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It is the step we take that defies taking steps, a most important step, the leaning into a leaning back, where balance is not a body going hither, thither or yon, but the kernel of intent within the body beckoning a motion without motion, a movement within stillness, a quiet place where thought and motion become one, where a thought moves into a reality that cannot be occupied by a body. What flesh may know in its ecstatic completeness through connection, the spirit dives down so far up there is a kind of explosion, a kind of laugh that's eternal.
A simple look up sees not the sky but an idea of sky rendering what we see incapable of being seen but only imagined by another, what misconstruction we devise by transmitting the essence of this seeing reveals a sight unbegotten by any man for the continuance of his legacy here on earth that remains for the most part, unseen, yet touch would fulfill desire to have sight more tangible, it would trail its ineffectuality along the watchtower as the grist we cannot chew, it is the triumph of something we cannot name, as hard as we try, Oedipus' all.
Tricking the eye is the key to being aware of nothing so important as being aware of nothing as the essence of reality we share in our bodies as the holy grail itself, yet in the defiance of the scream, wherein the realm demands assay on its plenty or not, the drowning out of the reasonable sounds made in the absence of ears, as these trebles trickle out, filling the empty caverns of head with seeds of imagination no god could construe as the offspring of its eternity, all the function of living becomes reduced simply to a mere laugh.
Terror struck by the horror of being unaware of horror or the terror by which it foments the shuttered eye, we humans in our plastic weeds can only beckon will to wind itself about matters in the bloody grist, the fiery coals in the furnace wherein we forge belief that all is well when all is well enough but a grand lie metastasizing in a fever for the plenty of will to find its dull satisfaction, therein, the holy incompleteness. Is it not a ruse that drives its muscle through the heart only to reveal the butter off the crust?
Can it be what it is, or shall it be something other than the notion of 'is,' as all things come down to the rudimentary question of being that knocks at our hearts, knocking our heads out of their poise, our ears out of their hearing, till all senses are jarred to the quick, bowing to all that 'is,' again and again, while the query isn't satisfied, hanging in the gallery as a rare art piece for some, a holy relic for others, a sublime play that must be played by actors who know death, who know life, it 'is.'
Imperious, like strange fever gun, like love in the express denial of it, like the face you never owned coming off the face you have coming off the fear of a face that no one could love or even recognize, by fear of dissolution and a praise of death over excess on degrees lost over the fading horizon imagined as the source of intent, the place of the eye gauged to a blurred focus, when nothing hitches to the mount, when all efforts to gain are a reason for loss, this is the moment of true gain, launch point one.
On the path to the turnaround, where the rear is the front, both seeing the other as the other, confusion as clarity, lost dots fallen off the edge into an abyss we cannot name but always name for the benefit of naming, as a kind of comfort, but we really haven't fucking clue, so what, that is the clue, a clue to ponder as to why it's a clue; first you need the mystery, but that's not hard. Everything is a mystery. We take the paths, one after the other, following the need to follow, as if we knew why.
It is being revealed, by every step, every day, every grand and small gesture of its mind, the culture reveals its spiraling down, of course, masterfully ignored, even vilified, for implications unpalatable, disagreeable, inconsistent with an idea of any salvific compliance of cause over effect being abhorrent, the effect mounts each moment, each gesture laid across reality's bloody cutting board, all raw ingredients applied by careful degree, the eye turns away, looks for reason of discontent, looks for a way out, some kind of dotted remedy, as if what's occurring is somehow deviant, perverse, not acceptable, but all that is.
You choose as you do, as choices beckon your attention to the choices out of reach; they laugh as you grimace, choices rendering themselves as fantastical baubles dancing in the fading light, ever approaching like a ghost, ever receding as they call. The mind reels itself to a reality that allows what choices may bow in deference to your life, following the means to gather material, fashioning a sort of dome hung high above consciousness, a self-made habitat that never denies what desire fetes as its fodder for joy, meeting the need with wanting, sacrificing only a word for denial.
Being, as it is, as right confounds the left, up divides down, all trajectories upswing through raw momentum, as movement describes its function from here to there and back again, the swinging pendulum, always on the arc toward a mastery of its implications, no doubt as to its means to imply cycles churning, one upon the other, myriad arcs of life and death, this, being the moment you choose, the point on the arc where life demands recognition, the very point of life, then gone to the next, harkening only a fleeting thought of what was, the pattern of becoming.
Off the edge onto the playing field, as molded by the day's inevitability, to the expansion of a field whereon the knife will be called into action, after the breakfast bout with butter, lean slicing, hot meat on a plate steaming under rapt eyes, a ravenous mouth and mind being led from one plate to another plate, one landscape to the other, details change, the variables have their way of consorting with hungers for specificity, on the playing field we see the players assemble themselves accordingly, and the hand moves as the mind construes, as the heart desires new blood.
Then, as we play, the sky bends off its implacable stare to address the rising storm, so prettily garbed as the quickening of soul stipples its loss of confusion for a moment's dry clarity allowing the movement, so long denied by mere discipline, now in the venting pools under skin driving nerves to the exhalation of a short, sudden gesture rounding the punctuation with staccato rhythm and precision, thus the cuing to the next hand over fist might meet the choreography like a master dancer in the centre exercise, exhibiting raw knowingness, a fire and will surrendered for the dance.
If it comes, as it comes for all in many forms disguised as foe, when in the deepest arc of fear carouses like a friend in a tiff, as the muscles flex, surrounding the lax ego bent only on the resolution of decay in terms of lost applause during a deal gone bad in the middle of a play, or on set when the director screams cut when he meant action, when the dialoguing you most fear becomes a reverberating echo in your head, then might you be arrested, calmed by the notion that it's all for one thing, humanity.
We vie for command of our words over the fray descending on plateaus of entitlement where we cry out our prides, where values, long debunked by critical assay, split the degrees of separations found within the petals of our minds sticking to the decay, revealing functions entombed under the dry caked desert face, as all the vain ideas that sprang from minds on the rise over smoke and tinders ablaze with faults ignited, decried our ascendancy, that we could never return the fire robbed in haste during the millennial frenzy, thinking how noble our efforts have proven not to be.
Trickling off the wretched core, all we convey to ourselves as the meat and potatoes of our grist when gulfed in love, enisled in grief and the meritorious sacrament reserved for the moment when the life is in our hands, when the eyes are bolted to our need, when the hunger is about to be fed, that's when the trick upchucks its vitals, splays indelicate rudeness for bad jokes at the mic, as a headliner gone mad while the club manager freaks the fuck out, you dive to the core, after all, when you substitute your hand for her heart.
In extremis, such inexpressible sensations, the tongue dives into the spiraling upside-down well by the spring of the eye spitted to the collapsing miasma for the matters without substance, that all the fighting might congeal into a pasty mess across an abandoned landscape, where once the dove flew for its pleasure, where the families spread their blankets for picnics dappled with forced glee, in such a plodding manner we see how the mind makes its own decisions regarding life's interminable droning on and one about absolutely nothing of any importance and getting paid in dividends for nothing's promulgation orgy.
Tripped to the end of residue time, all vacuous nods construe its immediate fulcrum offset to the edges not considered while buttering your morning toast. The diametric dissembling muse configures like a mad doctor who doesn't know the periodic chart; who does? All to the majestic salutation by other drips of vanity, we assume our apotheosis accordingly, then comes the announcement over the inner ear that no one is allowed to leave, not a soul, but in regression analysis there exists the true underlying magic we give to ourselves in those moments when all feels lost, yet all is found.
Should the digressions fall aside as frequently as the mainframe push itself forward virulently by all the functions of the eye guarding the machine, whereby the engine of humanity might exceeds its own marginality, may we find nothing that could stave the escalating momentum pushing the forehead out, that the globe defined by the curving bone bulge, as the imagination flees its limitations; when the heart lets the barriers down, when the soul escapes its own binding by decree of the mind fearful of its own breadth, then might we sit down at the table, and finally see one another.
You could say, and offside, say a disregard for the saying almost forgotten for its meaning that's no meaning at all but what you want it to say as a meaning to defeat saying anything. It is what it is; all that divides itself into multiplexing facets of a personality that no one knows or means to know, in that a knowing could offset its desire to realize how and why it is what it is. We made it what it is, and forgot in an instant, perhaps for survival sake, perhaps for nothing at all, but what it is.
It's toward the end I reach the hand of my hand in a violent stillness, plunging the eye of my eye through the inky obstructions threaded like a tantalizing web through our fair Dystopia wretching with junky love in backalley carousals, what takes its suck from corroded saliva crawling thick, slow, inexorable to the drowning pool of the night, slithering the worn walls bound in secretive ivy, with heaving mouths sealed for their secrets on a billion jaws clenched under the morass, wanting, ever wanting to bellow out, scream out the new beginning, by an end to all our prayers.
I take myself apart for the feast, for the cooks inside my head, cooks whose names are forbidden by law of residue claims to high moral standards and the grievous chiming of drug addicted angels chewing on their wings in the pantry by the nook of skull where no one suspects, overt psychic momentum, combined with a team effort of disparate complexes subscribing edicts of massive change to the recipes hung in subconscious halls being adulated as victory markers, where the woman in the men that have no definition are pushing limits, these and other ingredients are happily subversive nowhere.
It goes and goes, round and round, a myriad flux of cycles rapt in glee by harmony disaffected with the tortured grief as the goers with the going go as they go, that they see without seeing but feeling, thinking that they see how they see within tunnel affects of undersized disproportions of hubris in due for the complex arena designed to attract the opposite functions we often take for granted as we go as they go within us going, the goers, being oblivious in the gallery watching themselves fight themselves without knowing it's them, that gladiator game called denial.
If the seeming, wound without and within the mind reaching beyond its safety net, that which drives its spiraling seeing into the vortex core, plunging its spear, driving it deep within the unknown beast of being, coming slow to wakefulness, readiness, the vital essence touched is the central kernel, the seed to be sown, that all the findings might find themselves found not by the mind seeking but by the heart needing, that once flush vessel, throbbing with evolutionary ecstasy, now parched and dry, thirsting for any drop resembling life's bead, that which everyone can name and no one knows.
Fear dances like a rabbit atop your exiled heart strapped to the gearing while the soul machinery drives itself without thought of you as the rabbit gibbers and shakes, your mind in solemn respite, as an avalanche of discarded ideas cascades down the eroded face destroying likeness, so now you can go unrecognized anywhere, no matter how the guts are twisted in terror, each corner a possible ambush, each eye a possible accusation, each room a possible execution, there is no leaving what you left as that which you hold dear, the rabbit knows better, it knows why you hide.
There it is, the ineffable one, the distinguished thing, that thing sought for fear of its seeking, that thing undefined but for a billion definitions riding its wave against the torrent of eyes pleading for ignorance, that thing, that wonderful thing, staying as it stays, grinding its tune from street to street, state to state, nation to nation, grinding the inevitable chorus, funding its only trebled key thru a dissonant song that comes as a mystery, coming as it comes, then how might you safely see, where seeing may express as a true sight worth holding in the final blink?
It is my coming forth that defeats recalcitrant meanderings, ideas I fashion on the plain where horses without legs thump the red dust, brain rust, exhalations of despair painted as joy, the clown is smiling, see the clown, he is smiling, gloating over the kid's cellar party, and all the laughing, distractions, a face of glee over the dead packed in rows like sardines glimmers, all bloated kids, carefully laid under a stinking fret house, spew odors like golden rod looking for a bee to capture its scent, looking for the guard in a house of games, house of resurrections.
It scales the bars without hesitation, its mind rises like a tornado spat from a gopher hole, rushing, hot breath of our lady in ecstasy, body wracked for the fell city, crumbling from the core while shouting in a language no one ever learned, though heard from the inception of humanity, that bead where soul and flesh formed a conspiracy of justice parading the rude connivance that is man, on the deck he watches like a drunk hawk, he is King and Pauper, one and the same, what rules is ruled, no device but the ever widening separations of life.
Italics barred, what is spoken must be taken in its entirety, how funny it seems when the least is taken for the most, all numbers scrambled on the board, with eyes plucked for handicap on the course, no one shall triumph more than the least loses, all wins are losses, all bets are off, what's won is lost, what's lost is gained, we are in a parade of jesters looking for a King, any King will do, they say, but no one's applying, the fashion gloss peters out when the last couple have gone home, when the bar finally vanishes.
It finishes its way thru weird words deforming in the palms of bored office workers with their bosses libidos hidden in the hat check room. By standards upholding the methodical ruin of everything clustered, as to fend off the foe by organized numbers, there can only be this battle or that battle, isolated fighting only, while the real enemy enjoys a softie on the Coney Island boardwalk plugged straight into the execution room; it's always done this way, by hook or by crook, logic gets twisted in any way that serves the headmaster waiting at the door with Sponge Bob.
It hides under the edges before you claim ascent and defies the reason for ascending as the means to arrive at the end before the beginning. Such is the scheme granting asylum, as the ministers of deceit ply their tools deftly at the edge in preparation of the adepts' attempt to understand why one needs to ascend at all, that all ascension is but a means toward hubris' gearing the tables off their center, dissuading the host from inviting the usual suspects. In due time, all who aspire to master summit after summit, capitulate to the adjudicator of vanity dreams.
You make the end cry like a wolf in its darkness, when the moon escapes its shadow, the life behind it shines in the wolf's eyes. You can feel its pulse in the patter of its stride, the strength of its hunger, and how the eyes fixate for the wonder of finding the way to the moon and back again, this is what you never see, the place of its wandering when all else is silent and fiercely aware of nothing but the silence, the burden of filling the night is left alone, then comes the howl and its secret.
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