the idea of form, any insertion to complete a beginning, such a strange place to be, suddenly feeling formless, amorphous, porous to the elements having their way without restriction, being situated in a realm thought known, becoming unknown, becoming a womb looking for a seed, a gesture,an insemination of thought perhaps, any kind of ignition, that the world I inhabit may resume its begetting, that I might feel once again the perpetual state of beingness I'd treasured just minutes ago.
Sufficiently digressed to the point of ending another path to begin again the solemn vitality of being together yet apart with one whose soul entwists your own within and without by the passions conjured is a world unto itself, a universe equipped to secure and succor the life force roaring gently throughout the expanding bubble, eyes multiplying, senses heightened, flesh opened as never before, feeling utterly vulnerable yet safe, this wondrous union, unprecedented though familiar in a way sans language to encompass its power, its singular life, sacred and profane, the indivisible conjunction sipping its own nectar as it gives.
How truth is malleable as something one might cook in a kitchen fueled by ecstatic whim and the desire to move as far beyond what is to what seems by merely the flick of a spoon, a twist of a fork, the dash of a knife, subscribing the guests to your need to be seen as you wish, not as you are, for as you are, dressed in a complete garb, the truth becomes as a poison to those who cannot or will not hold in the gusts becoming digestion of a whole food, as the world squirms as is.
The long extremis under waves of heat in a womb of cool, this connection of I to We punctured light, folded back darkness, elevated the slip of flesh to an apotheosis with fingered colors of unseen views expanded from the vitalized core, holding us down, binding us to our freedom, our union, this table, our feast, with substances created after choosing, a special magick blown from the simple kiss, where fire of impossible depth, a keepsake treasured in the quiet, our calm solemnity, ignited the sacrificial pyre, so it became this blending, a creative annihilation I could never have imagined.
Treasured and reserved out of bounds within the matrix designated the living circle by which the essence we feel, the essence we grasp in the voluble wrestling moment within a moment hardly recognized as a taught capturing inseamed sore looking for a healing touch, this tortured and unknown tip of an earth sipping through the surface rippled in a dust sucking storm fondled like a child handling ocean sands to scale the particular joys on a wide expanse reaching cross the ocean in a tiny cup left for broken in the dark closet most often seen for what its not.
Yes, yes, the collected fist of light we derived, destroyed the no that we are not, and no...not a no in a fashion one might articulate to deny or negate a proposition fettered to its own deniability of yes or even no, creating the rank need to falsify, for this no cannot be falsified, yes, not even denied but is, yes, yes, this no that's a yes in the bright blazing of the screamed yeses blatantly caroused by the frenzy of the scattered rash of yeses of us in the days and boiling nights of us aroused in deliriums.
Drawn from the adopted land, uprooted toward the begetting place, compelled to the wonder and freedom of the seed, made to collect the senses resumed as of old, becoming new, allowing the air to condense, voices combine, bodies dance in familial motion, being together again, all the amazement, the fascination, all the sorrows and joys in collusion by gleeful choice, finding the time to dismiss what lives behind the shadows to lavish in forms commiserating the day; nights being the resting house to reflect how the mind expands and contracts for delights almost forgotten, yet embraced once more in abundance.
My golden swift, my bursting star upon the lap of my solitude, my frenzied, calming light, my guide toward the inner island roaring up the rippling ocean of my heart, my ever approaching hand outstretched with the billion serpentine highways of your touch, I seethe with joy for the surprise claimed by grasping that hand, for the wonder of my eyes given that special sight for the chance of locking eyes with you, I am undone and remade after a fashion linked to the swell we reserve in the rooms of our choosing where love unearthed combines our feverish needs.
Truth fixates its diagram to an expanding organ upon which the fabric of reality stretches as needed by the push and pull of circumstance, such that, however one sees one minute sees another way the next, and so on, cramming a whirligig of curving surfaces deemed flat and blindly navigable by them who choose to fixate sight on expectation's certainties, such that all the forms found must fit, and when they don't, blame burns the accepting mind, the landing field, the submissive hearts and hands to death in a fashion that bleeds its own intent to serve reality to itself.
Enter the arena, see the rising dust take its shape and assume the form necessary to suit advancing intents to satisfy a hungry heart situated in a distant land that has no stream from which a nourishing drink might be drawn to sate the scrambling hunger; lest one be taken into the fray and succumb to the weaknesses of the desperate hunger screaming out in strained silences for controlling the flow of the corrupted fluids once called love, now called poisons- of-the-soul, so hard it is to see or to feel or to hear outside the deafening din.
Exit the flames, the tortured and torturing fires of fear and doubt and fill our labored souls with the cool, life flexing harmonies wrapped withal the bombarding phantasms of life, how they feed off each other's form of contrary passions, how they ascend and descend simultaneously in the timeless, shapeless void where heart molds its myriad ways of expressing itself, how the forms created survive but for a flash, a heartbeat, and a fold in space is made wherein we embrace in serene calm, fed by the special warmth we keep within the embrace of the embrace, and our love.
We have become this thundered joining by an uncommon magick, an unusual function without symbol or definition, a catalyst in spiritus vitro within a pulsating ether bellowing in silence, US, this creation of palpable light ascending from a craving under the heaving belly of desire's appetite craning for satiety, we have become this peculiarity, and nodding into its uniqueness we have found what cannot be found by finding; it has taken us now to its secret home. It has secured us in its chambers, asking nothing of us but everything, so into the vortex of its infinite hunger, we fall.
Filling out the swelling while plummeting in toward the finding of us, the secret core emanating vital fuels meeting our sources, whereby connections spark and quiver through the flesh and forms we fund in fashionable designs shaping how fingers meet desire's core ever changing in the onswept spectres of the heart, reveals itself in the grasping we embrace through energies we ride in extreme delight and pain, that howsomeever we meet the challenges, the substance of these challenges reform as we draw ourselves out to wrap the day with night, coupling in rising torments seen as video screens flashing evanescence.
On trails diving into perfect enclosures of utter openness, utter extensions of the inner realms without name or definition, that such fingers, created by necessity for private gestures of reaching in and reaching out of our ever expanding bond, define our very reality, separate and sacrosanct, here and not here, the sacred home of US, where we decide the wallpaper, the flooring, drapes and furniture, where we have utter dominion and the right of way seeking no end of going but an ever driving beginning, the present awareness of all that may or may not proceed on the bustling trails.
Is it time yet? Are we there yet? Is the room ready yet? Is the food set? Are the workers ready? Do we know what's going to happen? Are we prepared? Will it be a success? Are we doing the right thing? Can we say how it'll go? Will the responses be good or bad? Shall I prepare for the worst or the best? Is this the thing or not? Can this thing be a good thing or bad thing? Can anyone say? Are there any words for reassurance? Can I get a hurrah? There's only going. Then we'll see.
Drawing myself out as a folding chair that has no shape or form as befitting the need for merely sitting, nor is it a place for resting, nor can one look upon it and define it, yet it exists as an extension of a reality that begs its existence, its formlessness, its palpable lack of dimension, asking nothing but everything that requires a place, a realm of situation, a home for homelessness, the unfolding aspects of an unknown that's known, but not in any kind of worldly language obeying strictures of logical consistency, but as a song, perhaps, of silence.
What collection of symbols drawn from that private crucible held in the sacristy of time within time without time, held on the palm of a hand outstretched, held simply and directly as vital to the body within the collective body kneeling for humility in the act of thanks and prayer that might serve the needs called out as those few understand as nourishment to the soul? What might the enterprise become to utilize these symbols, ancient, mysterious, carried from age to age to keep the covenant aloft, free of intrusive hands, free of the lie mongers and purveyors of death?
Filled to bursting, a ridiculous temper stretched, and the rough eye turns inward to another kind of eye, another kind of mouth, another kind of soul, and like all souls or no souls, it is like itself and none other, yet like all others. A unique being. Filled with laughs and cries and a telling silence, fet of myriad means of telling the tale told, ancient ways become the modern ways again, and no one is the wiser. Feeling adrift in the sore of secrets sealed on its own bleeding, something old is new again. What better way to live?
We dive to the up and down as mates in a fusion of round, hyberbolic confusions abound, that which sings past the noun, a morphing verb, the bucking sense of saying what no words may say, what ship we speak in the fuming bay on the tip of a tongue by its begetting through the end of its storm, a loosening of shadows in the light, dark collapse of speaking within a reason for speech, and releasing as it sings in inharmonic glee, raptures we cannot know, but when we know, a diving kept, dripping out of sordid twining sacred.
The Tip Jar