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You can ask a thousand times what it means, looking for a meaning where there is none, for there is nothing to be explained, nothing to be pointed at, yet you point, you insist upon pointing, the thing rises in your vision, it rises to the top of its habitat, nothing hides it from you, you see it for what it is to you, and no one knows, no one may know, it is all yours; the end of it is the same as its beginning, what came is going, when left is arriving. There is nothing else but everything.
I am employed by myself to seek my own employment. Where I am best suited is where I will place myself when I find the place to put myself. The place is right in front of me, so they say. Many say this. Many say many other things too, privately, between themselves. I seek the place to fit myself, for I know best how to fit myself into wherever I decide it's best to fit myself, and so it goes, yet I cannot find this place. It eludes, for I am stayed by my own photo-flash keeping me blind.
There is a great emptiness filled with wonder that overflows itself, drowning the eyes hanging about with fears of being caught by the thoughts ensuing, uprooting all that which is fixed by judgments into the swarming flow. The eyes see me. They see themselves. I cannot unsee what they see, for I am in the vision bundled close within the shadows of the eyes rafted on the waves roaring toward the center of soul. In this place of mystery I cannot follow my own wonder, though this wonder goads me forward, bids me search. The vastness of this place overwhelms.
The moment decides. In a terrible quiet, it divines how it curls about itself to look within itself then again to look without itself, in and out, the moment curls out of itself to become the next and the former, each one forward, each one back, loop upon loop is looped on the gearing of the one cycle enclosing all, that the first is the last, and we are the one, so it goes, and it goes without us knowing how it goes. Possessing all that's capable of reflection, it is itself bereft of reflection, for it is its own.
It's very chilly while breaking open a new breath here now. A rest isn't quite the swallowing peace it could be or would be, but it's something on the course over the badlands no one has a key to. I'm trying to find a clarity in the dark, cool dim and I'm finding it. I'm not despairing, not a jot. I fly to the challenge of being shot. It's inevitable, and one's a fool if they think not. I'm watching the night. It's watching me. Neither of us can look away from each other. Neither of us can afford to.
Death/rebirth, at the table, dealer flips the die, shuffling choices, gearing the wheel on its opulent Dias with numbers beaming their viable, brash ads, eat me, love me, take me in, choose me, I am the one, so the wheel by the unseen hand spins, under blank garbs its followers keep riveted, nails in their expensive boxes poised, secrecy is the key, no other but that and the misconstrued elements conspiring in the wings, so the ground heaves, wheel slows, hands fall to the side, knuckles grind the polished arms, readying their shovels...it's time to pluck your eyes.
The insertion grabs at blood without looking, sans aim on the critical masses cramping aside their vessels seeing the prick plunge; so, to the means of being, as one might be if not, to the supple arrangements, the invasive hand plies needles to comfort the assaulted, assuring themselves time is on their side, without doubt, this dude hasn't wherewithal to veer from the plunge. Deeper in the loam, once called life, the shaft curves, slicing off means of awareness, ever so slowly, ever so inexorably, and the smiles, you'd never guess it, never predict it. This is what he wanted.
The mirror floats. It bids you stop and look. For fear of seeing the unseeable, you turn away. Everyone turns away, saying they saw what they saw, what they wished, and the cyclone of eyes pulls itself inward, draws out its pluck to fashion a goblet, a firm form that credits its own solidity, a living vase of eyes that sees only what it wants to see. The goblet sits alone in a spreading void. It alone contains what could be seen as the seeing universe, only blindness, as Oedipus' security, has reduced the world to what he can touch.
He sees. She sees. They see. In a circle for valuation, they combine. One sees a giraffe, one sees a lion, one sees a snake, another sees a toad. In a varying sort of way, without derision, each one takes an aspect from the other and fashions their world. They take the mystery, the aspects that cannot be explained, aspects that are fearful and fashion their gods. They take all that is given to give it away at a price. They construct houses wherein this business is performed, and they call it worship. They call it the place of judgment.
Thru it all, thru all its connivance, thru all its obfuscations, its valuations through deceit, by machinations aplenty, full of ripe colors to tantalize, like those ribbons you wore at the banquet celebrating the end of troubles, when they all stood to cheer, when you raised your hands, opened your mouth, set your functionality to its prime motive, then all those who begged time favor their needs, were put down, laid to rest while you gave your speech as if they were still there, not realizing they had all passed away, and you were speaking to an empty water faucet.
Dialoguing. Not wanting to dialogue. Feeling voices crowd in. Pesky buzz. Mosquitoes. Firm intangibility. Waves. Through the dusky mind clambering for silence, feeling the need to dialogue, feeling its pressure, you want to run. You've been running. Body is still fixed. Mind is racing away. The pressure builds. Voices pile on voices. A bonfire of voices. You feel the heat. You feel its desire. There's a quality of hunger in the desire, a quality of need. You ignore that need. Fuck the need. Quiet is what you need. Quiet, where the hunger is sated. You have a choice to make.
There's something listening. It's there. You can feel it. You can't touch it. It's touching you. That's the worst. If you could move away, just slip away without it noticing, but there is no slipping away. You're attached. Both of you. Neither of you see the other. Each is present. The stark connection stays. There's no disconnecting. The decision to connect was made long ago before you knew how to decide. They say you made the decision; try as hard you might, you cannot recall it. They've said it so often, you've come to believe. What else can you do?
When you feel this weird sweat running down the capability of sweating, feel it eating through your phony cool, driving the sputtered heat from its theoretical value into sensation, from the base idea to the mouth of expression, then comes this odd sweat, this fever without immediate value drumming up the deep vibration, like tremors rising, gathering amplitude, heightening the rise and fall, growing by the second, moving toward the inevitable eruption, and you can feel it, as the eyes move toward the center of the beat at the core, where the rhythms procreate incessantly, this is the mind's soul.
Attitude incomplete. What book began, dissolves. Non-comprehending brains feed blank stares that stutter to see where seeing is impossible till they starve, shrivel, funding soil with rot to rouse new growth, make assay to the drum of fertility in its primary grist without toil or rumpus in the bag lady's dreams of a holy fuck with the Virgin in tow, giving head as the means of a Eucharist made to salvage what salvation might afford by its own passage cross Styx, then might creation couple destruction, then may God couple Satan, conjoining as one indivisible star, binary and complete.
You can grab at whatever. Though it may elude, you trip off its coloring gestures, like a painter that swings the oils into action, plots a delineation of creation cross the white void bearing only questions, offering a hunger for adept fingers to feed, that by the dappling, strokes and slash may the face gradually appear from the void, take shape, be at peace with its fine lineaments, its solidity, its new evolution behind the question looming large on the path to nowhere and everywhere, where all that asserts its value as an amorphous reality awaits its call to linearity.
It's watching, as it always does. It sits in the air without shape. You can feel it. You've always felt it. It's there to watch you climb your mountain to the freedom of openness and let go, fall from the crag and suckle the abyss. When you arrive to drink, you, who presume worthiness, must prove your worthiness to drink of the drink that sates your artist' lust. You must rear back your hubris, lay down your ego, pull down your vanity, pull down, and open your heart to ascribe all that muscles into play as a virgin offering herself.
She marked my soul, etched it with an amorphous smile, like a drunken Chesire, giddy Hatter, make-believe god, spun from the depths of imagination, where sightless spirits string baubles of radium, this insertion, enturbulation, this frightful penetration, sounded my depths, ruptured the swollen pustules, lent breath to the unvoiced screams gagged by the hands of darkness swirled within the bounds of madness where the unseen spectres wielded the power of nothing parading as something; her wonder forged the sword called love that pierced the heart of darkness and unleashed the waters from the mythic fountain of life and death.
Long time away from the word conduit now calling me from its burial in the fanning shadows deep under frantic looking for the way out or in, some fashion of passage from bondage, feeling the nudge, squirming, limbs wanting gesture, movement, a complete process following intent through objective, keeping mind intact while body fights itself, when the means become shunted, as form dissolves by necessity by the amorphous quality, that which forces intent inward, in chains, bound to its own pit where psychical hands manipulate the cogs in the belly of the machine, empty, muttering desperate pleas for a morsel.
Sordid, like a funny face being drummed out of a joke falling away from its articulation, keeping the humor, flowing like the mythic water from the well of life, which is really quite funny when you get right down to it, hilarious as the means become vivid for their fondling tools to keep the joke vital and alive when death cries out, sneering for cynical jabs, cutting the joke, penetrating its sphere of whimsical dominance over a life that struggles to lift itself out of the mire in depths that have no sense of humor, lacking any vestige of hope.
You could, it's like, wow, you could beat the drum, like, hey, come and play, you could shout out the time that has no time, no hands around the clock face making you sad, keeping you drab for the tick tock rock, waiting for the hock to hit the end of waiting, end of shifts turning, old gyres, like doddering fools keeping to the tasks when the tasks make no sense, no more rhyme or reason, no logic, while the puppets dance to a sick zip, ears clicked shut, it's just such a clamor, such a noise, no new toys.
filling. the ju ju sticks my head to the stuffed octopus. filling up. so much to fill, filling never too much, filling. ju ju sauce for the kill, killing the dead, jumping the stiff to motion, animating the stone, like a dance to raucous tunes, jangled melodies, unfreezing the tentacles, writhing out of non-motion, from dream to reality, the idea made flesh, each limb of its lackluster lump flashed out, leaping out, and into the fray with a new kind of manipulation, new way of doing that undoes the done to a new moving, new grooving, eclipsing the still.
O wow, animate inanimate, cartoon life, dreaming the dream, gotta fire the meat, stewed in the back harmonies so dissonant to keep the cats howling, dogs barking, alleyways stuffed to stewing brews that will not stop the glop, no bums in arrears of their fears without handouts aplenty stuffing worn out pockets full of trinkets that have no slip to a nod of living, no way, go away, and make assay the safest way away from safety and go, blow, slick the day to say its own demise, such that slow go like mercury, quicksilver spewing out your maddest frump.
So, fish why don't you? It's there, right underneath, beside, above you, what's the problem, what's the delay? In the metronome of the unquiet machine, unseen levers gear its mechanisms through unquestioning compliance without knowledge of compliance, with full awareness of nothing to be aware of, in a state of no awareness, simple compliance, an undivided compliance without knowing anything but, no diversion by means of a diverting thought, that such a thought may move the mind through the means of compliance to undo compliance. No need for that confusion. No need for that intrusion. Just happy to live without.
Fan the ways to word streams between worlds of inarticulate speech, that sound may wed form with logos in tow, for the substance of finding that needs nothing but wanting, lust of the unfound, allows wonder to blossom when exhaustion heaves the body down, keeps it ready for the watering, though motion remains but an idea without substance, that the verbs, vowels, patterns of speech combine with the undisputed keys of the mind and open the doorways to the next and to the next, the next, always the next, as this is but a stone to tread upon and forget.
If it moves, keep an eye. the feed won't dim. it's perpetual. you can trust that. nothing belays its function. what comes, goes, what goes, comes. it all goes round, and the device for perpetuity designs itself for the valuation determined by need, by progress, for its all progressing, in process, dividing, a mitosis like function. we keep ourselves away from interfering. it likes that, needs that. we would only get in the way. the way makes our way in its way peculiar to us. we need that. on the rails the train moves. we keep to its sacred motion.
We go how we go, treading the waters that flow in every direction in every way; they bear our souls in and out from the source of us. We ride mere ideas of those waters. We've barely touched them, let alone drunk of them. We are allowed sips. We all wish to drown. We beg the waters to come, to envelope us, absorb us, keep us hidden under their currents, and we dream of this. We keep these dreams to ourselves mostly. Many would ridicule us, mock us, deride us for even wanting what we want, to be finally drunk.
A sight came. The shaft of light bore it for our taking. We looked away. We didn't watch. Then we cried, because we didn't see it. It missed us. But we got it wrong. We missed it. It's our legacy, missing the keys, missing the vital elements, the philosopher's stone. It is such a fantasy. Or is it? Are we compelled eon after eon to search for something that is mere flotsum and jetsum of our imaginations? The road stretches out. it stretches far. Along its path we are granted sights, here and there. It is our dream. Our mission.
I'm lining them up to shoot them down. Lining them up for a thrill spot when I go down to the end of my wits at the bottom of girl mud, then comes the putty up the butt and no true comedy at the foursquare timetables. This makes it seems almost surreal as the butt goes black in the girl mud flipped over the righteous edge and the prayers can't drive the end to the beginning for any one's hoping. It's a matter of true belief versus the dead kennedys and that cute moment when JFK's head explodes. Totally rad.
i make goo in your thrill guts, like poppin jays in the food stuffs. gotta make the needle half as fun as talkin to my dead aunt susie in the funeral parlor, reaching my hand through her petals feeling her pussy like cold potatoes on the barnyard dance party for dead pigs, blood on the wire where the head gets hard for true fucking with angels. my sass gotta blast for the dads in tow who can't or won't fuck no more in the hostile new year's party who gets to wear the funkiest bonnet to the grave as god.
tough digits are firing up the flat head rising over the new day desert fun, soon to melt for the sun sucking heat we all love to mete as means for the get-together of all the former killers on the lam in the jam of the day bent backwards, as I've known no one to say it's best to stay in and have a polite match of checkers with the dog. he's a funky muck stucker, a mainline backstabber who loves to keep score with the babes on the backyard hammocks just begging to get pregnant for no one.
Heavy, too heavy in the split vein of interest threaded through myriad minds with feelers flung out to find some nut in the tree to hoard in the capability of belief, stretching it out as needs be held for the consumption that's not only inevitable but consecrated as an exalted state, not to be confused with the state of satiation, which marks its function while the body gestates, keeps its own for its own in a viable place, and none too heavy a place, for the movement we desire cannot engage while too many veins connect, collect, and serve nothing.
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