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We reach inside ourselves, butterscotch retreat. Face of someone not wholly known or desired keeps watch over the watching, notes the inward gesture, the hand with nothing but desire on its fingers, lit like subtle furies, small stars to puncture the void within. We seek this thing, this grail, holy and unholy, undefined yet defined, a mystery that needs to be solved but never is, never will be, always on the top of the charts, everyone's favorite show, this thing lives in that show, lives inside its plot, between the words of the lines, keeping its objective out of reach.
I try with the heartiest of spirit, swirling the bottle in my head, down-low in the guts of mind, behind the old refrigerators keeping brain cells cool enough to eat the heat of the ideas streaming like mad rivers, this way and that, a Kell-like meandering that keeps place with reality, lest reality devolve into a labyrinth of byways no eye may follow in the darkness, with spackles of light here and there marking paths one can only follow in dreams of following, the plight of one struggling against inevitable decay, rotting down with exponential, inexorable joke machines.
So it comes, this thing we fear, it comes in its own time, scheduled with alacrity to the tune no harbor of hope can digest adequately in time for the next chapter after the beer commercials. It settles the deal meted out for no one's specific pleasure but to the rhythms we love, as the last credit scrolls past, the lights rise, the people get up, all aisles disgorge their vitals, and the great beast vomits, as streets keep watch like hired assassins above the senses, beyond caring, on the other side of keeping watch over our private, coveted ways.
The brash sadness comes heavy with salted grief like a wave of burnt sugars roaring into the pan; we drip lightly the heaviness all too easy when asked for a reason why, yet there is no answering why, the question has to hang like we hang ourselves when hope dries up, and the pan is caked with inedible muck, this being the result we fear, gleaned by a mastery over our phobias gone awry, the sadness never goes away. It's baked to a height most chefs work years to attain; recipes they proffer must be followed to an unattainable perfection.
There's a sharp difference when you finally reach the edge as an edge is defined by its own mortality and the wall between the end; as another beginning becomes thinner and thinner with desire to ignore it, when the need to believe the end was a lie and life as you knew it can continue indefinitely, then we see how we bury ourselves without a need to explain, without reasons or anything resembling logic or a fashion of sensibility that might spare us from madness. This is the paradox we force as the wall gradually fades and we embrace oblivion.
To make a gesture that's meaningless you've created evanescent meaning that goes nowhere but for itself within itself, like a new element created within a nuclear reactor that lives for a trillionth of a second. A whole universe existed within that trillionth of a second. Who knows, perhaps an eternity existed. Are we in such a place of creation and destruction? Do we know for sure that we are not evanescent creations within a nuclear reactor existing outside our ken, outside our awareness, being for itself but a petrie of sudden universe, instant existences, evanescent shadows that open and close?
Here, there is no end, the leaves are drawn back with hope, as the questions' fingers peel them back, the mind goes deeper, the labyrinth broadens, the mystery widens, we come to conclusions just to feel worthy, feel important, feel as though we have cause, as the end approaches, the hope decays, the leaves fall further away by need of falling from their disguises held so bravely up, so assiduously firm, intact with a tact to function deploying a ruse, each leaf a pattern, a piece of the puzzle, yet we take them as nothing, and the irony continues unabated.
Driving, driving hard, driving through the mess we take as clarity, driving the means to drive the heart into itself to become the vessel of life it's presumed to be, in the dark mythology of creation we see destruction as but a gesture just out of reach, waiting in the ditches, on the shoulders, in the marshes beside the highways we drive. Into the void we seem to become our own beliefs that the void is a splendid paradise with rooms of inexhaustible wealth and joy, then the brakes slam, car screeches to a halt, we check in, and die.
We love dying. It's our way of expressing life. In the midst of confusion we create clarity as palliative, a band-aid until rescue squads arrive and apply their salve; such a calm voice they have, such a peaceful demeanor, such relief, and we're hoisted up, elevated on the run, skipping over the wasteland, driving hard through the decorated messes we call our homes, walls pitted with plastic smiles, rooms bedecked with colorful distractions, all a means to keep us safe, keep us secure, keep us silent, lest we speak out of turn when the cracks on the wallpaper appear.
Into the crack eyes peer for ancient curiosity. Though our legacy to be a slave drones, our genes render their data and instincts spark alive; clasped to bones, rigid in their hard-wired rigors, muscles uncoil their knowledge, deliver their function to serve the need for survival, surrender their acceptance of bondage, move bones into long forgotten actions, drive them up from the grave dressed as an alter of god that we may serve it's unquestioned words, that such actions might tear the words from their pages, render the god mute, trash the alter, that we may feed on freedom.
I've collected the unusual in my base locker, the one beneath nostalgia, which conceals as easy as a grandmother's smile. Into its vast darkness, I've almost completed the puzzle by which it will activate, by which I will overturn the ellipsis of my life. Onto the long curve of its expanding arc I fasten notes to guide the intrepid seeker. I keep my eyes to their paths. I cannot avert their gaze, lest I become confused, but by my cleverness, fed by the need to complete the puzzle, I distract any onlooker, till all eyes of the detectives are occupied.
Full of it. It's full of you. You've made the decision, or the decision was made for you. Either way, you're at the center with it. It's at the center with you. Among trinkets of the collective, appropriate for viable battles run successfully, you collude on terms of engagement without recourse of escape. Once committed, all is done before it's done. It moves you. You move it. All is a matter of going, fixed to a point or not. You know the deal in code, so it can never be communicated. This is the course agreed upon. No going back.
There is a kiss I feel deep down the rivers that flow this way and that, feeding an ocean that has no bottom, all horizons in one, the extent of my eye that goes inward to a vast panorama, what is seen is felt, what is felt is heard, what is heard is tasted, the entirety of me is the entirety of mankind, a flood of riddles that have no solutions. In the best of worlds, I come to myself to redeem myself in the name of mercy for the godhead concealed within is the godhead without, nothing but everything.
I have retreated to a sound that reverberates continually, keeps time with rhythms we cannot possess or understand. It possesses us, and we dance in the dark. We sing to a being that lives above our ability to conceive the being, it merely is itself as we have construed it, the mainframe no hacker can hack. It is this sound I feel within that never subsides, never dims, never makes itself known but to me, and I accord its power to take me as I am, as it wills to take me. My will is subsumed to obey this sound.
Whence comes this thing I sense hiding for a moment inside a moment inside a moment inside the conception of moments, driving my mind to the object of its intent to serve my heart as it is, not intruded upon, inveigled by some malicious idea that serves the need to separate myself from myself and crush my ability to be and to merely serve it. This insidious strength we serve without sensibility, without the knowledge to capture it wielding its power to overthrow the soul, to replace it with a mirage, a shadow, like in the cave outside the cave.
I divided the time I saw into two, then I saw the need to plant a bomb inside my idea of time, to wear this bomb around like a suicide bomber with my finger on the trigger constantly, keeping myself aware of when and how and why; never being utterly certain of anything but the need to keep it hidden, keep it tightly wound around my center, knowing all the while the time will one day betray itself, and I will depress the trigger. Then shall I know what's what in the here and never, the timeless here and beyond.
So it goes, this valuation compressed into words, made to seem inviolate, superior to all concerns, this patter of syllables construed so delicately and dressed so elegantly, made to seem so innocent while robbing us all of our wits to escape our tortures, our self made hells; for this is our legacy to keep true to a Law that laughs behind our backs, sees us fidget, squirm and worry without intent to help, even counsel, merely note this human need above all needs to become subservient to illusion, superstition and horror, the horror of never owning ourselves, giving ourselves away.
Whereby you construe fever as favor, wound to the adept by the heat of inspiration, bound to the crucible one can never see devour them whole, being but a particle in an infinite whorl, this thing we do, this rite of passage in the rite of passage in the grip of that which has no end and no beginning, hurled thru the vortex of seeing without sight, feeling without touch the wholeness become as a mere mathematical point of no dimension spanning the universe, infinite and complete, everything and nothing, this paradox we live, this bead we are, being here.
I found what I found, and it wasn't the thing I sought. It looked like the thing. It acted like the thing. For all appearances and intents, it was the thing, but it wasn't; it was something else. A lie had been told, slipped between several truths, laid into place under the radar, put in action before any action, before the activation of the heart and mind to fund the body into motion for the objective. This thing, so placed, assured me its viability, drove the idea I could forgot, drop my expectation, be at ease with the thing's mediocrity.
So I moved with the currents elicited when a switch was thrown, when the functionality rose with intent to serve the inner needs, and the mechanisms came to life. I moved into place and derived the extreme heat for the engine, fed the fuel created via dreams to the mouth, via imagination's machine, by the conjurations into the source, that the mystical river might flow, that the waters of life might replenish what doubt destroyed. This drought, by design, came into being to hail the hatred sewn by need under fire in the center of the war that never ceases.
It's all about your art. It speaks to you. It becomes you in its fashion to become itself, that you, as you, become vessel to the breadth of it. It lives through your sensibilities derived from spirit to maintain the flux of light through the inner eye belying the eye that sees the trapped fish in the net. The eye that sees its own blinding, its inability to see, that which is seen by the eye of the fish, only drowns in waters too fearful. When the waters consume the fears, consume the matters to feed the art, joyful cannibal.
No, in the stream you didn't give up the need. I needed you to give it up, and you didn't even know what it was, even the notion of giving up this 'it' you haven't a clue about. It's a secret, yet a lie. There are no secrets, but for those who feel safe around not knowing, and the lie proliferates for those who pride themselves on knowing a secret manufactured in private for those in solemn confusion, holding onto the lie, not knowing what they're holding onto, but a clever smokescreen, a curtain between the world's stage and audience.
I've divided off needs to support division by segregation devised by men of ignorance, by those who delight in the fabrication of things that have no substance but for those who concoct consequences for violations of insubstantial things held high in ceremonies, solemn and secret, assuring that the walls get thicker. Eyes on either side, privy to the other, grow dim, as the other moves from dim recollection to myth, becoming a folk tale told by those who have nothing better to do than guard the walls, lest no eyes be allowed to see, until seeing is nothing but sin.
The bits are scattered, elements of logos, the particles we seek for putative understanding, never vying the truth, as it is, but hunting symbols to codify, compartmentalize, define, conscript, locate the core matrix of reality, looking to locate life, its function and service, its meaning and becoming, its coming and going, looking to iterate aloud the logos, words that reflect what we have, here, this, that we move within, this, that we call life, but a miasma, a chaos seeking stability that cannot be, seeking to gather the bits, hunting these telltale bits like wild blueberries under a dark moon.
Then comes the face appearing out of the fog of thinking, rising from the ash of falsification, materializing from the stitchery woven over eons, pounded on the anvil in the forges hidden from view, obscured from our hands, designed to assemble this face, not knowing the face or how it may or may not reflect, how it may define us in our ongoing confusion, this collective sought, this puzzle constructed from a billion billion bits, from the sands of our oceans, some real, some not, all a pattern of us, our beingness, such as it is, our desire for meaning.
Onward, we stumble the path as it crumbles, becomes new sands of a new beach from our fretted wits for heads we cannot meet for thinkings' grace or the drifting boat on the waters behind our eyes, the ocean that stretches from our imagination, our inner sense of meaning, however that may drift from a reality we cannot touch, however it may define us in our faux engines of truth, built from a desperation looking toward a new way of being that belies the fish of truth we seek to seek, the fish we create for lack of habitable waters.
In our hunt we want colored eggs, oblong, asymmetric eggs, eggs that cannot be, for the eggs we have are insufficient to our desires situated on a hilltop scanning the horizon for an approaching ship of any size or matter that may delight our ragged wits. We scramble toward an understanding that there is nothing to have, nothing to see, nothing that might satisfy our desperate desire to find life as it is, in lieu of what we fear is life, which is all of our substance on the broken carousel needing service from a repairman that died ages ago.
Eternal lack of light in the eternal search, looking for something to see, trying to see, not seeing, seeking that which moves within without logos, that which drives the nuts and bolts, cranks and pistons of our engine; yet, we seek, we hunt, we obsess upon finding, upon seeing the unseeable, we construct our logos machines for seeing, and we derive blindness, we construct obstacles, walls, curtains between here and here, then comes the societies with their secrets, that if only we would follow their cryptic steps, their rites of passage, climb their funky ladders, we might decorate our blindness.
Drifting, and it all goes wide, the panorama lifts itself out of your eye from the back of your darkest dreams, the ones you kept in secret, in private ecstasy when all else seemed to fade in the face of oppression, this sky, this universe, all so open now, spilling wide and wider, filling the vacuum you once called mind, letting go of holding on, letting go of the oars, the side of the craft, the edge of the sentence, letting go of words that might define the prison you are, the prison you want to leave, that of expectation.
The Tip Jar