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We can keep its secret. We know how it's elocuted, how it maintains its sacristy. We know the hunger behind it. It functions as the designated engine toward which the eye plays the horizon as if it were the stuff of its own creation. It belongs to the horizon, even as the horizon belongs to nothing and everything. It knows this, yet keeps silent. There is nothing to say, yet all is said. The pattering in the sky, the faintest echoes and the sharpest snarls; all is possessed of its possessing, the driving force behind its existence, it is us.
The fish continue as the story goes, while the room spins on its axis far away from the bed burning down the house with tiny voices yelping like mice in traps eating bad cheese, I am the throwaway and the catch, I am the devil in the town with god in the corn field, I am on top of the valley on the bottom of the mountain, as the sun slips through the crevices where those things that want to hide are revealed for the pointless things they are, I take to heart what beats for my getting, another beginning.
The donut meat has a way of rising like bright dough with crazy yeast infections sprouting off the axis of rising the harvest in the fashion that it yields the best grain with grits on the stove crackling for whoever deigns to construct tables to seat all the guests who were invited after the last bomb detonated, this is my cross, and it ain't as heavy as it's really crooked, it doesn't fit the way they portray it on film, it takes from the illusions all the fun and leaves you with the question, where do I get more donuts?
It seems as it seems, always seeming the way it has to seem, what spins around as the beginning woven to the end, back again, through its center around the widening circumference, it seems the whole of a whole seeming of the whole, yet within this seeming there's a hidden seeming, as the mind pitches itself forward bravely pressing outward, boundaries cave to their own self-prescribed limits, they deform their forming, as the seeming gives way to another seeming undefined, unlocalized, floating without definition or form, yet existing as the vital flux of soul, the very bead of life.
To the shore it bore its brave step as a means to seek, stepping off the known to divide off its reality, differentiate its laire of blackness to a self initiated division of self, give in to the radical prism by the alien sun, alien light, that wild woven fabric, ever unfurling, and so to the shore, it seemed to keep itself as itself for a moment, yet to the need it came to find, as the seeming gave way, as it surrendered itself to the virgin need, a firing of a new kind of chemistry, new kind of eye.
Maybe this is good for me, digestion of unrest through a portal of dark renewal, a tunnel of new seeing at the end, where a beginning gave way to settling odds, making assay with a current energy flux with a flow dividing at a crux, a point of mean engagement, rough conjunction, bodies smashing bodies, features dissolving, focus lost for the bridge over something unseen, unfelt, unassimilated in the main, only digested when the end consumes the journey, when the beginning is truly understood, when all else fades in priority, when only the end moment becomes the next beginning's candle.
Entering with an idea of leaving, never arriving, always approaching, a refracted ghost of self approaching means toward leaving, being itself a mystery, something not begotten as made for reality's facial, an underlying tonality where all that remains, leaves to remain elsewhere, a continual evolution that goes unseen, unheeded, always catching the looker in the eye, to the side, a peripheral blip, just enough to drag the senses to the fore, allowing entrance, allowing the permission to enter, thinking about leaving, always that, a floating dissatisfaction, sitting on the invisible wall, keeping watch over both sides of an unknown war.
Without trying, without gestures, or even thoughts of gestures, something splits, something divides off the main, one form becomes two; anathema to the Samuri, one must never become two, but as it is, always remains as the consistent anomaly of reality, that which cannot be avoided. Nothing stays the same, only hope on a misbegotten ship headed toward a Valhalla based on delusion. The flexing meat of being alive, looking for a means to reach without its matter of mind that floats like a cloud in someone else's dream. It is this that exists as the living grail, living fantasy.
It could be in a way something frightening, but all in all a way of keeping the hot pans hot and hidden from the rabid relatives who cannot or will not behave with dead animals in the fridge. This neither scares me or motivates me to open new credit accounts. I realize the importance of spreading smooth will over the heart like peanut butter on your dead grandmother, but I haven't got anything to say about how or why they do what they do. It's become an irritation, the value of keeping everything as though my olfactory nerve is dead.
Stupid dross unraveling air about you from a mag I lost in a storm, I could find you again if the lip of the street would only unpurse, this gagging tar, like unmade bed with vomiting cats for company. What conveyance along the rolling pitch provides no dance for titillation? Only in abeyance are the ill animals like you or I; rather, the tip of an idea about why or what the hell is being talked about as a dialogue with the congregating airs; the storm abates, the driveway reappears under limp applause, and the fire becomes cold in arrears.
Effusions from the core, by the cross-hatching connections that fade in review via eyes ungilded with extreme adaptations for the survival, yet not the falling out of that which survives to destroy, but what survival claims as a means to keep intact, stay within form, fly an even course, is undoubtedly no better for its innocent desire to see the functionality remain intact. All becomes like a roving paradoxical construction. On the one hand a viable place to create, on the other, a suitable place to die, better that, then remain vague, confused, wandering, looking for a playful god.
The antisocial machine can become the best means to making the oddest cakes around, and with no one to stop you in the dim dark of early morning oven cranking, the ideas that come will outweigh any that form within the acceptable designs and mannered manipulations of convivial dough that feed the mouths from day to day steps to climb the ladder being lifted continually up the sides of our egos, attaching themselves like chips in a drone for predictable search and destroy missions. Better to have the cake that eats itself when called upon to eat you and all.
You spread out the means to create an unruly fashion, and disguise takes over, overwhelms the eye, it redesigns how senses combine to officiate the ruling on the landscape of reality checks, so often geared to perfunctory habit, so much so, the habit devolves itself in action, slides under awareness' capability, reforms expectations, forms a presentation any CEO would enjoy, asleep or not, as the heart dwindles in its strength to keep pace on a voluble tenor, with asymmetric efforts focused on the matters pinned to the present and conjures a dance of delectable confusions, hither and thither, beautiful chaos.
So, then, the top is seen to be the bottom and all's on its head with swinging fits of veracity being the glue for the rings filling out a circus crammed with blindness after it came to the inner-town, overtook the kitchen and set recipes ablaze in the forebrain; where once the formulae of how to this, how to that, how to how, were certain, now, not, but only as not to how, reality being relegated for seeming as being but a mere dream to survive, the echo as the original voice, mouth lost in gearing of dimension shifts.
It almost tires itself out as it lowers its sights on leaving nothing behind, no clues as to what or why, but the where. In the descent of the action what rises is the fever of its delight of not being seen, felt or heard, it lives for its presumed non-existence, it's untouchability; in its deepest mind it drives no hard plan outward but the flotsum of ideas spent on ideas. It leaves no trace. It exerts no muscle that cannot be claimed. All is swamped by the hidden key turned in the lock of its secrecy, its omerta.
Can you see the turning? No. Can you feel the turning? All is turning. There is nothing but turning, so nothing is felt. It is as it turns. On the turn the eyes, fixated on being aware, turn away by need of seeing ahead and behind. They are the hot points. What is, is not. It turns as it stays oblivious to itself and to others looking to catch its turning. Naivete in extremis drives the eyes inward, drives them dry, drives them blind. It is the hope of this blindness that keeps the sight sharp on nothing ever seen.
Full of the gusto in regards of disputes full of deceits too many to collect in a mind bent on construing how it might defeat even the most stalwart ideals as standards holding up the mansion houses wherein liberties held as true are bound in musty books resting under texts long forgotten, secretly retained in dutiful keepers of the house, constructing beams of a new framework, block by block, rising ever higher to meet the challenges of the tottering ideology we held so dear, now, surrendering to what could only be seen as a mutated reflection distorted, full of mysteries.
We may evacuate the fullness of deceit, how it works on the mind like a chisel on a block of marble to attend the stuck hulk with its fatigue and ennui, slags of dead skins retained for security, this mass, swollen with despair and longing for the ocean's release within its catacombs winding through a soul, rivers through a dense jungle, gibbering with monkey fears from limb to limb paralyzing intent for the capture of an image, photoflash, a single remembrance of things of a bygone nature spreading health through the struggling garden like wildfire across a dry Midwestern plain.
How fast we drive ourselves silly with fantasy, grabbing at illusury straws eluding like maddened snakes in the storm of our compulsions, spread across the festival tables tempting ardor as a finger of the body electric sparking for new life in its grasp, like hunting dreams of a dream fading in the descending arc of sleep. Awakening to stark reality's structures, we lunge for food, the hunter and gatherer, original blood lines drawn on the canvas created at the birth of the human carnival; it is where we deign to battle our deepest fears by recreating them as edible cartoons.
It drove through the hide, an eye snapped open, sky spilled a cloud of red in a flash, body mangled its pride for the life rushing out and in on a muscular dance parade, wild fetes of sentience off the intruder's attack to collect assurance of survival seeming like a falling away, rather, a means to assemble residual strength, to rise above the plunging down, and what remains of its heart beating a pulse, in a frenetic mind clipping notes in a shear of free jazz swinging round, is the idea driving deep, connected self to the core of soul.
The precipitate at thirty thousand grief stricken homeless ideas foundering for the luxurious dismissal one can only hope as relief that comes to a band of starving brothers in the weeds they call the enemy, it flies high above the dark dreams, steeps itself in a prolonged fashion throughout the murk called morals. It waits for itself alone, but never alone, keeping itself as the core and outer ring, both in flames one can taste, flames, wherein one can consume themselves freely, sundering all flesh to ash, billowing higher, ever higher, as the tongues of flames proclaim the everlasting orgasm.
A keepsake in the treasured place of letting go; to the nodding off, into the whorl I go, it's the fire I feel in the sweat, the running of the rapids through veins splitting open, into the storm's eye I fall, and sensing not a calm but the idea of ripping off the quiet, tumbling off the nods, escaping no grift, I find the key to the door that opens to all that isn't. I push it wide, closing values, swinging up the sore earth that teeters my grove of inland diseases, so it goes, as I vomit my tale.
Into the wild, which folds itself into neat compartments divided on the lines that seam the secrets, one to the other, never revealing but keeping true, that false may never shed its value for worthiness in the sealed house of dreams that rises in the pluming storm from below, I keep silent. Into the wild I fondle no judgment, no verdict, no word, no song, no speech, a coming forth and going into, such that all I see may bear its delights in a furious battle without a sound, no blood, no tears, no laughter, nothing but a new beginning.
I take my head off to you under my hat as the semblance wears off the face under the face under the flesh where thought trails the valley of the shadows, and I tell you my tale without words that only confuses, rattles and bemuses the gated story yet unrevealed, this life, being unlived as an idea, only became all that lived for the revelation of its story, so untold to be boring to those who want it told, who demand an explanation, those who parade on the guise past its prime will only know it as its truest demigod.
Toiling, in the ground, from the belly turned up, from the core of the ground, in its private places, where no utterance penetrates, where the absolute is but a flicker of its sense of awareness while the intent to push itself outward and inward toils through the morphing body and keeps its silence loud, that all manner of privation is clapped in a stolid gearing for its evolution, that no one sensibility might trundle the cause or collapse the dream of being alive in the open, alive in the sun for all to see, for all to touch, for all.
I may grapple limbs of a heart beating for its life in my hands of my hands, feeling its fibers swell with pride from the center of my brain to fill its empty coffers with a new life; this, the connection of one to another, being the absolute and solemn ceremony of life's gravitas, gears all of its heat toward the one creation of that which cannot be created otherwise, this infinitesimal moment, this immeasurable moment in time sans dimension, is the mouth from which the song emanates, this beginning, equipped with an end, designs its ramble through time's illusion.
I feel to the end in the constraints of holding my temper's in check for the fires rising in silence, that the bosom of darkness' soul may suckle and nourish the plenty of its sore that will never heal, its vital calm that is no calm but an eye of a nuclear hurricane dividing itself a billion times over the excessive need to grapple something outside of oneself, outside of one's intemperate will, outside the realm of holding, that one might let go of holding altogether, to become a unity of chaos, in its fervid soul, that it may live.
My seeing swells with hearing my skin becoming you as you become it. As the falling into is reaching out of, we come together like tsunamis in crossing oceans, towering waves crashing continually revealing the core of the waves, core of their energies, the vital swelling of the earth within each of us, how we digest the largess is the mystery; while all channels are stuck on blank, the one we are, that both of us possess, beams ferociously, diving its purity through us, down deep inside the black depths where our eyes are blind, where we can finally see.
An ever sloping grade past failing, a downward spiral with cacophonous party anchors on the sides gibbering manifold celebrations through the index parade, that every eye be sealed to its destiny while tagging its light in due respect of its growing blindness. Down, ever down, the collective mind careens, breaking off sensibilities, discarding logic's sealing grace, that every bond be broken, every accepted union be disjoined, in praise of chaos, a joyous fete of the scattering nods, the cyclone of eyes descends, and all that sees can see nothing amiss, all that spirals down feels at home in the whorl.
A dullness pervades. A fog. Obscurity slathers the looking glass vividly through itself; there is no glass, just the semblance. It hangs in the air, dividing itself, over and over, meeting the needs of the space as cut by our bodies flexing through what seems a clear day, eyes fixed on clarity by intent, find the obstacles dancing, black forms eating the light as they dance, confounding the eyes, feeding the fog, and we grope like drunken antelopes in the sun chilled sidewalks and gardens of stone. In our arrogance we find delight in seeing nothing as nothing becomes us.
The Tip Jar