REPORT A PROBLEM
Sutured to the trickled estuary on the landscape stretched beneath the checkbooked eyes, I trod the paths pebbled by fossilized tears and the ancient dried sweat of the gods who fell by indifference for lacking heart when that heart swelled beyond its limits and burst, releasing the jewels of the trapped souls begging for attention in the maelstrom of now; by the future streams and the backwaters of the past's quadmire, it is felt unimaginably surreal for that which can be touched has been put away for the preservation of self, as constued viable to the windswept streets bleeding time.
Funding the ever expanding tsunami of mind triggered by the sparked soul, flinted in a fury when the alchemy of touch by cause and the diametric effects, bleeds it's happy acid grins, dissolving intent to reach beyond what merely seems, dissolving the floodgates, to open wide, consume the unseen meat sans gristle of wan hesitation and prompt the atrophied sleeve, wherein flesh pumps flesh to discover flesh beneath flesh, to tear apart the beast of judgment that devours desire, it's open ventricle, and shred the wit wound to a whipping post of guilt, thereupon our eating bed we shall burn.
The circuitous, mysterious windings about necessities inscribing conditional embraces by need of connection, as conduits wound around honesty and deceit through the fullness found, as vision expands from the passionate clasp asking us why and for what need, by what degree are we lost or found in the values manipulated for connection, security and that elusive, amorphous thing called love? Where are we in the mix? How are we defined? By the other one, or ourselves? That which breaks through exposes truths with flaming edges; shall these blades hover in the distance only? Are they protecting us or entrapping us?
Moving the middle from the exterior round the center,unfolding the movement of its idea through an evanescent reality pulsing with change as the idea remains static, then pushing the consequence of keeping all that wishes to remain the same over the edge, feeding the abyss, as many desire what cannot be seen or heard or felt by any stretch of imagination that doesn't exist save for the few who dip the urn of the impossible, remove the core of the sore and ride that idiosyncratic creation found by the creation lost off the landscape of its begetting into eternity.
Roped out of winding, down the shaft, I found my heart geared out of blood, right left surging for salvation of nothing to be left behind, trapped in a freedom screaming the daylights out of night time's resting for a fuck mobile hanging comfortably over the coffin, happily coined to be saying, "there ain't nothing going, so it's better we sit as long as we can, wrap our bodies in a steaming calm, and when the calm doesn't come, we'll have a fit, then it's out the door, for the dog's out, and the cat's been resurrected plain and simple."
Perplexity compels the mind by its idiosyncratic mystery by delving into regions where mystery remains undefined, circumspect and a self absorbing reflection of how and why such a mind can become reflective in the first place, how consciousness can conceive three dimensional objects from two dimensional images, how the analytical self to solve a problem can blend the emotional self to form a whole that lives in its own special region quite separate from the center and circumambulation of the individual, where the soul, an enigma of beingness, radiates the very thing sought over all that compels the mind elsewhere.
Time, time, time, meticulous ramifications on a redux trial, holding its own for its own, the regard of being inside the creation of time as becoming that which has no basis in broad reality but as the means toward scheduling the need for scheduling, drawing out the substance of fashioning a matrix wherein we begin to end a cycle that's repeated endlessly for our base sense of security, that it nods in a polite fashion, drawing attention to itself, requiring no form but the idea of form alone, such that opening the envelope might bring us closer to reading it.
Assimilated smoothly by assumptions laid clearly off the truest line meeting minds melded in that secret place forged by need of connections far exceeding dependencies of societal glee, the mastering of all that winds down to construe the fevers rising, the bodies expanding, love ascending, genuine knowing becoming the hearth of that which plies the soul with passions gleaned from eyes melded on eyes fashioned like diamonds glowing in the dark, when the forms combine, when flesh flashes its primal burn, when all that conspires to fete the golden triumph of adoration meets the core, all that sits, shall fly.
Driving down the circuitous avenue, the sidewinding path, the crumbling road round the trembling mountain, the precarious dome of head pulsing hard and soft with electrical fires, shall we continue to unsee that which shines blacker than a starless eternity beyond the reality of imagination and risk conundrum? Shall we in our vamity be contained in plausibility alone, shall we reap only that which is known scrambled across the news strewn breakfast table, shall we ever find a reason to seed the stone of the philosophers at last, when the last is drawn from a cup that has no bottom?
How many closets shall we close today, how many shall we conceal, how many shall we redecorate, even hide, as the voices calling from within seem to pester like the tell tale heart beating from the floorboards? Shall we reckon the guilt running like sweat from blind workers tending the belly of a ship heaving coal in antiquated fury to fill time that bespeaks of merely ending, always ending any thought of beginning, that the labor bites so deeply, growls with such primal anguish, that no one, so beleagured, might hold their own in the grinding of such embittered pride?
The air is burning in somber revival, and fire has a face; it conjures shapes of forms falling inside us all, forms punctured by the unseen, unexpected, undreamt phantasms, as memories drift ineluctably back to a reality awakened by the darkness manifested under our gaze, then flashed with a branding steel on every mind and soul with an eye to see, that this calumny passed into our lives, then died, but with that death awakened a love that baffled us all, a love that demanded every hand take whatever hand within reach, that such a grip shook the weeping world.
Waiting in the doved air, like felt, it crosses my skin prickling with anticipation; warm gusts mix with cool, and the heady flavors ascending, rush to the core bubbling, sending fevers through ventricles with eyes on stems scanning the time for its appropriate trigger, looking for the one, the one who is her. Seconds expand, filling mind and body like hours filling worker's angst near the quitting hour, and wishing fondly grasps its occupation of passion's flowers on a rash of viral growth cross a landscape from here to here, nearly the breadth and depth of eternity shuddering for satisfaction.
Floating my heart in a thought of you fondly rising with me in a heat very personal, very loud and quiet, very singular, I have no words but a billion unpronounced, unspelled, yet felt through the flesh like diamond spears thrust into the night lighting it like a supernova, high and low at once. The dream we fashion comes as a reality blazing cross a hungry landscape peopled with imagination's jewels. I am silent in repose, awaiting your touch, feeling the river you bear colliding with mine, mixing the fond fevers drawn from a purity I thought impossible, now alive.
The rash wonder found, slices mind as a fiery blade wielded for the passion flowing out the tip of drawing out the mind, priming the swollen core where dreams have dissolved in the cauldron called sleep, as soul and flesh divide off barriers concealed for their fond acquiescence to the acceptance of the clock on the wall, ticking as it ticks for convenient impatience bubbling the body distressed and bound by linear definition, in this welter of passing, in the canyon of creation, I am created anew, resurrected as the son of myself happily helpless as the ocean consumes me.
Taste, like white chocolate on the lips craning for more, finding that nibble inciting a spiritual riot, fishing for more, digging for the ultimate, seeking to plunge the meat of arcane philosophies in a dark garret, a musty library, invading the holding of a fretted labyrinth, mausoleum of knowledge locked away for those who seek, those who need to know, not by rote, not by digits quantified and cataloged in a mind bent on stuffing its hallways with velvet Elvis and Warhol soup cans, but with the undefined and inexplicable, provoking cold hearts to fire, the flesh to shrieking wind.
The dream escapes the lips of the mind while the hoards of voices trample in excess the variations of self being indisputably geared after the waking fact to a consummation of the dream, yet the dream lives on, it slithers as its wont to become its own upon departure and arrival in the host, it fashions its becoming while being the very expression of the host's inner dance, and the host's spirit feeds as the body relaxes into the feast, then comes thoughts parading the innermost gesture reaching out and reaching in, that all we know becomes what we are.
The event of the incipient challenge to soul and mind bespeaks its volubility, its expansiveness, even as the seed of its intent nestles quietly in the soil of dreams, that all the factors whirling deliciously about the center of the event within the dream inhabit only barely the galaxy of the seed, that what is contained resounds its might by the mere implication of its being, "we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded by a sleep," so says the ancient sage who never stops speaking, who never stops caressing our very souls.
Plied with errant screws turning my head off its girders, the lofty sense of keeping abreast spun into wonders by a thundering, sent to an instability where horses of dreams rear and buck under a scarlet moon, where the savage binds itself to a fury funding no feeling of its own incapability; all fondness crushed, fondling a wonder you came this far with people as vindictive at a shot as these, then to hear laughter while you cringe in confusion, though, by all measures of challenges I've waged in my life, this is merely another curious notch on the gun.
Time, my dearest ring master, time, the variance of your gearing displays the majestic mundane, the voluble and sensate artifice as conjoined to that which fosters all that's hidden from the indisputably harsh realm where the kiss is redirected by force to the bludgeoning of those who wish to ride in the back, constantly trying to hold their own desires in check. I call upon them who say they know by displaying their knowledge by action, not by the residual screams they keep under close wraps, such that all that they fashion may never fade away by cleverly drawn deceit.
Soaking me, soaking you, and the temptations we recreate for the sinking of the flesh, the insertion and arousal fondly served for our saving as it loosens the grip on our savage grounding, such that how we are to each other becomes a furiously satisfying rain storm, and the relief sends the mind of flesh twirling in ecstasy, flinging the thoroughly drenched heart as it bursts down the place where sensations mingle, where the terrors and silences are wound together, where the funny and sad are the classic masks of the situation serving the face of loss and gain.
Salt my ocean, seed the waters with the froth and grit, my eye, the sucking engine, make me slave to the spreading horizon beaming off our stretched embrace, our elongated kiss, the source vat of our smiling energy, that in this vitality we find our fete, our celebratory time, and after all that situates itself to oppose our fires, we draw the energy to fall within the wide expanse where the questions haven't found their words, where the substances of our passion remains a mystery, even in the crush of our connection, even as we plunge breathlessly into our ocean.
Fondly, in extremis of desire, on the flowing gusts we call the ether of eye, thundering the twisting canals, the serpentine avenues where touch guides the raft through the luminous darkness flooding its path with a light as unique as the sun, we find each other grasping at the edges of our craft, grasping for each other, feeling how we go as we go, reaching deep within the need to go, stoking the fires that cool the raging torrents upon which we ride, the torrents of God, keeping how we are as the connective tissue binding out flesh as one.
The decided move to unwrap the habitat of conviviality and polite conformity, as we dip our glowing irons in the alchemical bath wherein, primal natures blend with explosive gentleness, evolves, grows, becomes palpable and firm; it regenerates the form as known to a form as yet undetermined, reshapes the morphing core on its landscape of smiling hearts by the mind of two minds sparking singularly and together, such that what we've accomplished is the greatest magic of all. As it turns within the furiously burning cool conjured by the mundane touch, the very semblance of us becomes everything and nothing.
On the river winding like a Kell in the head of a mad Irishman bleating his salvation off the nut of creation's very idea of man, that nature becomes like the dream he desires to quash when all that he finds attractive reduces to a muddy ash with the semblance of a demon in the shape of a familiar form thought benevolent and meek, then to arms it demands attention, and to the struggle it commits its sole regard to that which traces itself out on the lines of faces like the tendrils of cancer corrupting the idea of smiling.
That the penetration could find what the whirligig might've tapped in regard of being inside your flavorful sense that funds how my kisses take sustenance from your honor and the sound of capturing the true connection conjured over a time that suddenly collapses into a moment extending beyond itself outside the rude ramifications of rote clockworking, in a place where we might find ourselves secured and succored in the palm of such an oasis, so that we are found again and again, even as we become lost, the moment decides this chemistry, even as we initiate the action coupling love's volcano.
It comes to you, the disquieting urge, and the lunge into the seed of maelstrom combines the fever with hands occupying edges made to sculpt the choices from their natural forms; by design, the muscular investment occupies that which drives the function serving your deep appetite. The gathering possesses you. The selection of the choir is paramount, asthey promise to warble their praises of the mastery of your knives, so they shall, and so it begins, the onion is picked, the jalapeno, carrot, eggplant, its supple purple form smooth against the hand as the knife delivers its primary, passionate thrusts.
The odors assail me, intoxicate me, goad me on, as pungent fumes rise from the spattering bubbles, slurries of hot butter with virgin oils, a sensate bacchanalia, and the piquant stabs of garlic sputtering their tiny volcanoes into the eating air. I stab, I thrust, I slice the complaint, naked, pale white flesh on the board, I fondle the dismemberment, I caress the pieces as I lay them on the pyre, the sacrificial fires; then I stand apart, as the sizzling white frenzy of the heat combining meat drives me nearly insane with images of the delicious carnage to come.
Falling into the glittering river for its penetrating surge, the vitality of its compelling wonder without definition, the supple and sentient feeling derived by the source buried deep in the gullet of its mouth, the sordid and sacred, all that whirls by the creation in the fondness plays like a symphony in the body of those who seek by agreement, them who take the days of possibilities for their complications happily, those who delve the deepest, the very ones who discover that which remains beyond the ken of them who rear back, who refuse to play the hand offered freely.
Quietly fondling supple ideas where the key is turned suddenly without thought, without hesitation, without the grievous heat that cools ambition's fire, taking the need to excessive pulsation, that which comes into play by the function we've come to recognize as the avatar of death, the mind of that which lives under the dome of thinking alone, that which carries nothing into action without dozens of forms and obligatory red tape, the bound and shackled, the weathered place of waiting, nothing but waiting, where those who wait have forgotten why they're waiting or for whom and for what, the dead.
The threads are unraveling, their bodies are falling, shelves are heaving, and the aisles shed their core vitality to heart; the destitched frays round themselves out to the long tables, wind themselves around books, magazines, photographs, maps, notepads and stubby pencils scrawling, eager frayed threads acquire their place without a place, here; in the quietly clacking dome of the library, the eyes plucked of shame regard nothing but that which draws them into fascination and relief, a time away from the droning, lifeless, unforgiving street, here, where a connection begs their indulgence, a sign of purity, the essence of knowledge.
The Tip Jar