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We see the dim through eyes focused through minds dulled to extremis. We squint for our dear lives, and think we see clearly. In fogs of our own begetting, thoughts waver like ghosts, as if trapped momentarily in DT deleriums, then fizzle out like wet fireworks. And does anyone care? Or are we bound to our love of muscular idiocies, which trickle brains with escalations of nonsense to follow dullard missions of mud-wrestling? Has the mind, claiming its empire on landscapes of intricate passages via philosophers through the ages crashed on Jerry Springer, Maury Povich, Rush Limbaugh, finally died?
Rising inexorable, about the rim it swirls, a wrathful gorge full of radiant eyes that never blink, carousing the furies, ever rising in the valleys we inhabit by sprinkles of wit, then the pummeling torrents, ever a delicious tangle that never dies, feeding the eyes, driving its visions deep, spreading muscular skies venting for their pleasure; how we delight, how we follow the rage, how we decorate our habitats with photos of the carnage, that stippling by gravitas to the beat of keeping, yet by the dark blossoming, despite, we find the essence combining calm air tendering us like newborns.
Running up the hill gouging obstacles fet of fears long begotten by dogs of our unrest crouching under our strained bellies where we place distractions, barking as they will, growling for their feed supplied hurridly in the race toward some kind of peace, sewing contrary attitudes upon accepted attitudes rendering the lights suddenly bright, yanking them from pockets sewn tight to satisfy the dogs that wear suits of an appropriate shade of black, marching as they will through habitats thoughts secure, till the fire is lit, as the flames rise, fears are drowned by necessity, and dogs are finally slaughtered.
Gusto riled by infusion in the steamy vortex of culinary calliopes in a sweat swiped kitchen of redoubtable vim, this mouth stretched for satiety grounded on gluttonous grabbing for its grit. Slaving on the board with slippery blades sluicing the blood gorged organs spilling their guts in glory pots set for stewing, glee becomes me, then slabs, cut for habitual rites fused in the darkest traditions locked behind the goodly wit, wicked as the homicidal tornadoes raging their wrath over plains like platters reduced for the salivating soul possessing my bubbling lust, are laid to the fires, spitting sacrificial grease.
Dust of mind burning no mind, field fires, rodents screaming, plunging up the ignited air, flames of howling blend conflagrations completing the consummation desired in the dark when the dark had a voice and hands that manipulate trust like a fisherman gutting their catch, spilling effluvium, a kaleidoscope array on slippery beds deigned the sacrificial pyres, all trust consumed, all manner of light tainted, all forms of touch polluted; such is the poison imbued as gutted organs rot, blood clots in due course of living's need to possess denial, all fashion of acceptance merely fruits of a consciously blinded eye.
Hurled, the fever bricks, mausoleum, fortress, place of sedimentation, the planting ground for the unseen blooms made of flame, petals of razors, sweet compliance toward undue savagery painted on a backdrop as if in the distance, the regard disabled in due course of madness sipped under romantic lights, such a quaint possession of soul, one would hardly suspect, chains, shackles fastened like a lover gently having you, becoming drunk in the sweat of a seeming love, dying by its clasp, suffocated by its kiss, packaged and shipped to the inner circles of hell, made to look like a newlywed's paradise.
Body wants to die, festooned with pustules like beacons sweating in their fevers, needs to die, wants acceptance of its passing. Not happening. Ignored. Pushed aside, though remaining in disguise. Disease runs rampant. No antibiotics. No disinfectants. Dying in a dirty bed in an abandoned hospital chained off. Laying in its filth. Flies like angry thunderstorms carouse, feasting on the gangrenous flesh. Driven to survive by any means, like any being, it cannot know its true need; too fearful. Paranoid. Grasping after ghosts in the fetid air, grabbing the unaware, unwary and weak, pulling them into its swirling, poisonous abyss.
If you bend the bird back too far, baby, how can you put in my soup, or share it on the subway during lonely latenight rides on N train, and I'm feeling like nausea might materialize and squash the bird straight out, what would we do, what could we do? The bird is pliable like nuclear fuel we squish in dreams, that has a cool way of making faces at you when you're on the toilet with diarrhea so bad the people in the church next door killed their priest or at least made fun of him in his underwear.
The source combines its own mystery, wraps its inscrutable face in layers of tantalizing color, binds its nature to distractions, feeding them to the myth makers blending elaborate lies to accepted lies, sewing the truth under a pocket full of psychical bombs wired to an electrical connivance pinned to the heart, a secret trap for those determined enough to wage war on ghosts, confront spectres wholly formed in garbs of gold and silver, caged in domes of steel and glass, wearing their lineaments proudly, boldly; not a contender to be found, but sycophants drooling for a touch of their hems.
I want your flower, bring it flush in the meadow burning, sprig its thorn, prick my thigh in fevers brimming the skies, black and green like a festering wound, spilling its golden pus on the tongue lapping face, the wide spread of blossoms aching for their sacrificial plucking, I need your flower, gouging out it temper, bending its stem to meet my challenge, I crave your flower bleed, I demand your flower pour, flush and free, the messes of its milk, spill time over wan clocks; show them your disgust, your diffident prowess, the walk of the midnight cat, flowering.
Boxes, streams of boxes, a stupid of boxes, large and small, inflexible, non-pliable, fitted with the substances like radioactive eyes we wore in our giddy nakedness out the womb, bound now to dogma boxes, barking rule boxes, do-what's-right boxes, blinding us but for chosen shards, acceptable shafts guided by invisible hands drawing out sources fitted by ancient dictums to nothing that can be seen, only believed like water for the parched lips born when all that wishes is marked by that which lies outside our designer bounds, outside the comfort zones, our places of the imprisoning laws.
Digestion of hatred consumes the spreading wilderness, beckoning for a nod to the extremity, which ends that which begins, exposing cycles of intent, denuding their fever pitches toward islands of wonder, such as it is, what rises is the plumage of a firebird roaring up hearts of darkness, rendering domes of silence bare of keeping infections from leaking, poisoning the seekers' homes, tagging foregone conclusions, ripping off the questions, deriding their openness, lusting after closures where death parades the streets like a minstrel, serenading flocks of hungry eyes, judas' goat, taking the smiling child by the hand to the furnace.
My church is a word, it unfolds its messes, qualities and quantities that necessity demands, that surrender completes, wherein, offering self bolsters that funds a light by a denuded will glimmering radiance over that which huddles under trappings defining how the gold must flow by molds in the molten rivers blasting through unwieldy walls, fashionable and attractive walls that guests applaud, where substances of the word are devoured by gloss. My word, my god, my need decries architecture of appearances, facades that placate, satisfy the comfy heart and mind whose souls live in the designations confined to wanting only more.
Climbing down, reaching for the unreachable, collecting sense of desires mapped onto twisting curves, mobius terrain, what was up is down, into the inky void thought redoubtable draws the eye of the eye, pushes the envelope out, far as imagination might bleed its spurious bookends' fervor dry, reducing the inner fire to its bare necessity of being the flame guiding the heart down to its gibbering beatnick lick off the discarded ladder, one finds the moxy, the very vim of Capa on the beach at Normandy to see oneself through to their deepest desires, their deepest unfashionable ideas of fuck.
Finding the face of the need driving the mind inward wrestling with soul as becoming the form of beingness possessing you over threads occupied in violent conjunction meeting heart beating its fond furies, trying so hard to keep abreast of expectations of living, that living in the body of the times, having become a swell of urgent fears peppering inner lawns, once so neatly tendered, now pocked with weeds bearing faces, rising inexorably as the new neighbors you didn't expect, let alone want. By feverish thinking, compressing rational thoughts to a petty arcade of satisfying lusts, they have replaced you.
Interest divides the creative continuum, plastic as mutable tensors collected on the matrices of Hilbert Spaces colliding Banach Spaces vying vectors obey gravitational influences forcing deviations of the paths taken for the reality extant, viable as the mind shifts in trenches where survival demands instant adjustments defying expectations as insignificant flotsum burgled from pits of mind shooting emergency flares over the expanding oceans within disallowing connections, severing contacts, creating solopsisms for the glory of nothing but delusional attentions, that the functions derived to suit the plastic doll of reality, draw mad expressions across blackboards scribbled and scrawled with defeated theorems.
Vicissitudes we'd like to adorn our keeping, decorate our houses hefted up from desire's magnetism, occupy what threads woven through reality as seen, as touched, as seamed to the hems of our disguises waving in the winds, hold to the chameleon moon, cleave forms as becoming their needs unseen, by energies flowing under all eyes & feeds the river bearing our legacy, roars like Niagara over inner rocks, gears the mighty carbines built millennia ago by a mind possessing all minds, that, in its bear skinned age was a wisdom sought for all irony now, in an age of rusting steel.
What is it? Why must it form its fashionable garb appropriate for a clear fish? Cannot hooks be baited like lightning focuses its ferocity toward earth, piercing soil indifferently, as one might empty ire on a still ocean, watching the rhythmical digestion curl outward gently into the unseen eruptions of the butterfly, past all visible sensations, all detection devices neutral, still, functioning for the tangible cat, the vulnerable thief, while the butterfly carouses its effect on a magnitude somewhere somehow by some unknown means ravenous for the virgin vibration, seed of the new assumption, conception of leviathan, giant of now.
A somber violence occupies heart when its vessel dims on the edge of necessity by turns of mind drawing the focus inward to a place so far outward as to kiss the mouth of the universe where light is begotten of mere wishing and the generation of darkness couples withal, that howsoever the mighty convection of energies colluding for creation's benefit of seeing itself create itself, we fall up to find what's at the bottom of hope, a seed to be planted in a place where no seeds have taken root, the chance of taking up this seed encompasses God.
Anvils we hold in the dim dawn spit sparks of stars receding from closed eyes through dreams woven on bruised skies dripping cool of collected fires bygone of eons beyond count, filling our minds, even as we drop further by waking to the fading whispers threaded like intricate designs held up for show, invasive displays blazing neon prints blinding our eyes, thudding the chunky air being stuffed down our gaping throats gasping for reassurance that being awake might vitalize, though all things seem dead like mad carnival callers teasing listeners to gawk in crowded tents at freaks bleeding for freedom.
I'm on the lake, and the concrete has split. Functions of higher orders are less likely to be solved, but the land is yielding more than expected, which will allow the house to grow higher. The windows will be wider, though the doors will probably still be too small, except for the educated rabbits. The water is widening, I can almost feel the bottom with my expectations, it's clearer than I thought it would be. All the concrete has sunk to the bottom where snapping turtles can sharpen their teeth in private. This practice will only heighten their debating acuity.
I'll butcher it neatly, clean, smooth, for elegant hunks of available meat. I'll give you the length of it, thick as possible, aching for your frying pan. I see your eyes grow wide, your mouth salivating, body leaning into the possibility of ingestion, wild and impulsive, a feast of sizzle, spittles of flesh hardening over expectations gone mad, that in the depth of feeding, our minds may rear up from the gory mass and reflect on the bounty made possible when projections of need exceeded droll inhibitions, when the tooth gleamed, dry and wanting, ready to plunge, marking the kill.
How can I say, I say, while the words fall to their heights imploding upon regards to the goddess, I speak my heart, exploding in a flurry of mist, diaphanous clouds of scampering vowels seeing as they see, like mad verbs, though blindness best suits going, mute, in the darkness there are wordless words, collections of feelings manifested like diamonds erupting bound veins of coal, such light, I say, as I say to you, my voice trembles under intent to say to you how this earth of mine has shifted, molded itself to a new sun; my skin was shed.
The wizard comes back in force with triple decked energies through aggressive challenges begging at the foothills of my brain with a Vulcan likeness, catlike, but not in total keeping with a TV awareness complicit with a mind dropping off the present for clearly defined reasons in stark black and white, yet fully in keeping with memory, delineating the planned diabolical course to resource the wizard as the one to blame when the walls come tumbling down, that such a maneuver could only deceive the ones who bought into the show in the first place as the critically implanted lie.
Curling back upon ideas of caving, imploding on residual confusions posing as creative, dissolving in the beautiful soup, onetime faces, chopped, sliced, mashed and pulverized, bind to the brine a coveted anonymity. Such is the ironic delight experienced for choosing to be nothing as possible, retreating from service to be served, stripped of uniqueness they float unheeded, unwatched, ignored, mere particles of indistinguishable flotsum. They exist not to exist, but the questions nag; they won't let them go. Queries come on like storms overcoming ennui. Resentment plies the minds to begrudging life. There is no grateful death to be had.
There will come a moment disguised as another moment without importance. It will come in a wisp of mediocrity, a breath like all others, in an exhalation meeting inhalation. Couched under the crest in the taught arch where this moment arches the one before and the one ahead, upon this sudden bridge, a vehicle possessing poison will unburden its load in a flash, a blink, and but for the sharpest eye it will pass unnoticed; its cargo, but a whisper carrying a familiar message, will not be heard, hardly even felt, but its dark seed, its suggestion will penetrate deep.
The shift away from the gallery by the fond memories in splendid colors drew the man's attention from the kitchen where several hundred chefs had severed their heads in respect of too many indigestible confusions spun out of mandatory readings of Kant and Hegel, that too few made it to the cutting boards in time was bad enuf, but that fewer yet were able to make it seem too difficult, was just plain absurd; where the time eaten by the efforts expended, having gathered a respectable crowd, gave way to a private expectation leveled at the ones holding the moose.
Burnt by calamitous reign over vessels thudded down the river of inner light by the source, clamping the eye to the I, blinding mind, severing mouth from voice, voice from intent to speak, the need to speak boiled to a wonder alone, sitting alone in a throng of chaotic peace in a glittering tornado, shards of light, whirling, like blasted mirrors, piling the wind upon itself, shattering trails of breath against its very seat, spiking vision, destroying touch, governing blood, as the means of totality, toward the inevitable, pouring itself toward the end and yet, another glorious beginning of I.
When light opens from its seed of darkness, however situated on the matrix folding in upon itself to feed itself, come what come may, the new growth fondles new sky as a child would fondle sand. Stability emerges in due course as the definition of day becoming night and so forth, what flowers in the primal flash summons not only the instance but all instances prior and all folding outward into the future. We sit upon the crown of this seed, taking it for granted, not understanding why it needs to be, let alone not understanding if it weren't.
Entering what feels like a narrowing tunnel, approaching a speck of light perpetually receding, feeling the walls closing in, yet pressing on with a deep sense of hope, a profound lightness, an exaltation. Despite all, in that speck exists a galaxy of light, a wild, whirl-i-gig of blazing light, I will one day possess as it possesses me, as it surrounds me utterly, feeding all that hungers, filling all that's empty, fueling the source of me, funding the mission of my intent. Through the thinning passage I go, through its tightening entrails, crawling toward the exhumation of I.
She found me. I found her. On steps taken, one to another, we climbed into each other's presence, and a light was ignited, a strange light, the kind of light few will see, and then only when they're ready to see, to feel, to become part of it, as it becomes part of them. We came into this light, and it guides us. We cannot form its nature, or compress it into shape, a commodity of earthly worth, yet its worth exceeds all that earth offers, it exceeds all expectations of earth, yet, here, on earth, in us, it beams.
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