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I'm steadying my arm, bracing myself for expulsion from expectation's balm, that center of security, oft faux, depicting a pastorale across a war torn plain mimicking victory on descent from apocalyptic pretensions foiled for curious perspectives painted on despairing faces slumped in exhaustion along the road, a seeming parade crowd waving flags, but a funeral dirge having lost their way to the grave site, being the very picture of disbelief swallowed like a pill for pain; that this calamity we find most convenient rigorously stays our motion, keeps us grounded, paralyzed for fears we can no longer name, even suspect.
Sharded like a delicate wine glass my arc impacts the wide dancing floor stretching bounds for living as known laid at my feet in deference to need of the unknown, requiring the going forth bounded by a habitat of intent surrounding the widening circle fitted by gears of pain for animal's arousal, and the time is now, battle is on, call is out. Readiness is all. The fabrication within extends the gestures without, forming the whole by ministration of its aching parts. A wounded warrior seeks victory, fighting in a rising fog upon a dry plain slipping under itself, bleeding.
Bound to something you cannot name, that which is called awareness fingers palpable shackles on wits with a soul crammed of mouths screaming under meticulous sutures executed on a body extended beyond its rhythms for matching the collective symphony, hard breath streaming from pores for the blood flowing in disguise, keeping the house of self wrapped in fashionable suits of armor, keeping it safe in a harbor sealed off from the open sea; we stay by the ports craning our necks for a view of the untouched beach, all the while unaware of the movie being played on the screen.
It's finding the latch, that vital grip, oft disguised, to open the way, especially when the way founders for recognition, waiting obliquely for an intrepid hand to fumble perhaps, even scramble frantically in the dark hunting for a way out, a way far from the box you've labeled as the place of creativity, place of security, place of heart that can beat without fear, your place of convivial entrapment, where gnawing fears under all fabricated smiles rumble from the core, ever rising in tempo and heat, infecting the manufactured affability, creating a joyful cancer eating away on the manicured mind.
There's a kink in the tumbling works, a falsehood in the body of the manufactured matrix we call the home of our beginning, not seeing the sense of ending, let alone the progress of our path being a dynamic wanting mutable words to garb its delicacies, the entrails being fond encroachments on the development of who we might become, not who we've been, jetting past who we are, that cusp called the present, that infinitesimal prick on the fabric of beingness among an infinity of pricks, like diamond eyes gleaming from the technicolor dream-coat, staring us down, condemning lies.
Deep fatigue spreads like a nuclear bomb blasting slow from the center of cogitation, plexus of rational thought, secret place of consciousness. By inexorable consumption the fireball dissolves vestiges of contentment threatening the harbor of peace, declaring war on the host mind, yet the soul persists, encircled by insane hope of reprieve, with persistent management of self over self by incantations proclaimed in prayerful silence; though pitched on a precarious stance, oft overwhelmed by expanding fears, spikes of heat, radiation's bullets, shotgun pellets of salted ice, this madrigal man, this homo sapiens shall not go down, shall not be defeated.
Into the raw questions I bleed myself toward undoing the matter of the questions' control existing in the answers; bringing myself to the fitting hold where the newborn heads of ideas spawn their quiet majesties, where reduction employs a growing matrix on words before construction, before their reality becomes uttered, before they're shared, before they extend themselves and enfold answers hanging rotten on dried branches holding up time-honored foundations of palaces, that such decay might be revealed as the new manure, vital fertilizer of new growth, that such a portent might vigorously entice the downfall of the old guard.
Don't know why the means overwhelm wonders of the undoing, where arcane ideas are pulled apart like starving jackals mauling mangled dogs under a cruel sun, where all that needs to be seen is seen, butchered then eaten, where a brazen place of undoing starvations' hovel, its occupancy knowing no control or regard, no censuring of that which seeps in through the ancient fissured walls, might form, a place where place becomes undone, deriving itself by the old mechanisms into a new question, new place, where, happily, souls may find their reasons entering upon resolutions sought without anticipation or fear.
In pursuit of its own by its own device created in the moment creation became an option, the mechanism arrived by an execution of inglorious means to ply the secrets of the unseen hands plying their crafts elegantly, effortlessly with sublime panache and the need to pull its fond reality from labels and rules, to pluck it from the boxes manifested by names, to rend those names from the conjured faces, to shred all semblances of commodity and secular worth from the idea of its application and resolve, that the viable core of its power may be released and embraced.
The core divests its fibers, sheds its dense, woven flesh, reveals its empty spaces, allows the wonder of emptiness its infinity and palpable scope, where the nearly invisible threads of the once solid mass flee the illusion out of tune with rhythms made manifest by summoning the primal vital energies, establishes form, creates a new path by which its reality touches its intention, where the form revealed as false may lead the heart to the seeing of the true eye in a light that drives its blades through the thickest darkness, where all that funds its former truth is found.
Perhaps this marks the wall, a kind of bracket in the flow spurring a whirlpool and the digression taunting me to reorder manifolds of mind, electrical tissues, to the mastery of confusion as the spurred funnel draws me deeper inward, substances of head following after all that falls in a rain of residual soul, and in the heart of this madness a tight sparking ball of thought whirls in back of my eyes siphoning modalities thought supreme into a clutch of expanding mud, the stuff of regression, raw materials of creation. I am about to begin again; the dough rises.
So, drawn from the center source, core of being, a light of all lights infuses our minds with an eye seeing without sight beyond eyes that see merely patchworks of shadow and sun or the electric bobbing about in rooms fitted to reality's banality, an eye that feeds on a light within possessing a form within, a body that speaks, that shouts, that sings in sounds beneath all blasted ears by a music morphing into notes fitted on wings morphing into the very fabric of symphonic skies, spaces curving through our multiplexing souls caressing each other, loving beyond all expectation.
It is fitting that my eye expands till bright blindness consumes its faux delights gobbled over landscapes riddled with cloying music of jarring, miss-tuned strings on battered violins, clawing snags of sound out shorting guitars, strained tones from throats bellowing into empty spaces sucking them dry for their arrogance, gouging out the air with broken silences battering one-time stolid hearts, now misfiring with old blood thronging its vessels to bursting, that the ship, fueled by this fissured lone engine, lusting after horizons, ever lurching from view, tumbles from its intent, falls on a new course, unexpected and fine.
Divided off, forced to see, pushed into the corner, fallen to the bottom, made to watch what cannot be watched by seeing the need to look away, where being alive is merely feeding needs aplenty shouting their missives from the core of skull, but now, from within all barriers, from that place of pure vulnerability, comes the voice heard long ago before the need to quash it rose like a bellowing leviathan, the voice calling you to task, to the simplicity and complexity of being here, now, present and awake, without agenda beyond living inside a life without a mask.
I sit beside the river in my soul, where liquors of light carouse streets made of frozen lava, having skipped rolling boulders off the edge of the mountain rising in my eye toward the center of the galaxy's grin, an ever scoping eye in the core reality, walking toward inevitability with its usual poise, and into the habitat of excessive regrets at the church where liquor's convenient comodification draws attention to its majesty and pomp, where its sticky alters are strewn with guilty ridden flies drooping their wings of disrepute onto an infinite tab, that no closure can be had.
You set aside your garbed disease, you put on armor over bets laid on tables of dare in the backyard graveyard escape plans, you create all mystery to evolve the telling of an action begetting triggers forming in the mist, out of disinterest, indecisiveness, and the cruelty of accepting fear as a mask for parades down paths where gunshots peel out for cheers, and disciples of violence, you bid their acquiescence to a cause hidden for cellar talks made in utter darkness promising light brimming from hope brewed on stoves like crystal meth for undisclosed recipients led to the slaughter.
It takes off its face and asks you to eat It, not the It of revelation, nor the crust beneath the electric dermis of It, permitting disclosure of unseen desires metastisizing for clarity resumed in private shadows where the summation of It goes beyond what's seen, by what is dwarfed by that which parades so glibly in disguise of It, holding us rapt while the glaring soul of It keeps ferocious wonder under strictest secrecy, keeping It's solace sacrosanct; our base regards, sans the grasp of it, intact, that we might feel safe, ever in control of who we are.
What little lapsed in repose by menial devices held aloof for disuse, when the need to create a field of creativity was fierce, and fond reassurances that all-was-well were found to be lies, efforts made to reorient the vulnerable soul escalated, reasonable expectations were questioned; they were taken at their worth, peeled off, and all that rose in celebration of the sparking mind, geared to work without firing bad brain cells in collusion, became bright like a dying sun; the day spread out its graveyard, plots were dug, invitations sent out. The party of the dead was on.
The song is sung, no words, no music, no threads tying its fabric to the matrix of the sidewalking whirligig of material devices, nor clamor of people bidden to perpetual unrest, nor disquiets made sharp in the divestment parading arrogant through streets bowing to their ostentation and vigorous superiority found wanting when answers sway to questions' authority. This song is sung in a personal silence, in a solemnity mannered to its calling, not to itself but to the reason for itself, the reason of all, the centerfold manifold assumed as supreme, where all manner of the song enfolds alpha & omega.
How quiet you come to me after my soft asking for touch, born again in the heavy morning under a night of sharp dreams fighting a tangle of frayed lines hunting for a matrix, you bid me speak, though words traced electrical shadows through mysterious channels, your words beneath words' fabric spoke in silence, the expansive breath of love, that entity, the poet's muse, an artist's beckoning, goading hearts of steel dissolve through forms only angels may shape for mystery's rapture when souls across the waters merge, and the tendering silence rears, we hold each other, strong, ferocious, tender, one.
Day approaches, this being with a thousand eyes, a thousand arms, body of liquid elasticity, mind occupying all crevices, nooks, crannies, attics, basements, parapets, the deep and the high, sprawling deserts, all that etches reality as the face of now within and without, and lest the Day down its arrival, our sighs, shouts, whispers to its manifold intent to become our new skins, having shed the old in slipping from sleep to wakefulness, breaking out shells of dreams sculpting derivatives expanding on the bright screens of mind, they will penetrate what's sought, pricking the very core of mankind's starving soul.
How it slips through the unnoticed crack in the hull, how it penetrates unseen, seeding without pain, invisible yet sturdy, its lance driving deep within our loam, rock, soils, ocean, infecting without vivid infection, transforming slowly, the core, the heart, the soul thought sacrosanct, secure, yet surrendering sans resistance, our daily bread breaking with a twist, the coffee somehow different, eggs of a skewed hue, everything having changed, but a slight difference hardly worth thinking about, then comes the altered word, thought, the surprising outburst, an alarming boil, and still no real worry, no action taken, as hate takes time.
I fill you. You fill me. Our emptiness is our fullness. We spill ourselves to fill ourselves. The cup is you. I am the cup. The cup is always filled and never filled. It fills by emptying. It empties by filling. We drink ourselves drunk on emptying ourselves till we're full. The fullness is our emptiness. Sense is insensibility. Reason for us is the fullness of us being empty enough to fill, full enough to empty. We are the vessel without shape or need for shape. Its shape is formed by us shaping it as we are for its shape.
We astound each other by doing nothing astounding but being ourselves bereft of expectations laid at the doorstep of the psyche's zoo, wherein animals are hungry for knowing hunger, feeding themselves by need of nothing more than need itself, nothing explained, nothing left to wonder, everything in its proper place, our place being exactly where we are when we allow nothing more than that place to reveal itself when need beckons call and arrival is met with leaving, that who we are in violation of nothing violated but keeping place with knowledge of place is reason enough for taking place.
The spark, the light, revolving, whirling about the core, a tantalizing dance, in the machine's center reformulations derive means of habitation, where I am, where I belong, where the rights of taking the light become like grapes plucked from mystic vines, exploding the mouth, Divine Sweetness, being devoured by the light, exhaled, ignited by the Diving Spark, flinting conflagrations wild as the mind breeds thoughts, belly of begetting, scrolling out fields of ravenous beasts, slithering serpents of electrical delights, feeding the earth, arranging all that exists aside the soul within the soul without causality battering frameworks screaming out for linearity.
I'm a puddle stretching out boundaries receding the world where its primally factored as the structure where people trade commodities not listed on the market below the boardwalk. On the widening expanse that delivers its panoramas like candies in the deli to unsuspecting buyers subject to overloaded systems begging the question, why am I here or why can't I go back to bed and stay there? Is there a death appropriate for the conditions pervading my living spaces dissolved so completely the very memory of my life just yesterday is a blurry fog or child's smear on the bathroom wall?
I find myself leaning into a movement directed outward and manifesting inwardly, a vibrant exhalation of spiritual rust benefiting the heart of soul with dividends. Replete with cash on delivery, the package made of light comes bundled on the tramway spiraling under curious gazes through the matrix of flesh finding few obstacles but numerous cheers from neutral onlookers out for an afternoon thrill at the races. Little can be found for resources seen as insufficient by turning over rocks in graveyards; rather, one might do a little digging and find exactly what they need under the raceway tucked in mind.
Tired, like evaporation of rock in a volcanoes mouth, an exhausted virility plays out its fire, dwindling tumescence, receding passion, final hurrahs in a private bloom of the black lodge, its red curtains hang heavily, brightly, a painful seduction whispers toward the vanquished bed, and the stage clears, final lines drift in the eating air, audience has fled, play offends, though the cameras flash, and behind the curious eyes wonders are created for absence despises emptiness, the images expand, laid out for autopsy, sharp lines fade, pixilated, definition fails, lights go down, and the moment's recognition fades like a dream.
A strangeness, floating fever, some kind of indistinct, wavering eye wanders over the terrain of my sparking consciousness, land of alien giants, mystic dwarfs wielding secrets, my own brand of creation, reality folding out reality, an ever expanding envelope, contents revealed by cutting away spurious defenses meant to dissuade attackers, dissuading me, no more, such a vibrant call to infection rides the wide avenue toward dreamland, Oz, places of wonder we've lost for the trinkets promised at the gate, I ride the wave captured like a bulging wallet found in the gutter, a surprising find that's found me, redefining me.
Diving through disquieting ardors reflecting shards of bright agony off the tarnished metal worn within chambers where self inhabits its idea of self sans digestible manners acquired as tools wielded in the furnace pits stoking the ovens forging reasons, like blades, for defending the right to keep aloof, then such becomes the bitter irony when floating mirrors see what's never seen till far too late, the offensive delights seen for distorted disbelief held as true, burnt on the metal armor biting in the skin, resenting its vibrancy, coveting the blood patterns, wishing upon nothing's grace for emancipation's truest pleasure principle.
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