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Am I the Matterhorn of digression from a wind-capped pinnacle that stabs at emptiness with such efficacy, such bright forthrightness, thrusting into clarity under skies swarming light, pure as the cleanest diamond, polished off a rack in a dank jeweler's shop, bidden to the fierce gears of clamp and lock? In this upswung brilliance, this voluminous dome of purity, we who dive in musty airs along debris strewn byways, foraging the way to monetary wonders, must grant the tiger in our private furnace escape, assure release, grant emancipation for feeding freely on a tundra ferociously alive with ready prey.
A brilliant escape plan rerouted through a vibrant show of hands severed in the cheering, a sky of waving hands like starving ravens diving through each other for the sake of completeness or a skewed manifestation of becoming what they ought to have forgotten as a emblem of digression, that falling away of precarious truth pitched on the ledge of reason's dilemma, how some ideas have a regrettable tendency to overlook necessary truths begging for your attention in MacDonald's while sucking greasy french fries, gulping corn sugars, making everything sweet as formaldehyde's caress by the plunge of a coroner's prick.
In the indispensable, unequivocal breach of the celebrant's right to hold the ability to release what's wanted from what's needed gives pause to the watchers of the myth, protectors of the undefined Grail, that place of no places inhabiting all Places, that crux of spiritual activity defying all that bids welcome to the scientific adjuncts, the avatars of number's Divine reign over questions relegated to the special functions that have no reason, dynamics possessing all earmarks of the realm known as Olympus, the peaks of peaks, a plateau upon which the devices of magic hold sway over habits of causality.
Could I be, should I be, might I not be what I shouldn't be, the indispensable, radical, mind altering derivative of my own idea of self interposed upon ideas of other selves relating the inner movement to the outer evolution where substances that cannot hold for completeness resort to extreme acts of indulgence to offset the gnawing feeling of being set apart, alone, adrift in a ocean of possibility reduced to choices befitting the dying or indisposed, removed from the gaming field, relegated to spaces conjoined in their mutual vacancies, that all the intersections may absorb what their differences deride.
Assuming the one is the one, not one aside another one interposed on an idea of one containing all the complexities inherent to searching for one as the one of all ones degrading the very notion that such a one even exists, even the idea that one might become what the clarity of one that devolves into after the absorption of the absolute one becomes real over the idea of being real, that in the deciding of one's supremacy in the realm of concluding that such a one has existed, exists now, and may forever exist as the coveted singularity.
Climbing the infected flesh by sudden bubbles bursting implications of fire, mounting ideas of the desolation dissolving on diving thermals once dreamt, now gathered as the fuel crammed in the vital pressure cooker lusting for the trigger flipped in fond assumptions of ignition, by eyes turned back inside the head on images of mushroom clouds fondling sun and moon coupled toward the table being set for the feast, finally finding means of scrambling expectations suturing ragtag ends of lost connections on bundles consumed in erotic fires incinerating those back-turned eyes on plains for begetting our new gods of light.
Wildcat worming a wonder splicing on the ride toward the inner galactic frenzy occupying the unspoken need to speak loud and clear as the envelope closes on the chance to see the full picture, now fading for the credits falling away from a sense begetting the mind set suitable for experiencing all that can be missed by the action of trying to see without sight but only with the eyes geared to nothing but photon playgrounds fet of expectations' notability and resolve, that all the sum of who we might be, who we are, devolves into residue sums of none.
Exhorting brave new impulses, generated in slow measure by the hot infection colliding thoughts entwining good intentions volubly, deep concern rises about simply canvassing the darker need to obliterate the function as met in the web of concern we all share on platitudes of ideal visibility overall, eyes being gathered in the matrix of beingness. That the desires we have may outweigh fears of having them; a terrible responsibility it is, indeed, to keep this capability from freewheeling violently without thought of anyone else, being drawn into oneself utterly blind to the world extant, finding reasons, at last, to vanish.
Dancing off the ideal, measures broken for the volubility contained in having the wild need to exhort all the means to pluck the extreme circumstances as met in the counting, "one, two, one, two..." that three is unspoken, has no function, nor any other....but the tapping, the predictable rhythm, "one, two, one, two..." and madness gratefully intervenes as a ghostly collaborator in the heart pulsating furiously for its meals on wheels....gotta get to work now, I'm late...for a very important... the reservation is confirmed, must cook the meal, boss is leaning on his measure of contempt, ably.
Crazy weather minding its inversions over the expected hood that won't collapse, a veritable creaming of the scored night by a rise off the communicable charts, then might happenstance become the troublemaker that won't stop fiddling with the instruments we've all been counting on for millennia; that in the vital source pit, we finally see something's afoot, something's not behaving as it should, rather, could, then not, and again a weird variation on a theme of meteorological confusions abounds, delighting them who can't stand the middle man having his middle say, then the time will speak loud, the season's dying.
You can't really tell, how you tell, your telling being divergent, contrary to the true telling, so you tell, as you tell, by the manner ascribed to proper telling in the main river running brackish, clutching splintered rafts while digesting the radical mists like mustard gas in the trenches of our habitations of occidental necessities and habits of quantification of rationalizations running amok as sexual drives freewheeling in the musty darkness, where names and faces ask for duct tape anonymity, our variances coupling each other like panicked survivors watching yet another Titanic disappear in the muscular, sucking brine of fear.
Devising the rear-guard protection of forefront assumptions unraveling like a firework display in the privacy of a bedroom denunciation of commitment, ostensibly grafted onto behaviors suggesting complicity to none but devotion, a sneaking of vitals of passion from the other becomes erect, whose lightning snaps cords of delight in disguise, that howsoever the original mainframe situates privations in the wrapped ecstasies, the other manifests like golden saliva sticking tongues with its unspoken presence, where that presence walks along, lives along, loves along all that exists within the mainframe matrix, not to ascribe or imply a wrongness, but rightness absolute.
It's only a matter of going, crossing that line, that inevitable line, that marking on the landscape in question of its own existence, its own integrity, possessing its world of heart, mind and soul, fashioning its shape on the model of an idea forming deep within inscrutable function, crossing that line before crossing the idea of it, being inside that line that has no dimension, crouching inside that point between here and here stretching the completion of the intended gesture out before all is done; going forth, establishing the going forth, all of it, the complete cycle in a blink.
Waiting for the waiting to undo necessity, waiting for the wait to become the next action unveiled, waiting, as one who knows the unknown is itching just beyond the lip of the stage to pan the outgoing delivery as trivial, crude, amateurish, begging anticipation become a rabid goat bleating its ire as the blood boils, vitriol syrup of life carousing like lava through the veins in the waiting, a still-life situated for the wait, poised as a hawk over a burnt field, watching for the desperate prey to flee the burrow to become a tangle in its ravenous jaws.
Breaking off the disreputable means toward becoming what was thought of as something odd, something not quite up to par with the lowest of the highest regards extended toward assessing attributes of gifted minds receding from view in the catastrophe most associated with assuming the worst coming from the best, regarding expectations of excellence that flout themselves when particulars of the participants don't match up with the details seen and recorded. The supreme demonstration of grievances direct themselves toward behaviors we feel are commonly found among those expected to become leaders from the graduating class, instead ending up trashland queens.
In the bush league a peculiar impulse generates its own opposition, its own opposite, that the dance might motivate the power constituents to finagle the properties most commonly associated with that which promulgates the infrastructure outward, that what's inward may devolve as necessity becomes an overwhelming influence to the contrary; how the field shrinks while the possibilities expand decides the outcome, and where it goes is how it evolves in the working fingers of your mind, kneading it as it moves, shaping it however it refuses to go, being the means by which the material creates itself or destroys itself.
A quiet time stretches to occupy the implicit cacophony I derive to fashion my folding nest, folding into a point, vanishing from considerations where the mind of becoming draws its own conclusions quite apart from the associations I claimed as vital, proven to be inconsequential, flotsum and jetsum, noise parading as significant sound, that which stirs into chaos as elements of the beautiful soup we devour as a way of distracting ourselves, making shadows play at important figures, movers and shakers, creators of the mess we all love so much, fodder for our reality shows running amok in our toilets.
Have we the right to make the choice to actually take the choice, to take the choice to make the choice of having the choice, and then to leave it alone so you can enjoy the choice without having to second guess the choice, that without the choice rendered in our consciousness significantly enough to influence those who have rescinded their rights of choice, choosing instead to become not the instigator of choice but the consequence of someone else's choice; with the matrix expanding, each crosshatch a place of consciousness, we might eventually find ourselves outdone by our own ingenuity.
A Crysalis, fashioned for flight through the skull bounded brain, is crushed in the pouring night over indigestible days conning viable thrusts of sun into moon shadows on the barest plains of thought, that a blanket of doubt moves like an omega virus over flesh unburdened of its power to invest intention with movements construing efforts of being alive over dead, then dying almost happily, while feelingless eyes, that scan approaching storms, gather data for the history books, as if the storms don't exist but as pixel points of a game made to seduce the curious to a dreamless slumber.
They blew the mind drift out a swollen investment in pride, and the double-back shadow sucker spewed the playing field with unwholesome methodologies rarely spoken in private huddles of conspirators drawing out plans for world domination after finishing their 500th game with unseen hands manipulating controls on a screen exacting skills for electronic puppets of heart that exist in suspension of disbelief holding their realities forth in grand designs of entrapment, such that, release is fleeting, disengagement impossible; all quiet knowledge accrued, merely the backdrop of an insidious presence falling up over-taxed hearts, exchanging freedom for attractive fear.
Golden anticipation under showers of white silver shattering cloud light as figments of an aroused imagination treading on the waiting flesh wrapped to a raft on invisible rivers roaring triumphantly through swollen veins by immediate lust for living quite beside the status quo venting no liability but the fierce endowment regarded aloof in prisons of habit disallowing passage through a gate often shunted in conscious shadow for the danger beyond its frame, where eyes, prior to expansion by decisions executing the means toward an end of nothing-to-be-expected yet, follow urges unbridled at the flip of a switch.
Dialoguing with severe spacial disruptions as the flower of beingness collides with action taken via intent to realize the heretofore unseen, we find the crux of creation illuminated on a broad space encompassing plastic realities subject to our wim, such that all the functions we possess for taking trials as the means to correct and inhabit weaknesses in the constructed web, are the very means to disrupt, confuse, and enturbulate the habitual conveyance of thought to physical action. We design the very means to destruct the construction that needs exhibition of the microcosm, the grand cycle exhibited in a thumbnail.
It unfolds yet again in its inscrutable majesty, by the crust cracking for its egg laid on the nest without borders, in the temperate and clamoring heats of sheer bravado by dawn of infection waiting upon the gestation thought divided by the remedy applied via courses that embrace logic, prove ineffectual, for the patterns of logic do not possess form or the ability to match intent that delineates the web wrought by instruments of logic; ironic, the infused gesture of macroscopic man might create such a thing defying notions of thing, unfolding for its feed as we sit back helpless.
The delight is awaiting need, the trigger, buried beneath its own constructions, runs amok in a freewheeling fashion to feed its flux by any means, devouring the very meat of its muscles, with function fitting itself to a dysfunction, crying out as a blinded motorman of a train out of control; then comes the whirl-i-gig and rowdy calamity secretly thought exciting, the very aim of creating delight from disaster; how eyes, drawn to the mangled wreckage, pour over their own gleaming passion for death, that death, being anathema, is adored as the goal of their greatest secret desire.
They think, and they think their thoughts pertain beyond the dome of thought, beyond the realm of thinking within the vortex bounded by the logical circus, the multi-ring fantasmagoria in celebration of the bright blazing hope generated by the sanitized river of mind, that place of sacrosanct habitation where all that is possessed in being sans instinct facilitates wholeness in the collective of suns we deem our nests of humanity, those throbbing laires we fashion to gather rational reasons why we can't avert madness, why the source seems null, why the mainstream of deconstruction has displaced our best intentions.
Are the gestures manifesting those of the Creator's idea of gestures exhibited by action or potential regarding the base of gestures being the heart of insinuations over the matters of simplicity personified when the tempo exceeds the margin of error granted the means by which the disciples of the order implied by the conjurations derived out of need beyond the ability to articulate the need, a facet missing in the great link, whereby we feel as the universe feels, we move as one among an infinite number of elements vibrating in tune as the heart of the linked element's soul?
While everything feels as it feels like nothing ever felt before as the feeling of beside itself, feeling as though the pressure of needing to feel exceeds all that is developing in the midst of having a need to feel over ambition or desire, that the functionality of feeling resides clearly in the particulars residing in the soft machine revolving around the center of itself revolving around its circumference establishing how feeling must exist if the existence might inform its coming on and going forth at the infinitesimal point, by all measures, a quantity of nothing that may beget everything.
She keeps the pressure mounting inside my eye possessing all of her in every shard or particle of vision scanning the mind of the mind within the mind that keeps store of all that crumbles to the floor, retaining the substances held most dear in the fabric of the web we've wrought; that the flesh inhabiting flesh fired to spiritual flame sends our passions roaring in absence of touch. Yet, touching continually, we form our dance on the floor ascribed as the place of letting go of all inhibitions and the arcane matrices subsuming moral quantities of our breathing love.
This being the fractal palace, the prima mansion wherein we support the capture of the grist, those matters we hold from moment to moment, being the raw materials of the all, the pleroma of the world, how in fervid desires we meet ourselves in the orbiting carnival houses bearing reflections of manufactured souls, those entities we arrogantly presume the incarnation of our deepest, most fundamental selves; how vain we trod the lineaments as traced in shadow and light on curved mirrors assembled strategically about our vain concepts of time, dirty lights strung along threads of fake gold passing for Grace.
Nondescript, by visions left in vitro of the head gone backwards in a violent awakening that one might find themselves upstream in a viscous habitation not unlike the womb's cavity of isolation of dependence upon an outer eye feeding the inner, we may come together at the very last moment being the first moment swirled in the functional vat seeking the quiet place, where matters of extreme urgency decay to a memory without connection, without assumption of the idea that whatsoever becomes a firm reality is nothing more than a passing nod to our ability to create form from nothing.
Let that which hallows the heart in breeding that which follows ecstatic expressions after shackles of fear have broken, after the residues of desires, once emancipated, flame out on the grounds of raw expressions without faces, sing. May gestures without limbs, actions of pure spirit screaming for the rash and fondly cheered exhalations like acrid oily fires on dead waves, curl up their leaves for the currents billowing their coils into action; that all the fervid passions assembled in the patternless forms arising from decay might crumble once the voices praising their assumption might be silenced before catastrophe composes new melodies.
The Tip Jar