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I sought you out. You sought me out. A seeking was had. In the middle of it something skewed intent to face the facing off, and the established key of meeting twisted in an obtuse hand, its fingers manipulating streams of action on the game board drawn up by myriad intentions like maddened snakes writhing frenetically in the core arena. So you came. I came. We came. Into the pool we were bade to go. Howsoever the currents flexed were the means by which our lineaments came into focus, by drawing out the energy, we found our means to live.
Is it time yet? I feel it is. Punching super bellies with psychic dynamite ain't providing like we thought it would. Gotta sit back now with the hole in my heart. Gotta take the time to see the blood flow. Watch others watch, and watch how they try not to. It's the sidewalk habits ingrained in us, how they fashion our parade before we even rise, before we even think about rising. The time is up. I can feel it, and I'm tired. The tiredness digs deep, drills holes in many hearts I'd forgotten, so it comes to this, Niagara.
We attend to the fire within, however the furnace configures its flame, however the burning tongues rise and fall in accordance with shadows and light, brakes of seeing and crystal clear vistas. We navigate as we deem necessary to fulfill our hungers vying for attention on cerebral plains, through psychical valleys, over emotional mountain ranges, deep within feral volcanoes. It is the substance of our entirety that bespeaks our volumes, circumscribes our values, says our say as actions without words, intentions sans conscription, campaigns without flusters of violent grist, overwhelming voices who define themselves by speaking out their inner needs.
The indispensable art of silence, how it breeds sparkling questions over thunderous distractions mangling channels from the telling to the hearing, how viable constructions may devolve themselves in the deconstructing air, how that very air reverts to unstable constituents when gripped for assurance' sake on uneven landscapes looking for a reason trapped on answers' lassitude, where the land becomes the sky in a blinding moment of belonging, where horizons collide the present gaze, no longer fixated on distant lands overs oceans or wonders collecting dreams on static islands awaiting flux, how those islands rush off their serenity to meet themselves.
We expect our expectations blossom as we draw manifestos on the air about courses we take to move through the air to satisfy our expectations' breed, fondling only those bundles of air to move accordingly. And we bow to the asking of our configuring, we relent, we abdicate rights, we drop what we are for the defuse security offered by doing the right thing, the proper thing, the accepted thing. We wait. We ponder in static reflections in a funhouse gallery, we laugh; we are expected to laugh. We do not cry. We are bade not to cry, only accept.
We bend to the bending, crawl the stretch, pace our flexibility past its limit, we push against pushing, vying one strength against another that has no name; we are taught to fight, to pit ourselves this force of no name and a trillion names. Draw comes slow. Patterns of movements without reason spring from the coil, the hustled ire, muscles flexed, taught to breaking, feel the fissure widen, that one weak spot thought inviolate, not worthy of attention. It opens, and the ethers blend, one side to the other, such a game that our deaths and births are formed around it.
Stretched so far, and now, this blue calamity, illusions caving harmonies speaks loud, dreams were built of puppet fires, mere shouts in a perplexing cave? This onerous demonizing...Life. Yet, I feel death coming, keeping its bleak smile soft, arms stretching, yet, no fearing. No! I say I love you right out loud, there isn't time enough, yet, they who know, know, though friends shake their heads, no matter...grist we gab in the torturous bliss burning through the night, our night, our purpling night, sometime a goodbye, sometime a hello, though goodbye banes forward, upturning grist for gabble, hello!
Talking on dreams sliding through the gaps on broken matrices, voluble and limp extraneous threads beat the electric wind for connections vying heartily as undefined souls lust after form, angels and demons crawling their gowns of crossed lights like burning linens in a firestorm expanding by tips of evanescent flames spread like molten honey over inhospitable deserts. We can walk the lines, ever metastisizing in the golden waves of creativity barred only by limitations imposed by the fearful souls coveting their own lights wrapped under dark weaves so thick water stands on prickly burrs balancing for fear of losing sight.
Burning the heart by funding ways to rouse connections indisputable with electric finesse, keeping digestible amour containing not only fire from within but fire from without, the funneling screams called magnetic winds, tornadoes of clear functioning chaos, greet habitation on landscapes strewn with eyes craning for a completeness otherwise denied, the optimum sacrifice, when all elements have been ground down to ash with contented sighs between hearts melding calms and cacophony rising by sinuous conduits of idiosyncratic breaths twining the sky like languishing clouds supping ocean's sweat, in the privacy of all that is, we couple silence, our singular creation.
Primal heat flows, takes charge by anticipations too extreme to exclaim, held like priceless jewels in the garden of one's cellar, that private holding place, full of pickling jars crammed of poisons cooked with meticulous adoration, preserved like strawberry jams, to be spread across unsuspecting diners' toast, looking for something sweet to offset the bitterness of main course ceremonies, while in the darkness, the factories are churning. We know what's expected of us, yet fooled into accepting the least, wanting the most, fueling only hunger's insatiable rumbling, grinding us down in the having, funny, that we find this dupe surprising.
I keep asking, "is it time?" and the moment hammers nothing lightly, tripping what seems sturdy into foibles seen as funny, though sad, so said, so felt, so kept as true by hearts in the center of telling, that nothing keeps solace for the watch of its taking its time, as much time as may be kept in its telling the tale to ears long whipped over hearing, yet how the tale pleases, how it refreshes when nothing else comes calling after wishing for something original. How telling this tale becomes as nothing to be told when kept for keeping.
Torrents. Luscious flows. Blinding rushes winding into head by wishing. Opening to the flood. Here. Now. The crush of now. All that was, is, will be entwisted. A perplexing puzzle, frenzied onslaught, an insinuation, billions of threads honed to a glittering point plunge the meaty well enthroned, a mind punctured by its own devices of sheer complexity, so basic a need, any answer to unravel disintegrates for its inadequacy. Blood's mystery. Brain pulse, electrical flash, a sprawling field alit with balls of scintillating lights nothing we may touch or mold, but that which touches us, magical instruments of thinking's dance.
Work calls. A voice without sound, without shape forms its calling, a message without a message, a fashion of the message defying all vernaculars insisting upon the radical needs of jibber-jabbering words falling, tripping over themselves, drunken parties of giddy vowels vying constructions deconstructing themselves, consonants colliding collections of keepsake non-sensicals...how we need our forms to give us shape in the storms, lifesavers upon which we cling, that service to life cannot exist without. Yet, in the fires where life assumes its apogee, vicissitudes dissolve in volatile mixtures suckled for satiety in the crush that screams love.
We can say it, more than a deconstruction of saying it, we can really say it, we can mean it, as if it means us. We can parade it up and down our streets kept in the holdings set aside for parades, but we never betray it, we keep it for the saying, the saying that keeps us together, and they say we can say it. They say it too. They say it with vigor. We know there's a price. They know there's a price. All we need is a reason. They know this reason. It will never be ours.
Chance lineaments combine, the compilation of mystery saturated mystery, a single life entwining lives beyond count begetting a visage recounting, counting, accounting, fervently becoming that which was, is and will be by the incessant waves gathering, by the moiling sands piling, strata upon strata ripping open earthly guts for those who choose to look, for those who choose to ride the slip-sliding plates surfing time like volatile tech-tonics surging beneath eyes in the welter-fury of creation, the primal crucible wherein visage is a spectral gesture yet to flex its function upon a world obsessed with looking away.
It is moving, has been moving, and your port of call is calling, the ship is boarding, has been boarding, and all that surrounds you, keeps you in putative place is boarding, has been boarded, destinations undetermined but inevitable, inescapable, true to the moments breeding movements, breeding movements through the present to the next moment and on, forever boarding, moments strewn of light and dark, the crush of infinite intent to serve life, ball of your unique yielding string, the one in your hand, in your mind, in your flesh, your legs bidding them move, now, are you ready? Board!
Perseverance scrambling through mud, tunneling the idea of mud before mud was a dangerous thought, driving mind into shatters, spilling shards dancing in the hovering lights, not falling, not clattering to the floor, but keeping scatters like fireflies bound to the skull collecting self as the vehicle mastering its flesh of electrical fantasy, such culls fury and calm, entwists fibers insinuating sense by their unique thrusts within the bottomless form called brain, where flexing ideas of man mangle and mock, even punctuate existence of spirit for an absurd clown act. Lest this shadow play draw function away, we shall perish.
Staked by decree to wisdom culled from residuals of guises rendered on stones of tombs encasing sainted soils anointed under suns of old by superstition run amok, redressed for fashionable ceremony on alters of high theatre where utterances seem to follow the matters we hold sacred, substances driving their elemental natures to the limits that gods might have, if gods there were, fashion sketches as facsimiles of the infinite, lifted to functionality on landscapes where laws become realities to punish the rebels, crucify the disobedient, shed darkness in the perpetual search for light, while that which begs deference, remains mute.
To wit we find the ways to find our ways to search the earth by fashioning forms to find the found, how delighted we find ourselves becoming finding such finds already found but for the fashions lent by credence claimed when credence bowed to wishes on a wishing well replete with copper gleams of superstitions' means for making bread off poor in kind and heart, like dreaming after dreams of heaven in a welter-spit of hell by choice accomplished in a field bereft of soul, yet holding soul as that which dreamt the dreams of finding finds re-found.
Fools dance by methodical dance, dances made to create worlds of belief in swaths of motion meant to mesmerize, seduce, manipulate by the whirling vernaculars stirred to a soothing frenzy for gathering ears threaded however thinly to brains sparking for the mainlining infections induced, such caterwauling, hobbling clowns, morphing vicissitudes, as multiple screens flashing fancies driving needy souls to sleep, working magic in the darkness, an invisible pickpocket who slithers ever so smoothly, seat to seat, not stealing, insinuating seeds throughout the comedies performed, dramas coded and fashions of belief eradicated by disbelief in suturing means to inhabit the void.
Roads driven, drip, sediments mar courses in views within made like shadows on a beach by clever deceptions that you were ever on a beach; such means traveling the senses into rides worth unraveling into reality bray, as hearts beating in step with a world gone sane by edict for reasons of bad sales on new items listed in stores that haven't been built worldwide feeding minds that they were, painting voids with colorful ads cavorting like HD videos online. How could anyone resist? It's what everyone's after on chases biding needs for garbage removal in our living room graveyards.
None the fullest, we become, as we keep our conduits open, maintaining expectations of surge, yet accomplishing the emptiest of head where all that follows heart might feel its barren landscape, whereupon all dissolves for the spreading lake within the private heart steaming from below the mind by the frenzy of feelings skittering over the precarious, unbroken surface, massaging the centers of earth with needs unmet, coming alive, as the artist stretches out the means to feed, expanding myriad mouths to accommodate what creation means, where all that lives must die to see their unique mountain surge from the lake.
The resolution is not fruit for weeping. The laying down of a breath taken so fully, a life lived so richly, a mind that conjoined with soul so graciously, is a call for dance, for celebration, that which exhaled its shuttered crossing between here to the eternal mystery should plume no grief but wild, blazing petals of flowers flaming colors wide as the spectrum can stretch in the careerning sun, it should bring song to the lips of the mute, sight to the unseeing, hearing to the deaf, it should goad the creatures of the darkness bray out their defeat.
What letter imploded on the sprung idea, fleshed like maternal fury in the face of aggression, marking the nest as sacrosanct, where the mind impacted on the mettle of self expanding like nova on the umbrella of vacuum, fixated its form? Upon the carpet of stars winking out as the cowl unfurls, it becomes reasons of its own begetting, that substance, once ethereal, materializes as the new skin of the new being with the guts of the letter pinning the being's core tight as matter of its fury disguises itself as the letter's progression and becomes the new pilgrim's progress.
Storms you chew, mumbles of vital characters like snakes slither down mind tunnels, throats craning for nourishment buried in places of imagination floating detached in a void within a void within an idea of void made tractable for minds ill-equipped to handle matters relating to matters without form or physical context, a point drawn on a page, a simple mark with a pen or pencil, something one can focus on, something one can remember when the storms fuddle in, braking calm into bits of nostalgia, where islands of reality, once fitted as one, rebound from the gag reflex action.
In a fever, blisters rise from a crusted skin melting down its viable framework for a guise of sewing the sun on a feast table spread for the family fun in the dark afternoons in the cellar where bottles of preserves knock about their cooling times with tales made to mask their infuriating entrapment, while waiting the seeming eons before a hand unscrews the condom pack and crams the foolish thing on, as the heat dissipates, as the means to escape the lockdown begin dimmer as you go, black as the ace of spades smacked down at the last call.
Blistering the monkey cakes that dopple attitudes of sex gone crazy on holiday from butcher shops to the maternal wards doubling as morgue and the pastry corner that made a killing yesterday with their dark chocolate mushroom clouds pluming anthrax panic over a long table strewn with manuals on first time sex offenders who design bridal gowns in prison unitarian chapels, fondling their private nuanced prayer books with a special kind of grip that only ministers of a certain faith might even grasp, and she said she wasn't on the pill, well, that cinched it, yet the marines landed anyway.
We grab at sense for salve, grasp at pipes of logic, shaken by the root, hull cracked, ocean brimming in its furious foam over smiles turned surprise when the condoms break and spillage speaks an unwanted legacy in the ocean frothing, ocean heaving, currents of Olympian gestures fondling waves like petulant, furtive kisses belying the gods within by Uriel, by Rapheal, by Michael, by Gabriel, by the quartet under archetypal fevers we descend to ascend that all names be vaporized, all addresses demolished, all forms released from disguise; then shall we know how to reach for the unreachable to survive.
Strange residue lights, as if a cask buried deep inside the necessary womb of darkness that guards your solitude cracked open, spewed hyper volumes floating beneath the ocean of consciousness and revealed the beasts beneath concealing the depths awaiting proper time for revelation, keeping their sacristy pure, like caverns under miles of earth existing in utter blackness churning with their own special life, such as it is, a life that one day will blend in fury and peace, through violent storms and placid calms, that what is now shall pass for what will be, yet blesses and nurtures the now.
Sliding by these clever screams we made in closeted shadows that crawled as we did through times that belied their collective moments' ability to reflect upon reflecting to deny senses to satisfy needs of a culture that can't afford to count its pennies over the bodies sacrificed to mint them; how the factions deploy their might on the battlefields sketched on school kid's tablets waiting to be released from the principle's office, is our reality, such is the disease we own, the pattern of decay we sow, tumbling down the time that mustn't regard itself, allowing mind its awful clarity.
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