REPORT A PROBLEM
Trickling down the evermore tumescence in the grinding vibrations called into the feverish place where we cohabitate in celebration of light that hides between lips dissolving, iron tongues, hot as tongs thrusting the forge till it cracks, bleeds white lava in excess, in jubilation, by the eminent coiling with indistinguishable dimensions, smiles radiate conjunctions like radiative flux, radium eyes, beaming off shores in the torrents, gorging the valleys, a spring thaw of a brash hello, hello, drowning thirsts under spreading tsunamis rising from darkness, curling off the demolished needs, when fervor divides these entwined seaweeds, spackled, where have we gone?
We leave our emptiness out, a vulnerable eye, blinded by obsessions, the roving fingers vie the form as it floats in its weariness, as intrepid intents can't butter toast worth shit and the regards one may lend to safekeeping can't dissemble doubts or feelings of inadequacy, then all the particulars of events designed to comfort, unravel and paranoia becomes the new house with drapes soaked with stage blood. In deference to this onslaught, we favor our gusts of lust aimed at sating nothing but, with our temptations resting on weaving a blame game implicating our favorite deceased uncle or dog.
Happy? Like drawn from a lust bucket, given food beyond food, thing beyond a thing, expectations made to order, expunged from denial? Happy? Keeping abreast on the flooding day with labors strewn over obligations, lending security a firm grip. Happy? Taking the muscle of hope, stretching it to fit the new form, bodywear for working out the grist and gobble of frustrations, sweat like sweet candy melted off the tips of bonebreaking effort. Happy? How so the monotone ringing the opening and closing of heart? Drawing it out only do far, then dampening it when collared by fear of freedom.
Where we go, how we go, what we go as, how we go as what we go as, where we've gone, where we'll go, what we do to go as we go, we do as we go, and then we're gone, going to go to somewhere new, somewhere outside of where we are or where we've been. This going is us. We go, and we're granted the going before we go to validate the going, and the secret contained therein is the secret we're searching for, that there is no secret, that there's nothing to be gotten, begotten not made.
How perplexing we are, that who we are defies every notion of introspection, circumlocution, or the violation of our boundaries, being inscrutable as they are, constructed to be inscrutable, mysterious, invisible, then finally forgotten by the designers themselves, laid in place and fitted to the living flesh so well, that after a time they were forgotten as anything but the skin of our minds, shell of our souls, our very spirit, the fabric by which we move through the world and how the world moves through us without destroying us, leaving a comedy of our antics instead as a trophy.
He slips down, takes her gown in hand, folds the creases in his mouth to his desires, that all the fire in his mind comes undone at once through slightly parted lips, draws her awakening mind to the river widening under his touch, that howsoever his intrusion devours semblances of her modesty, he disgorges the volume of his lust vibrantly, with tears and laughter bent toward unveiling the house of their cards toppling, concealing the tryst in an avalanche to hide all that breathes to reveal, all that exists to betray, all that lives to kill their ecstasy and agony.
When I am alone, an ordering of my soul initiates something greater than merely wishing so, it draws my focus into a higher capability. When I am alone purposefully, my eyes widen, my ears extend, my flesh tingles; possibilities unseen rise up from the darkness and open their choices. When I am alone the light of self carouses the space and destroys the self. I float in imagination's petri. I become the virus infecting complacency, mere dreaming, and I wither by interior winds that blow as I breathe, blow harder as I sing deeper, climb higher, as I resurrect myself.
It is what we have, fear, facing the face of all of us creeping down to the core busting, bleeding, leaking its venom, bluster and ether, drawing on desperation's vim, snaking the limp arm, down by ennui, vitriol by the manic counteractive, suddenly erect, stiff by the vibrancy, animal-like, threading off thought belying its inefficacy for battle, when battle has become us, when desperation crawls out of the hurt locker, inhabits form, once thoughtful, kind and considerate, now, befitting the animal seeking nothing but survival, feeding off basic instinct, that which has survived the holocaust of civilization's coining calm.
Push, pull, in effect, dissemble, collect, scatter, gather, lead the line till it's taught, crumple to coil in loose tethers, bind to wrap tight, loose to limp, disguise, reveal, post in glaring light, hide in folded darkness, the way out is the way in, running round the circumference, plunging toward the core, reveling in freedoms granted, reveling in freedoms denied, one shouts their beliefs, one whispers their beliefs, all a scramble, all a linear display, they have the key to confusion, and it's turned in everyone's door daily, opened wide, eyes and hands all giddy with welcoming in their death.
When the circle expands, breaks, waters flow from many hands, many minds, many agendas revealed, white water rapids boiling their furies together for a roaring ocean rising over the oblivious and accepting collective, and the land, once friendly to those who drove on beliefs ridden with hope, are consumed, mountains of grand ideas are eaten, valleys, where the meek rested, vanish for their quaking depths feeding the unseen planted for the new order of things to come, and the ones bidden to know are the ones who are the most silent, for they have planned their entire lives for this.
It stands firm. Very few look, fewer yet pay any attention. It stands. From its stance a vibration is felt, like a butterfly's wings beating against dry air, like an exhalation on a wide desert, like a rippling from a drop on the face of an ocean. The vibration is felt. It stands tall. No one asks its name. No one cares. The waves feed the appetites that know how the feed is fed, how the feed is used, and what grows from the feed that flows with impunity. It stands proud, glad of its anonymity, growing stronger every second.
Indispensable continuum roiling the fits unfit for suiting up an adequate disguise, then to the fray the wholesome renegade frets his means into blowing the mind games fet of dissembling peace of mind scattered for a Pollock contrivance situated between sense of self and the outer flexing maneuvers scrawling the winding, roaring canvas from the mountain of wisdom. How then might the mind contain these scatters once again, refit the demolished egg to its own devising, that by its devising it sees itself without the obfuscating eye, dipped from above, the tribal venting howls its song, if only for nods?
Intermediary, the function of its multiplexing gaze, a matrix of gestures as complex as basic, woven tightly to the intent to serve a notion of serving, forming all the levers on whatever level construing the habitat of the moment, like n-dimensional chess, each level a finite platitude, unbounded, yet fashioned for the game of moving pieces fitted as one may fit their genes to a fascimile of dreamlife, wanting the lucid dreaming as the secret blueprints of a magical swimming pool, no less than the expanse of the universe, and no more than the breadth of a baby's fingerprint.
Time falls, faceup. The clock has a snag. Movement violates its own delineation. The pendulum has ceased its rhythmic dance. Suddenly all eyes are turned inward to a question that cannot be worded, and is reforming people's expectations, as it moves slyly through their heated brains. What was, is no more, as if it ever was; the limits imposed are no longer viable. We have the inability to not become as we willed. Our collective will has faded, crumbled, dissolved. It has become the flotsum we so ardently feared. Now, we make jokes. We have no choice. The dialogue unwinds.
Is it worth actually stopping the momentum, shutting everything down, and having a look? The road is no longer the road it was. The path taken has become the path tangled. Stop and look. At what? What is not worth looking at, while the means to look is slowly being taken away from us, whittled down to an ineffectual back glancing in a cracked rear-view mirror? Fervid longing has become desperate lust. The satisfactions, once natural, easy and deeply nurturing have become unrecognizable, twisted beyond the wisdom required to make them right, make them make sense, make them real.
Voluble dialectics. Masterful moldings. Inscrutable plastic minds bent on planning a really hot volleyball game, like armies of fierce intent to serve qualities not inherent in primal souls, but to the erections of the ultimate goal, final victory, the arrival and departure, at once, of all that conspires to hold the fire back. Sides face off. Stands are packed. Dead people, fixated on the war where their deaths will find some meaning, grab at anything that derives the desolation, smoking like the insoluble Riemann challenge hanging in the fetid air, scrawled on shower walls worldwide, looking for the final solution.
Dipped to the end, sprung, and to the upswinging flight out of pain of nothingness as the substance of heart lanmenting its own death, over and over, a pointless funeral dirge, by the exhalation of psychic rust, by the fire of the core blasted from the breath of imagination released from the lamp, tongues shall now fill the skies that blue is consumed withal, that all the stale air sips flame and binds its desire to our new sprouted wings, the fire, the unspeakable joy, the rapture that wails in silence, sings its emancipation as though rescued from Hades itself.
Into the grist and gobble, yes, another vent off the dying carcass, its fetid rot rising like a smoky syrup sticking to the air, strangling the shoppers diving through ventricles of lust for nothing as something with a nice price tag, heaving hefts of pretty garbage to the eyes and ears of the new day's children lost to the magic of an era that just won't die, keeping its alarums thudding thudding thudding the good graciousness of greed everywhere...how to get, got, how to go, gone, how to find, found, now to the round they so desperately gotta have.
It speaks again, yowls again, screams again, and only few will dare to care to hear the silence between utterances where the truth is lodged, within gaps diving up and diving down the fractals spinning round the core of sound, freezing all the wonders as they crash the mind, when off its gears, making heavy its way to lighten the load, revealing the point of all points where being aware derives all the fretting away of nothing parading as real, comes to its own conclusion...there was nothing and will be nothing but that which defies all logic, merely being.
Switch off, switch off, channel redirection cabled off the cue to the center of mass turning the in to out, from the center to the circumambulation, turning degrees of tolerance to intolerance, turning the values into valueless baubles of nonsense parading the streets calling names of nothing seen but something dreamed as down and dirty, dumb and worthless, residues becoming animate, from garbage to the podium, rendering the heart for a sewer pipe clogged to bursting, the ideals have fallen, the faces are off, the animals are out, all the poisons that huddled obscured in the mud are dancing free.
We seem to see. We don't. We seem to know. We don't. We climb ladder to the sun, but really, we climb the ladder to the basement for fictional movies about a different kind of sun. We dream on destiny. We live to kill it. We fund projects to celebrate life, but they never make it through the first edit. We change the scripts. We recast the film. We make it seem as though we have no choice, but the choice is ours, has always been ours, yet we relinquish it in a heartbeat for the treats they promise followers.
Interiors have a new function belying exterior fashion, stippling quiet unrest from the circuitous route we all deny but satisfy compulsively, breathing our disease for panacea of every ill forming the face of humanity shadowing its inner life for fear of reprisals unknown, to keep the folders secret is key to keeping the folders sacrosanct, untouchable, accessible by the ruling classes only, exercising impunity by whimsy, controlling in a heartbeat for fun, unknowing, uncaring of consequences large and small, keeping the unruly group in charge happy. It's an enormous task keeping such a large group of idiots and morons happy.
We stay beside what's inside of us beside our knowledge of what's inside or outside, however we construe what's best, being what's best for someone else we've never seen or heard, we stay beside how we stay beside what we stay beside by calling out our allegiance, be it here, there or some otherwhere, then we can feel safe by placing our safety in something outside of us, not our responsibility, not our doing or undoing should the doing go wrong or just confusing, we simply rally round the call for instant justice, like instant oatmeal, no nutrition in sight.
Quite struck. Hit up on the head's down, ground rushing into blur, the particular texture feeling its own gravel, and bit, slight confusions ensuing a side-walking gaze upward stalking reasons for collisions, finding none but sliding into view slowly, slipping now and then from focus, a face appears to be familiar yet not familiar, friendly yet not so friendly, nonetheless, a significant materialization of that which yearns to be known, a new mystery, such as it is, a new key to be turned in an old door; among billions, the door waits patiently, as it has from the beginning.
From a perfect closure the birth came hard but inexorable by avenues of supposition and focused imagination when all that existed met with all in the present and with all that would exist, by all the substances of miraculous creation, they coalesced like diamond and dispersed to the hungry, desperate and lonely, as time was fitting, all was set in place, and all the growth advanced to the point where thought exceeded its worthiness, than the manifestations carried the weight so desperately needed, the magic drew me out, as it drew itself out to an extremity I might never know.
What I could eat having no sense of appetite beyond the usual is the question hovering inside my head, as the objects to sate my hunger parade pass without event or thought to trap. My doubting mind capers from this possibility to that, finds nothing worth noting, nothing worth hunting, nothing worth anything to dispute as something. The volume of confusion increases with the hunger. It draws out the substances of nourishment for poster material only. The actual meat is discarded. Starvation is the goal. It feeds ecstasy. Ecstasy pulls God closer, the idea of God, the need for death.
As it reaches down, it reaches up; it cavorts as it wills to meet the cables plugged in and out, flowing sustenance by direct assumptions of need by the idea of need needing its own by its own for its own, keeping the idea sacrosanct, secure, tabled and flown, buried and exhumed, living and dead, resolving nothing, beginning and ending everything; the sum of us, as the parts dissolving, rises as a form once capable, drawn into consequential decay, as overheated electronics, being old, arcane and incapable, render signals, once strong and sure, cartooning us as whispers of deranged insects.
Comin right up, comin right up, indigestible manifestations of indescribable un-righteousness parading as manna from the inner heaven surrounded by the time bending ministers of reducible functionality...don't go away, it's coming right up, serving you up a thrill of nonsenses worth of intractable silliness, the coming age of the dog has gone bad with terrible ratings from the zoo of almighty you, so it goes, so it is, from the vantage point of no return on sizable investments, I say, sell it all, come one, come all, to the land where angels tell us, "Nothing comes out alive."
Digging in. The route escapes notice. By the magic in hand of something taken out of hand, I've surrendered, I'm gone, going, and by elopement of sense, finding the epicenter of action throbbing on the circumference of belief expanding with the idea of the universe doubling back on itself...one always comes home again, a different home, but home nonetheless, in tow a lively dagger with a mind, digging in, penetrating shields, tunneling the edifice we've all come to know and love, the knife digging in, scrambling variables, creating a game out of the double helix, exchanging sense for antisense.
What allegiance sways charm by the colorwheel on its descent up the resurrected volcano drawing up its vim along latitudes of sparse regrets and the decimated dream machine called hope? What value system regards the regarding of boundaries in their expansions over fields of battle that haven't subscribed their trenches to its thin blue line where one becomes the other in dispute of nothing seen for what's seen as having value? The end comes as another beginning where the endless dialogues regarding value drone on, and the dead go unburied, that the living must survive with continuous decay and disease.
Carrying over the reformed dust on the parade back toward the end of another beginning, one assumes wrongly that the means to the end has been determined, rather, it's being formulated as the place of keeping when all the action settles, that the growing may begin with understanding that nothing proceeds from the mouth that spoke but back before the mouth was created to speak anything but what it proclaims as important or the reason for being alive and not dead to the world of creativity, that this action of creating may secure its place as the source of light.
The Tip Jar