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To the edge we clamor. We fight to get to that edge. All of our energies are put to the task and to the challenge. The edge and its shape, which changes moment to moment, determines our involvement. The mystery herein is in the realization of the involvement. We are put to the test, and most of us would't even see the test. We would deny the test. No matter. It's not the test that's important. It's the edge, and how we take it to heart, how we combine, how we make it part of us, how we realize it.
Tempermental dogs. Dogs fussing over inconsequential actions before the actions occur. Medicated dogs. Drunk dogs. Dogs with self-esteem issues. We fumble at the doorway, knowing there's a presence beyond the door. We can feel it. Knowing the presence becomes an overwhelming desire, compulsion, obsession. Nothing is more important than meeting this presence. It has food for us, biscuits, dog treats, bones to chew on, meat to gorge on, stuff to mangle. It becomes our goal, our path in life to meet this presence, to welcome it into our descending, unfolding fold, to absorb its knowing, to know its secrets.
The day is booked to itself and its hours run on like manic clowns thru the pulsing circles under a blazing bigtop, radiant with the spotlights flaring, flashing, gleaming off silver and gold cloaked horses pounding round with clowns leaping on and off their backs, screaming as they flip in the musty air flecked with sawdust, each one a page flipping through the book writing itself beyond any control or wish to control, being itself, the primal reflection of life on life, the ever receding images cloaked with eyes scanning the core to the edge of existence, edge of reality.
We dally in the crosshairs, while a deranged Mozart dances in the hothouse jungle. We got a mess in our faces scratched off for those little cards desperate for easy money down the drain, down and around, spiraling up the visual matrix combining crazed eyes fallen from grace, lest such a volume of disease might scatter from the woodwork like a trillion bed bugs, mad for someone else's slumber, gorging on life's blood from behind, as Mozart careens above the abyss, as Beethoven in his swishing blindness skewers dreams by descending bars, darkness drumming down our light givers, Lucifer laughs.
In the roundabout freak gestures made in haste after acquittal begets sorrow begetting such indescribable pain it seems such joy the body flexes in the freezing heat seeming colder than lunar night, gasping, as if having orgasms flying over graveyards stretched so thin over buried feelings of defeat under ditches of regret, we begin to see how the soul eclipses the mind in such a way that all the ones who clapped you on the back, who made such a fuss on your birthday, have nothing anymore to say; their eyes are plucked, and you live in their blindspots.
The key fell slowly. Eyes followed it through its sparkling path down. Hands fumbled electricals too late, and gestures sprung empty in the grave silence while a tiny sound clicked like the tiniest snap of a twig at the bottom of a well. There, it will wait for a hand to give it clamor, if but for a moment, but that's all that would be needed, and some never get a moment. They live out their remaining decay in brittle anonymity and fade from view, losing their faces to the persuasive sludge wherein they swim, that we might be envious.
Seemingly we go, standing still, ever proud of our going nowhere, thinking everywhere. However the tides may turn we follow our seeming bliss to evermore, nevermore seeing how we turn into our blank holes of ill-repute, being the baseline habitat wherein we've lived as we live, as we must live, knowing no other way to live, scheming our procrastinations to being alive, keeping still, emptying the stillness of our stillness' substance, giving it a mutable face that belies numb, looking alive, enthusiastic, full of a life we could never understand, let alone tolerate in our carefully constructed, fashionable cell.
There it becomes us from the side of vision, we take the seeing by a peripheral flash begetting curiosity widening our cat's paw mightily, bidding us to claw into action over the smooth sands of our dismissals, that the fevers we felt in seeing this or that fluttering away so suddenly when the direct eye pierced the landscape, only fed the fury found upon nothing seen at all, a mere mirage, an illusion, a trick to bid us fall into beliefs unfounded, rounding out our library of disbelief, a chamber fitted with means to disable all our going be gone.
Insouciant eyes fumble light like drunken men their flies when need pressures relief in the dumb dark for streets slimed with yellow rivulets into garbage mangled gutters wherein thieves huddle in wait. Fondling the teeming night over its fetid decay, looking for the lever latched correctly on the machine in mind, that its functioning may tender the calling for life in such a barren wasteland, by the slumping gears thick with sludge for nothing to be done for eons, the form ascends a moment, clasps its dim awareness upon a spark after slipping on a sharp momentum rushing into falls.
Free that pays nothing back but forward buying on funds allowing the allowance of having it all, driving the sense of mind scattered after smashing on the hard core realizations into brilliant baubles spinning out the furious blast into the sun of the eye held high over skies drooping with blue moods, being severed from the fabric of space wherein the webbing intersects itself on a medium of cool detachment, we fondle the remains of a main heart, once whole, now in colorful fractals assembled like a puzzle waiting to be fitted, that the form sought might make us whole.
The underpinning where simmering energies fume, where the faces, barely derived, fight to fashion expression from ill-sculpted flesh, like plastic dolls set too close to the oven while the mother of all cooks our continuously final meal, with the table set for a feast that never arrives, the guests, having waited for eons in the front room, stare into disbelieving space that they could be so suckered. With a feeble laugh one might offer soothe against the muscular wait to dissemble expectations, lest the realization impact the withered souls and send them furiously to the main office demanding refunds.
We close off like pines in a sweet clutch of swamp gas mirages dangling from the rafters of aging thought processes we pray will be the smoothing out of dangerous electrical impulses leading the heart to believe in contrary fashions; all those faces, personas of the inmost renditions of ourselves best suited to the red light districts cops turn their blind batons to, so into creep values we bargain away our hopefulness and siphon our lifeblood for a few moments of delirious thrills, like for the creation of a perfect souffle and the death of fast food chains of antimeat.
It is a good day to die to dying, to the armature of release in expression of opposite functionality. On the crux of balance the form exercises pliability when confronted via different angles, wherein the defense is in the foreknowing, the sense of attack, feeling the coiling energy from within so the external effect may match the internal plan. Whether defense or offense the matters of degree are determined only by actions; only then will the field begins to know itself, drawing its boundaries by the limits of its occupying warriors, those beings holding up the mantle of the field.
Entering the place of no exit one ponders the why and how of an entrance, for the presence defies the absence; your place is untenable, an exit exists where the idea of appearing out of nothing persists. Beingness becomes egocentric and laughable, that upon entering one should be so vain as to deny an exit? Where one comes one goes, the flow demands it, or does it? Are we constructed past the gain of loss in such a fashion as to regard no exit as a plan to engage, there we see the dilemma, and the concrete evidence of hell.
Tranquility shifts faces on its bone, muscular derivations divide means as is necessary to become the flight it beckons, the sky it needs, sun it feeds upon. In the quarry of its basis, such dreaming begets its own panorama of delights and horrors scrawled frantically cross the morphing canvas called bed, home, sanctuary, wherever we divine ourselves sacred, if nothing else, but to ourselves; our bodies bedecked with questions bleeding into questions, organs forming for the quest without from the quest within, the whirl-i-gig convolutions of reality, as we crave satiety of motion, even as we crave stillness.
Craving, how well the earth knows this stretching of its myriad mouths to satisfy callings without number, the swelling magnitude being scripted by expansions through darkest voids leaping outward where sound is laughable fiction, where touch relegates its substance to imagination and the feckless pondering on eternity peppered with molded deities scrambling for control in the minds laboring to create more, more and ever more, never satisfied, for they never provide enough. By assembly lines on deserts of our fears, craving security, craving the hallowed core, we thumb the choices and nod begrudgingly, it's what we want, fuck the need!
As if we hailed the magnificence when the egg cracked, that it might be memorable, slipping off the white meat as we made our escape seem effortless, though the means tasked our dreams to the point of draining our hearts into the vat of all souls simmering for the day when days end and nights seem miraculously bright, we drew ourselves up and created the party most fitting for the persona as planned. The guests arrived on schedule, all the food was made ready, and the servants made no fuss at all when the master split his mind into infinity.
Is there a vibration you're keen on, by means of which, the envelope of sky presses back on its secret handler leaving the disguise of mundane flows behind, while fire erupts the frontal lobe insinuations? Out of the creased folds comes new questions, as answers skitter away in terror, fearful of inevitable reprise, no vengeance being sufficient unto the deed locked so far back in dim memory, only fanciful rumor exists to bolster it up like an antiquated scarecrow. The unveiling meets the clear weather with a flourish of lightning, storms aplenty follow hard upon the reawakening, spreading the Word.
Yes, it's in the mind of the hand manipulating the compliant flesh, stripping it off it's framework, shredding its likeness, disseminating particles of its fashionable guise for the pot, stewing its fury and fondness away for hunger's plentiful wit. By tongue and tooth, matters are completed by need and the wanting fades with satiety. In the gravel of the road taken toward the feast, one feels the loss and gain, one tastes the dust risen, the bushes swept, mud dried and footed for the kill once upon the sights seen and action taken; therein bides the completion sought and won.
The door is closing. We gave it that ability. Choice selected us to give it that choice. We were made beholden by us to keep the right to abjure that right, and the door is closing. A shrill voice on the other side derides, but we do not know what. It derides not the closing but our abjuring. In a posture of compliance while whining, we fondly tender our miseries, for they are us; we've made them us. A chance was given. A chance was passed. The flow is ebbing. The door is closing; we've forgotten how to stop it.
The Rose flutters in its decay, brownish flurries ascend the day, as sun wanders toward its hiding place. Streams of swarthy shatters, threaded by uncurling bodies thru the denting halls of work, arise, await the time to drip as coffee slips the brackish hood stuffed with the grist of wishing...Clouds of fractured petals carouse the dipping sky.We attend like dutiful adepts as sun pierces the horizon, bidding us crowd into ourselves to see the mystery of the wild unfold, as kept safe in the ancient places, long buried under raptures of plastic and the artifice of electric lust.
Being but a phantasm of the will when fired by love, we drive toward the downing pulse, by kiss and smile, infusing this cloud, this canopy with a startled flesh, collecting, as if conscious, descending and recreating its fuming place, its red hot crucible, its fiery blooming, the insinuated core unpeeled by storm...as we become but musty odors, laughing and crying, a rash bouquet of bled bonfires, fingered by colors to paint the sky, collide the stars, race the edge of the universe into oblivion, assuring our place in the whirling universe as ministers of its ever evolving face.
Roundabout the dream screamers under silence in the dampening fields, he spins yarns, tangles the curious, the seduced, the hired for loss of control in the name of creativity, or dissembling self in the blasting pits where talent goes by way of the name of fame ground into fairy dust snorted like cocaine and lost readily, blown into the mystic ether, absorbed into oceans of hope poisoned with the blood of defeat, that all the wanderers might eat and drink and be satisfied with nothing but the fevers after denial dents the mind, scars the soul, takes solace in defeat.
Wishing for that which exists past wishing, the desire emanates the root of need, where passion muddles need and creates the wash of wanting, lusting after the radio stations out of range, listening in the dark silence for signs of the seeded mind that rises to the demands laid for passion's grace and ultimate satiety. The quality of intellect, being the original provocation of creation after frustration breeds desperation and all beliefs, becomes like a dried tinder gathered for the bonfire to consume remnants of that which was for the sake of that which will be, living merely in dreams.
The fondness acquired by the descent into dissolution by expansions rendered with thanks in his note left behind for the honor to fill such a role, attended to with such passion, such alacrity...it met a stiff silence encumbered by disbelief; that such a quiet, unassuming man would go to such lengths. It was unthinkable, yet he had. He went the distance, the distance between here and some other-where, as yet uncharted, this journey he undertook, this path he willingly chose, and the laughter that arose, so unexpected. Disbelief became a kind of humor in disguise, laughter and tears.
Opening into the indistinct possibilities vying for options underneath wishing, hoping beyond hope the law caves for clear vision renewed, that all the plucked eyes might regenerate and see, but not like seeing in the rank light, seeing where there is no light, seeing the reason for not being able to see, then seeing, to see the possibilities, in the widening expanse called reality with ragged fringes and unkempt borders, allowing anyone to pass or leave, giving freedom a bad taste of its own hypocrisy, creating the uncreated,, situating the means to establish a precedent, lending a reason to die.
To see and be seen, that paradoxical conundrum serving the delight machine, as flesh colludes its device to fabricate constructions of relief in the frenzy of beautiful annihilation, dissolution of risible decrees fastened to dusty inner walls, marking territories with rules for making rules, rules for constrictions, shackles and the iron-maidens of right; so indeed the function of seeing when sight be done to bore tunnels into knowing nothing but everything as freedom cries its liberation through rank catacombs, dungeons of delicate designs, these, our prisons, be dashed, chains, broken, walls caved, torture rooms transforming like Roses blooming wild.
Might there be fishing in the old fishing hole, as of old, sprung from mere memory, that mysterious nook of youthful pride, hovering in the ether where substances of experience fashion forms with mouths to feed, mouths to scream, mouths to be sealed, if sealing there be or but a fraction thereof, as in the sole seeker of fish, just a stringer full, lips gashed happily on the way to the chopping block in the dark room of the chopping house where guts are stored for the growing fields, where the idea of hope resides alone in an unknown seed.
What one might serve to say in the cropping house, where split words function as seeds in the fertile growing grounds tended by the ideas of serving them as the means of drawing out extractions of humanity, rises from the hollows of basic survival like lamentations over the loss of the one-time garden of light, flowers with electric faces, tongues of lightning, bolts of light, when fitted, form the matrix lying under, over and beside all creativity, the very foundation of becoming, while being exactly where one should be, nowhere else, exacting the launching place of childhood's inevitable end.
Respect for what's drawn out in extremis by need of sipping the cup within the sights unseen, being the giver and taker, the fountain of hunger and the drain of satiety, into the well we go, deep inside its perpetual darkness, that all the functions therein be electrified, ready at a moment's turn toward its garden of plenty. Where the appetite begins, a mouth forms slowly, widening, as it deepens; the belly below and the brain above connect for completions without precedence, for the hunt, though performed a billion times fashions itself uniquely with each prey locked in the sights.
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