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Promulgation. Engine is on the dias. A vibrant enthusiasm gears the levers. Movement ensures dissemination. Not one direction. All directions. Handoffs. The spread is widening. Promulgation divides the source from itself, separates one into many like a bomb shredding flesh, where one becomes indistinguishable from bland cloud cover with chance of drizzles. The many hang from the rafters, waiting. They haven't the wherewithal to act. Too shredded. Levers are worked. Hands are masked. Smiling faces fit covers from lies onto the susceptible, needing assurances. The spread thickens. Widens. In a park boys and girls play. They jostle and jump. Oblivious.
Strewed on the main, a viable concoction, faces are welcome to add their own, blend their own, blend in, be one of the many who see the dancing baubles enticing the ones to the side questioning, puzzled, not sure how the recipe will work out. In the center is the pulsing animal, spry and awake, angry as hell, layered under by waxy words, piled on by the trillions. Scratching, beating the cell, without light, without touch, it's honed itself to a sharp clarity, worked itself to a razor-edged sanity, somewhere, somehow, a crack will open, and sense will flow.
Precipitates regenerate and mindful advances of inner technology drive rats over cliffs where a deep, private ocean absorbs their vitality, converts the rabid hunger into sweeping generosity of soul on live internet feed feeding a new breed of rodents coming to life, a new fashion of rabid desire vibrating into existence, a new rainbow gearing undead colors, pixelated matrices crosshatching sky and earth, reverting subjugated neurons into action, turning outside the means of being inside, compressing what's thought as the downslope of spiritual digressions and exploding the possibilities, finding, at last, the core of driving home the need to leave home.
We roll outside our lights dimming, bared on a lonely, backwoods road, in the back of some dark memory road where calamity draws its kissing fervor from a dried well dreaming of water, dreaming of the means to nourish itself, even as it dessicated the dreaming, even as it riled the ire where joy once built a house, where once upon a panic there came storms of dark lights, and the house caved upon itself, ventilated its emptiness as useless, to be gorged with senseless activity, and then we rolled under sights unseen, buried ourselves in vapid hope of unrolling.
Reclaiming lush darkness folding light with fierce gentleness as a baker folding his dough over and over, massaging its knots and breaks, feeling its thick energy rise through his insistent working hands, with musty odors assailing his wide, flaring nostrils; his body's heat mixes the flow of hand over hand, fingers upon fingers, each one penetrating the moist bauble in their own way, separate and together, caressing the bulbous mass, almost ready for the oven. The baker's forehead streams, a drop flicks off his nose, spatters playfully on the stretched skin of the new bread's flesh, aching for a tongue.
Indelicate gestures find censure in the mix of minds equipped diametrically for seizures threatening the convivial blend, whereupon, convulsion of wit possesses consciousness, devours clear acknowledgement, feeds upon its own disease of judgment and gorges assessment, fends the approach of mind off, derails heart for its putative survival and rides on the white horse of right, guards the fort of certainty with fierce righteousness, that whosoever assumes a confronting stance must be put down for comfort's sake, then what becomes the fronting face declares its position inviolate and secure with smiles and sincere invitations to belong to the righteous tribe.
The personal bomb. It ticks under shadowed skins. Vital signs belie substance of imminent chaos. The bomb issues subtle sounds. Tingles of its presence may even tantalize, titillate the hearts' beating, as if counting seconds before detonation. Huddled in the mind's bunker, a soul is assuaged by its belief, faith in the coming pastures, trusting arcane words that such deliverance might draw us up into valhalla, keep us nestled in the clouds as pillows nestle heads after dark summoned sleep to quit the fashionable pains taken as daily meds, keeping us sound of dying mind, sound of a withering spirit.
My face draws itself out in the mirror embedded in my eyes, through which I see volumes of the shattered universe expanding and contracting, willing themselves into consequential dust careening down the gullet of my private entity. In keeping with cacophonous silence as the music of my life's track, there bids a vociferous residue spreading over the graveyards we call progress, praising the risen steel and glass gods, bidding them save us, asking how redemption might flower on such a lifeless plain. In this garden of plastic, only faux tears tumble, only mimed births are forced and death is perpetual.
The heads bob. Over an expanse, once glittering, now a wasteland. Hands without connection work instruments to reserve places in the dust. Wind blows. Icy. Hot. Faceless forms move about, gestures without motion of significance fumble thru the fetid air, fondle articles of distraction. Above the hands, heads bob. They stretch over the abyss. Something sparkles in the murky sun, like a jewel manifesting suddenly, and spirits grab at the idea of jewel; then the jewel descends, it performs its function. Over the expanse a red pool widens. It widens into a vast lake, then an ocean, of inconsequential blood.
Upon rising, the sky of the mind opens wide, stretches the bounds dissolving, body cleansed, moves away, watches residue of pains, past filth, swirl down the spiral drain, what was, is gone but not gone, worn for keeping on memory's vault, kept for missions launched at will, the baubles sit upon the inner sills, dormant, till the mind molding it boldly under lock and key unleashes fire, its bright potency in words, music, sculpture, painting, drawing, dance, the choices, myriad, folded, blaze out the body, spin mad their fevers, shake, rattle, hum the serving flesh alive, electric as the soul.
The ditch was always waiting. Patiently. Cars drove by. Ditch was unmoved. It was waiting. No one asked why or what it was waiting for. No one had the wherewithal to ask. It wasn't so much a secret as a need to become secret by virtue of its persistent silence. If only someone had asked. But no one did. Ditch could care less. It was occupied with waiting. Waiting is a solemn task, not for the timid or weary or faithless. It required a stout mind and a sturdy bearing to wait. Ditch knew this well. Ditch was silently proud.
Running ever. Quiet times are quashed. The mysterium revolves in mad convulsions, thobbing off its axis with hysterical glee driving its momentum deep within the pulsing wonders of wherewithal, that the inner life breaks through the outer life and back again, sweating the game to its maximum division from here to here, demolishing the illusion that what's outside is removed from the inside, where all the dawns fit their inevitable dusks to the grinding wheels where crusty wits are broken down to the meal, mixed with the liquid of awareness creating a slurry of new reality, the brave new Golum.
What is the sweat you swear that slurries your vision, with eyes that are blinded in the flush, where all the heat combines to drive your flesh into confusions, spiraling long accepted answers down the whirlpool into none, collapsing the known into the black brightness of the unknown? How may we ride the wild currents from the precipice hung high in the mists of mere wonders, dreams, fanciful habitations into the quiet palm held upright, revealing all that's held, hiding nothing, lending all that exists within your deepest dreams a reality that might even frighten, yet soothe the savage heart?
Declare me yes, declare me no; I am fond of being twisted as reality shifted me so graciously, year after year, bading me become a mobius form, a meandering convolution of curves within curves, a consciousness compendium of ribbons curling into ribbons, a mad Celtic wonder, where looking in was looking out, where the outer frame, circumambulation of the universal soul, was the center of soul, where the viability of being became stretched out of comfortable assumption and revolved this mind off its expectations of going and coming, up and down, where all the horizontal senses were suddenly spun vertically.
I fit my private fever to your fondest smile, winding my sinuous grasping off the edges of doubts holding us both up as I let us go toppling over the silent abyss. Your broad smile, glaring in your feeding, fills my spleen to bursting, our inner bodies, like giant pythons, wrapping round our writhing, set the rhythm as a solemn tribal rite, a sacrificial block, our heads given freely, leaning into the slashing blades, burning out our trumpet tongues howling after licking flames, knicking our temper down, like a great wooden building plunging into itself, crashing down to laughing dust.
And we are spent, like cindered stumps on a plain of smoldering soil, all that was, is ash, the matter of our grist to come, fertilizer of will, where soul sundered its cup of light, poured it out on a steaming pit of oily fire setting the sky dark as the eye is blinded, as the mind is turned inward, as the skull of stubborn attribute shatters on the rumbling earth, angry at our insurrection, but such is what the revolution of the dimming dream does draft on parchments of our wishing, having all that needs be salvaged after death.
Golden cube rises. Earth soul. Up desert. The broad expanse arouses itself. Mind expands. Eye of the eye affixes itself to the event horizon, habitat of singularity, from nothingness, comes all. Space is ruptured. Cube rises. Reality shifts to accommodate the widening rip. Over the desert a viscous blood flows outward from the glorious wound. Solidifies. Gleams up the opal sky. Between the up and down becomes the nest where conjuration begets its own. In the volume, all that possesses its function as necessary to the machine being constructed, is consumed. Matter of the sky. Blood of desert. New communion.
We reach for the stars in mind and get a mouthful of wonder bread. We yearn to excel. We study like hell, and then we're fitted to a diet they like; we may not like it, but we gotta eat it, or else. We fund ourselves to the brink of exhaustion, taking chances, learning from those who teach the idea of teaching to others who then teach us to be taught by them. Who are they really? They claim certainty. We are fed by this certainty. We are bound to this certainty. In our starvation, we clutch to its cliffs.
We've grown large, clear outside our growing, ever larger than large might quantify shape. In disguise from the times' prescience, faces we blew from buds beyond expectation's favor by the mastery of our hearts and minds evading self-destruction at all costs imaginable have hidden themselves, slipped from their own shadows, spreading expressions below a grand mindscape sputtering its perpetual madness groping for controls gone berserk. In the dusk there is sensibility when all strength has faded, when all the means for resistance have collapsed. Under the gaze of a cold moon, graves are being dug in silence without tears.
Can I tell how the flesh has crawled from its vessel in fear of its being betrayed by all that carouses in blood drenched darknesses? Can I collect the hopefulness scattered when the body shatters and the blood bursts out in fiery frenzies, vaulting innocent smiles saved against the daunting crush of suppression's fist hammering down the body till it had to give up its jewels of light? Shall the desert mongrel, aspiring to antiquated lust of nothing, spitting ire wrapped in slick rhetoric for want of drawing eyes to an execution, really own its misshapen body of dead ideals?
I imagine not what imagines that I am not. Not I. Not imagining is not the image that I imagine. The image I imagine is imagining that I am not. Never I. The I is not the one that's imagining that I am not. It is what is within the I that is doing this imagining. I am not doing it. I just report. I am imagining as I am. This is what I am. This is how I imagine who or what I am. This is my image. It is mine. I imagine something else. It hides from me.
So it comes and goes. We chase after. It eludes us. Undaunted, we pursue. Should we ask, what we're pursuing, the very asking might foment a crisis of disbelief, that what we're pursuing defies by its unique ability to exist sans name sans form sans definition. Should that stop us? Should that discourage us? Should it confound more than by merely uttering it? No. For it is what it is, and deep down we know that. We pursue it. We shall never stop pursuing it, until the end draws near and our habitation has boiled down to the singular I.
Things are dying. All around. Surrounded by smooth closures, life is closing in, not as comforting balm, soothing reassurances of home, but as the antisocial surgeon, he who delivers his craft by the edge of a specificity marked by cutting away that which is not wanted, that which is disease, that which serves no purpose any longer. In his pattern, the operation takes but a flash, a tiny chain of moments, then gone, dropped over the edge of a bridge, the chain as noose, executions are myriad. His crisp white uniform, never reveals the blood, the defeat, the withering fears.
In the wracked silences of our fierce delights where the dim dawn rises over the clutch of our desires scattered cross our fleshy cutting boards, the fretted eyes give sway to the rising sun threading its cool fever through the gauzy whorl affixed to its completion as a frieze upon a canvas. In the oils we have hidden our secrets. In the colors forming by the light ascending we recede from the virgin day like a bondsman fretting over calculations slightly awry, driving our soft concentrations deep as feeling might scorch up the night, wide as reality might redesign oceans.
A laugh burbles the fume, sputtering up, a giggle skitters over the calm, in the heavy softness on a salty wave the metronome breathing bends back for keeping the absurdity rounded out by the resurrected voices singing the eternal joke, how it is, where it comes, how it goes, the fusty whorl decides, not us. Sprites in their lights hold off, what might, will never be. There's not that kind of action. What action claims, upon the laugh shared as one, two mouths skewered to the heat, move lightly past the passing gaze, as sun reclaims its sum of us.
For Genet, your rough and tender calm and unquenchable lust for freedom binding the outlaw soul with its irascible pen, I salute you. For Burroughs, your fierce, dissembling heart diving to the feral heights that beckoned so low as to erase you from eternity, I salute you. For Steinbeck, your insatiable need to chronicle the vagabond, desperate soul, I salute you. For Karouac, your ever searching eye, always roving, never at ease, I salute you. For Wolfe, your surgery of the moment, peeling back its layers, cutting away the masks, going ever thinner, ever deeper, always mining, I salute you.
Leaving aside the inexcusable declamation of being afraid of being afraid, the harrowing grist sputtering off the whirling wonder wheel within, spattering windows, streaking the view, muddling clarity, confusing vision, what's seen is not always what's seen, in the vortex of the I, by the tumbledown of regret posing as the means for making decisions based on obscurity, superstition and laying out putative truths gleaned from the strewn residue over windows of perception, we are forming a circle, wherein death parades as glittering life, where hope is a sheepskin draped over mad wolves, vengeful over being outcast from their packs.
Drifting into myself, fading like blue upon dusk, marigold decay in fall, upheaval of volcano, umbrellas of dust over breathing and the downfallen eyes, drifting from view, regardless of fuel, despite all efforts holding myself off from depression's ardor, then spreading myself cross the backbraced bed where sores carouse for attention, where one becomes forgetful of becoming forgetful, where the methods, once firm, crumble as worthless rust from rivets on abandoned bombers, in the wasteland of nostalgia, graveyard of bed bugs' demise, an antiseptic room where bodies pile high, bearing bored inspectors hunting for the errant hand seeking antiquated compassion.
It's a long way to the start. The end just keeps getting in the way, begging for its resolution prior to living. Always funding time to trip over its own begetting, we tumble back to the inception of begetting. How small we like to make the revolution of our life, how simple we beg this existence to be, and in the vortex of living, in the center of the whorl, deep down inside the spinning ether we can see the point of it, even if we can't name it, define it, label it; it's there, beaming out its reflected face.
Off the core comes the data strewn over a landscape where picking flowers is the key to begetting a life insinuated by your need to be; in deference to the onward flux, the our lineaments materialize slowly, ineluctably, surely. That we have little choice over the shaping seems unimportant, as the foundation of our mind breaks free of its planting, and the creation of our fate, being laid in amorphous stone, comes as no surprise when our fond renewal realizes its fashionable gaze being us. The mirror sees. It floats unseen, but it sees, and in the end, it knows.
Fighting. Fashionable dogs. Experts with formidable claws. In the heat of involvement, we see a kind of tumbledown, where events, one upon the other, form a curious matrix, like a hologram, and each bit of that hologram contains the whole, each tiny part of the whole is the whole. Accounting for our presence within this constantly regenerating matrix becomes a challenge as we dive ever deeper, like hungry spiders hunting for the prey that's trapped. In the storm that surely follows hard upon the entrapment, a blinding ensues whereupon, we, the resourceful spiders must adapt to the challenge or die.
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