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Times of monumental change mold the groaning cores, stantions of the formed and fixed, yet fevers of stillness bind our inner gestures of momentum geared to the offset cues, the fervid occupancy of need, the matrix of needs bound to the shape we've construed for comforts and the secure payments delivered on time, that the mighty gears are oiled, the machinery gleams ready, poised in a loose fashion to crash the creaky gates, so we find ourselves at a fork, a place of ineluctable decision, the place of primal fate, being the face of going or staying, creating or not.
In terms of the archetypal goat bleating at the gate within, while caring too little of the converging curl of day by night definitions of coming on, going forth, the beast rears, as is its wont, to hammer the ennui resurgent through the flesh that fears its very inertia on the plateau built in our basement, then we might actually feel the heat rise and the edges of our reality begin to strain under pressures we hadn't expected, then we might feel the goat's pleasure when its hooves meet the breakfast tables arranged so prettily in homes of perpetual death.
The freely incited mind's gristle and meat to save its own by its own, gobbled by the torrid streams raging from the mouth of the heaving web, suckled by service to emptiness afforded by our clever pulsations of techno-mind, our tempestuous bush of burning roses with gleaming faces shadowed by spires of glittering games, by the ferocious hardware softened into invisibility by need of distraction, buried by the metastasizing web of virtual reality, we fear to fight, those who see, who feel the robbery, those who have most to gain by losing the gamble, take root in merely watching.
Then we see the time we split down the middle of wanting, splitting the irony seeing its meaning of need, needing the redoubtable habit of craning our heads looking for an out, any out, has been a waste of time, but not due to finding any worth assimilating while reaching inward for a better reason for reaching out, but by staving off the selfish for the selfless; no mean feat...hooting revelry in the celebration afoot after finding that one little pot of gold we've been lusting after, then discovering its tin worthiness, how we can find the time then!
This is what we do after a fashion when we notice how far we've wandered from the original impulse, we carry our mistakes on our backs, waiting for a reason to jettison their voices while keeping the baggage for security, for validations; even so, the voices continue to proclaim loud and clear a testament to the falling, how we've taken the muscles we've shaped to grab our erring personas and put them in the oven of dreams to bake, not knowing they're already done. Then we meet realization with disappointment. We take ourselves away, sentencing ourselves to a refashioned history.
In the perpendicular habitat squirming vitals meet thoughts flowing like hardening crystals in a vast cavern where light is an unlikely fiction, where distribution of mental energy exceeds its own need to remain securely within the sacristy of the one bearing responsibility to let it out, to let it flow, allowing it to become the radiance whereby all that resides behind the mirror becomes vivid, where all that hunkers in the darkness of the psyche rears up to claim its conscious right to wind about that which held its place on the pedestal of absolute right to proclaim it wrong.
The curling in of the curling out in the constant flux of coming and going, between the two states, being at that point driving now into now, diving up toward the present, diving down toward the past, infecting both, coupling both, that impossible point, ever here, ever not here, found always, never found, that place without place, time without time, juncture of coming and going, to feel it without holding, see it without seeing, taking it while leaving it, continually, a mystery that's ever unveiled, ever open, ever revealed, yet always concealed, to its sacristy, its dominion we have no equal.
Waving off the unmetered center of self garbed in the quiet habit of official sensibility with expectation of being caught ahead of one's own need to establish security, a feeling of being in-control, may fund the right we hold for our leaders' savvy of knowing the right thing to do, that all our values heighten to exceed apathy, resort to the muscular body of our psyche's depth, the depth of the universe, the totality of all, the pleroma, as such, to keep the rights of our responsibility in check with the fluctuations of reality, being a pooka at heart.
Indeed, this thing called hope, a quality of indistinct self-proclaimed, self-accepted alchemy stirring quantities of melodious yet opposing factors factoring the web of I denoted by that which was, and that which is, going forth, coming on, becoming the self so desired in the melting pot, composed and directed into values without number, limits without bounds, notions of worth without specifics, I grant myself license to create the highways spreading out before me befitting the constructions materializing as ingots of gold once thought merely tin, now, glowing in my hands, pliable to a fault without becoming a fault.
We, as liable to ourselves who are so often conscripted by fears and trepidation of seeing what truly is, seeing the naked lunch, must take charge as leaders in the dark places where nothing is known as something we own but matters ever-evolving in the hand of the universe or God or that which beats continually within your heart, that thing indistinct yet palpable as the earth trembling beneath your feet, that plateau of beingness no one may discern for its nature of being able to sustain the heart throb where gravity pulls, even as the heart, takes off.
Found, by escape, created anew, from detritus of ambition, shaped like shaping makes, by the recipe of doing, thinking only as an after-thought, the wholeness conscripts, the body forms as it finds, world fits to the shape of an imagined hand within the hand once lost to holding, the typical being burnt as a sacrifice, this thing called now as the thing immortal, evanescent as the plans laid for success based on wanting the heart emptied of fuel that flames out by flouted expectations, the being, that which pulsates in its finding, creates this thing called brave new world.
Wandering the swelling magnanimity, the imperious core inflating its lore, that such a ream of stories might exhale its ancient bite, that all its vitriol might plume the skies within the confines of the idea of being inside and outside the thinking ball simultaneously, where fierce insinuations toward habitations and security are drawn into tight focus, where we all might finally see the piquant futility of doing nothing, where everything we've done has been for naught; then we might actually see the absurdity and begin to laugh instead of doubling over with indifference, dying of ennui, the most boring death.
It's always the same dance, in time, always in time, but not nearly always in tune, often a dissonant parade of disjunctive motes, a jumble populating an abyss that carouses like a wheel of maggots on carrion in the dark spaces between thoughts, where the hands of creation and destruction are clasped, where all the ingredients are being redesigned, reconsidered, reordered, that the amorphous forms still residing in the minds back of conscious thoughts float in a sea of nothingness, that the dance, in time, might carry forth its rhythms as masterfully as the artifice used to create its need.
Sought in the fire, found in a round gristle, the habitat of our loving is a wild sauce machine, a disquieting calm with furnace as a fashion of ancient tongues speaking as we speak in a cacophonous silence, a ruptured core dribbling over a vast plain where the skins of our two bodies are stretched, spread over an electrical storm creating the idea of rain in the forming sky, prodding the notion where a violent end must always beget a surprising beginning, where all the fingers of flame become hidden, twisting their means to hold the core, as if God.
Infected with a purity polluting the diagonal interference via vertical ascensions, declensions, and the indisputable conveyance of abject regards toward beliefs residing as residues in the plentiful cabinets in cold storage waiting for autopsy and certification as suitably dead to be forgotten; lest we shutter the dreams bubbling up, forming fetid pools dotting the otherwise pristine mindscape, made over with the skill of a master landscaper, yet defied by this most innocent intrusion, the invasion of a keepsake potion stimulating all that carries over into fears of the reawakening assumed impossible when death parades its ineluctably rarified reduction of truth.
Ah, the unequal equalities, functions of split rivers, the diametric complicity in the welter of opposite contrivances, the lurching forward of the backward flows, splintering light falling away from constructions of darkness, formed and dismantled in a fury we divest to the wide expanses seen, felt, tasted, as I call upon your softness where I rest, I lend my mind fanning out to yours through untouchable ventricles, that all the fashions of beingness we conspire to share may dissolve at once in the furious wrestle toward the one, the singular, the created heart from two, as is our incalescent alchemy.
Variations on the sliding face, slipped off the fashionable edge, drawn into disrepute, though clear on the values relating sense to fantasy, serving the beating heart pumping solemn soothe in a deep resolve, keeping the mind focused on its functionality, pressed to its core, the fingers of worldly intent require space and the means to extend beyond mere wishing, that how the soul conspires to fit the body challenges the flesh found wanting of hard experience, that all the substance of spurious morality becomes the manure of the new garden spreading liberally off the hands working the supple, compliant soils.
Trumped up in a tight vector space wanting the means to view the expanse generating out the freewheeling mind of creativity, cramped in the tunnel of conviviality, a burial ground of decided rules, fixed rhythms, labeled cans, caught in an unexpected jam, feeling the raw energy build as the fond body, full of its fire, struggles in a forced stasis to keep its own, while the slender, silvered tendrils extend from the core humming, throbbing with their bright alliance with spiritual majesty, thrusting forth, penetrating hard shells of formed earth, spurring the questions explode from a grinning answer's dead face.
Tempers, like crystals of fire fixated on the gusto of the crucible from which they sprang in a laughing frenzy, a toppling off of silent reflections, clapped in a billowing cloud of thunder, dance maniacally in the dome of head situated in a public calm wending its serene way through the musty crowds beckoning forces outside themselves to fuel their wan paths through over-worn systems drawn on arcane maps stored on fossilized ice in habitats of well planned dinner parties, carefully designed rooms of architectualized banality parading as the grist gobbling calm for a snack on organized coffee breaks.
It spirals out, this fond acquiescence, drawn from the diadem upon which the seed of the matrix hums, all that finds itself wan by decision, comes undone in a heartbeat when the fire breaks house, frames open wide, the heart, connected to the seed, spins wildly, the children dance, they know, while muffled minds stay fixed on paths drawn by machines for soulless beggars to pattern grist to gobble mush and call it filet mignon, the children whirl, no war on tables swept clear of pensive elbows, all playing fields cleared and cleaned, ready for the fallout frays to begin..........
Suddenly there it is, the thing, that bursting thing, the opening you thought would never appear again, there it is, and you rise to the warm pulsations, the deep vibrations, the swelling from within; you shake off the fear of coming on, going forth with a vim lost to nostalgia, as sedimentation falls away from the river's mouth, still waters are no more, flowing through the cavities parched, splitting the beach from the ocean, finding the place designated yours, keeping the privations secure as the walls crumble, rooms turning inside out for the splendors of seeing what's never been.
Could it be, this eye scaled down from its ancient place on the pyramid, might understand its light as food from a diseased carcass rotting under the sun, a carcass never to be buried but offered continually as the manure of vision, a unique fertilizer necessary to sprout seeds of creativity in the core of I nestled within the eye's idea, that the idea of sight without seeing may champion the need of entrapped eyes to spot curbs, or follow stripes on racing highways, or tell the tale of the path into the heart of paths without a logical reason.
In the tempermental gearshifts of ambition, the dream machine woven to the soul guides itself as the face shifter conjured then implanted deep within the soft, sparking flesh of mind, then given to the meltdown protocols often injected secretly when the eye is turned away looking within for a plot being executed without, smack in the face, and to the armor we fly, frequently oblivious to its mechanisms, that by the strength of holding onto rewards long lost in the records where musty shadows hold sway for those addicted to nostalgia and the fevers of its pall, we often fall.
What quantity of effect must gear itself to the needs bubbling out hungers of ambition on wings of artistic fires set to the tinders assembled about the gagged mouths grunting ineffectually in self-made dungeons turned sacrificial pyres for the uninitiated, deaf and manifestly blind? Can the vitality held under tons of disappointment warm the plucked forms sucking off effects made vivid by the shallow cravings? May we tender care to save the lost to be found by pity or feeble regrets drawn into clarity so to establish the regards we keep meticulously clean, free of the dust of trying?
Working silence as a lover of the invisible streams winding about the heart as it emanates its light, streams of desire flowing like maddened Kells, clenching the muscular fevers, drawing the poisons out, the hidden voices and tongues, licking the thickening ether steaming the vat wherein we cook, wherein we separate and divide, wherein we dissolve, that howsoever the creation folds into itself to the infinite, the shouting out of ecstasy enunciating wonders without words, sans a viable catalog in the annals of the present, reveals the alchemy in its perfect stillness to the quietus deemed the house of God.
Fever as the hungry animal, clever as ravenous, slips within the folds of stark awareness as the blood of an unseen heart pulses toward an inevitable attack; while embedded on the mind it draws muscles of thought out of indifference, setting a mark on the habitat of dreaming, that this house might become corrupted breeding spectral bed bugs throughout the mass we hold as sacrosanct, that, in this invasion of soul, we might suddenly rear back, as if shot by a diamond bullet through our spirit's head, and claim repose within the fray, turning bed bugs into sprites of laughter.
What words may offer the grist as malevolently joyous and violently peaceful for the binding to convene onto my restless form divested of concern or vapid worrying behailing the disease contained to fuse my heart onto a fog of roving steel? That such steel might melt then flow to the core where the eyes of disquiet beam their anima, that through a frenzied calm, shaped to fashion place and form within a habitat of loving, I might freely invite you without recourse to censure by the vitality we generate in the dropping of an innocuous kiss within the melting bed.
The distance melts in the coupling of our thoughts, by the flowing we become, giving up, letting go to the silver ether rushing the banks and brakes of our swollen hearts, we find each other as we are, not as we are bidden by gracious conviviality, nor by the drawn infection of pretense, nor by the patterns of averted smiles; we assume the fires within, as the day stretches out by the passions churning, boiling, spitting flames within, there, withal, we curl within, that howsoever the crucible fashions our forging, the alchemy under gazes of a billion eyes, we grow.
The liquid device by the division of its seed bursting the wan membrane dividing off that which is to that which merely wishes, greets the inevitable penetration seeking its own consummation when the mind releases its grip on needing security of a land that belies its own solidity, slipping steadily from deep within, as plates of earth's crust ride on indisputable curvatures of evolution, it reaches the point of no return, of undeniable infection, of the inception sought in times past only within the boundaries of fiction, this, our new earth, our new universe, expands, as our mad smiles detonate.
Hardline truths, forged in the ovens of experience, cannot fashion the means to connect to an ever-evolving plastic world, that all the forms created to fit so cleverly, devolved to meaningless phrases, non-sensical to the avatars of cartesian coordinate systems, reform when blended so cleverly with spherical systems overlaying the floating structures commensurate with keepsake treasures stolen in the raids where the leaders of the old ruling class were rounded up and blended quietly in the back yard where the debris could be easily buried and forgotten; there, in the soils of the garden, stronger truths may flower.
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