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Some might, and some won't, some have it in their heads to want something else, something that defeats the something you made up for the loss you keep having, the regrets that keep piling in the mud of mind making it harder to steer in the roads laid out by expectations fastened to the course of your life plan designed by high school counselors worldwide, the ones with the maps on the walls, the maps with the little pins denoting those places you ought to want to visit, the places you ought to want to covet, knowing you'll never have.
The silly little bits you were told to abandon, told to toss away for their profane uselessness, these bits, the ones you inveigled for their curiosities, for their funny ridiculousness, the others said they had no worth, no viability, nothing to offer but everything. This is what you hold so dear, so close in the darkness of your hiding where you were told the bad men wait in hopes of capturing you, the place where there is no handle, no cradle, no hoist to stay your balance on any plane, from within or without, these are the worlds you seek.
Pushing it back, pushing it all back, seeing the entrails of the machine moving while fixing the machine, per usual, fixing the time that fuels the machine, so the time doesn't see the time, pushing it back all the way, pushing it for the life of it, for the life of being alive in the moment chosen, over and over, just to get it right, get it moving as it's supposed to move, as you move with it, as it moves back back and forth, staying alive in its precision, just so you can see that it's nothing to see.
It all goes wild in the guts of it, while the head lifts above the rabble, rises above the noise and commotion, rises above everything you never thought could end, never imagined how it's possible to see what you could see above it all, not to say that it's anything new, anything more than there is to see, but it's the uniqueness of it that goads the proud that they might know there's nothing to be gained by a pride perched the edifice gazing into a sky that could care less whether you existed or not, this is the puzzle.
Oh, to say to see, to see to say that you saw in the vitals of a creaky moment, seeing it bustling up its counting that has no numerical fixture in a reality to assure anyone or you of any reality that has substance beyond the creation of it in the head, in the creative brain, this moment you found, you created to puncture the assumed reality out of the head cannot be found, cannot be held, cannot be threaded through any movement outside the head of the head of the head, deep inside the tiny infinity where God hides.
Toward the apex suddenly found in the darkness of a dream that caves in its form to a singularity where light as elemental beams throughout; such is the bead, the core, the oven of our mind that divines our eyes to see what no sighted person could see, where life as a concept possesses no reason, no analytical basis, no logic, such that rational thought might only mock its otherness, as one might mock the dark side of the moon where dances of the profane and holy intertwine like mad lizards in a backyard compost heap getting high off rot.
Into the melt one plunges their pen to find the taste of the words wrought as perfidious to the sensibilities, odious in their functionality that takes and takes without giving, this maelstrom of madness sought by the scribbler, in their prickly heat, like a precious gem for all who try beyond their trying for that which is sought in a fixation, a dream, a mirage that drifts up from a dream like mist off a bayou swamp glowing to show the way for the dreamer to lose themselves, to be joyful in their loss, as one might fuck the grail.
How strange this is, how unique in its wonder that cannot be coded, defined, enclosed, compartmentalized, standardized, reduced to a box with a label that might go on sale some black Friday when bitches of the coin cascades deign to note their mortality, posturing perfidy and protracted pride. This is the end of the end you could say, if you had a word, but you don't, do you? There isn't a single word, proffered or built by rude conjurations or by the stewed brain in the heat of a high while fucking angels and demons in the storeroom off-hours.
Filling it up, by way of eyes teased accordingly, the coffer of the inscrutable heat, where blood screws electrical on waves of inspiration, divines mind wrap soul, squeeze tight, arouse its fibers lose tenacity, break fluids from its vessels, spring light as manifestations of angels and demons as one in the fury uncoiled, no sound but essence of sound, the bead by which creation finds its legs and arms to climb from the murk, to make a presence known that was unknown but for the digestion of eyes consuming art, means of beingness, means of life, the resurrection from death.
So the Lord of Light bows to bless the passing on of the withering darkness, in its sowing of the losses, what dims in practical concern, escalates, as the ministers of darkness gather to mend the frayed ends; so it begins, as it always begins when measures are confused in the maelstrom biting down on the means accepted for our days, now strung out, laid to muck, drummed into mud, that the new matrix thought fantastical might slowly rise from the ashes and take control. The Lord of light waits patiently. There is no need to act beyond merely waiting.
Bowing to the edge, I was there when the water rose, when its hands formed a gesture that had no definition or intent but to separate itself from the water, to separate itself from the water's nature as absolute plastic, despite any attempt to demand any form be unique over any other. This is the water's domain, and it's absolute. The invitation to belong to the water's form cannot be assumed as anything but the water's right to control that which enters and that which leaves. The water determines how the water is assumed or not as the molding vehicle.
This place is upturned, this head sans skull, exposing an electrical web calling for food, sustenance divined from needing a reason for moving from here to here, being alive enough to say you're alive, alive enough to know when you're not, when the substance of life is crumbling, when the matters within the ethereal form of soul no longer make sense as a means to sensibility or the transmission of one to that other plane no one can touch that is always touching us, that place where reality is defined not by logic but by the unseen core of imagination.
Till it could be and there it could be, this the thing you see and don't see, by the thing it is and by the thing it isn't, it is what you wish, for wishing makes it real or less real, by the thought of it being as it should, it isn't, for it's never what it should but shouldn't; this, that it is, it isn't, and how it isn't, is by your wishing how it is, so that it should, it cannot be, and the round goes round and round, for the round is the cycle you cannot see.
Leaving to halt as the main idea pings, what simplicity presumed, manifests a storm no one can avoid, get around or assimilate. All complexities vying for attention, one grabs at nothing and everything, unaware the world spins in a vacuum; one cannot see or feel this spinning but in a darkness where seeing profits by its inability to be distracted, we submit to this ignorance, we understand that which falls and rises in rhythmical pace while dogs run the dog day deadlines, is nothing, you could almost feel what cannot be felt until you're dead to this kind of living.
Falling up, down, falling through what dreams recall in the emptiness, fill minds without substance as everything in due course. On the rivers wherein we ride as fish to the ocean and back, all a cycle of living allied to the reading eye or sensibility, if anything. The very reality is abjured, mocked, vilified, as though it were an absurdity, a clown act on a stage in perfect darkness. Where we are flies as a flock of birds soared down to a pin prick, an infinitesimal dot that cannot be erased, this thing we call life, such a tragic comedy.
I tempt but a note that may apply, yet what we have may not be written, rendered in facsimile, sculpted or drawn, it is, though, it is, this pattern that's growing, this private universe expanding perpetually; how we've created this cannot be duplicated. It is no commodity, no article, nothing fashioned, all words, no words, this painting we paint, this etching, drawing, poem, blank canvas, this picture we form, our days and nights of diving deeper, flying higher, spelunking into pure diamond, this life we are making for ourselves, how can I speak about it, my love, but in silence.
When the measure is down it fills out, balloons against the resisting sky and the virulent earth, all pressing aggressively toward their violent, glorious collusion, as expectations flower up the gusting soul, the spirit heeds what it needs, as it takes its place as the vehicle of heart, blood pumping, swelling brittle flesh, like rivers in a spring thaw, gorging banks, flooding the fertile earth, overwhelming the conservative soul, feeding the Bauk by talk of liberal conveyance, unbridled desires, that all the cobwebs, all the marital dust, all the clogged passageways be suddenly freed to howl, unburdened of morality's lies.
Enisled on a sea of something other than life, other than death, after a piecemeal escape from a figment of life one could only scream at, through a figment of death once might only laugh at, the pieces fall scattered by design. Mind blows, takes them to an idea of assembly that regards chaos as rigorous analytical thought; the process, so enabled, keeps us on the island where we feel the safest and the most vulnerable. In this state we exceed our limits by assuming no limits, by embracing loss and the means for finding. It is this we crave.
Brought to the place by numerous questions posed, after no answers given for the seductive structure of 'who gets what' or 'who gets whom' or 'who gets away,' then can we claim the mastery of life absorb our form, that conjecture of creating away from meaning as a necessity, means fitting the blocks in the right holes, therein, no kernel of knowledge into the urn of our heads is crammed, that we can swim for our escape, finding nothing to escape from but a form to fit our confusion into neatly. Matriculation from one confusion to another, mimicking true exaltation.
The body of awareness, as a forest reaching itself across the soils breathing life into its functionality of earth to sky, absorbs us utterly in its lofty depths, consumes us, that we might be born, if birthing may assume a death, derives the body of our eyes bereft of sight to see, that coming undone might avail us of touching without touch, hearing the beat of the heart without hearing the soul of us, the core of humanity struggling against its deformity and disease stretching the bounds further from knowing, extending beyond what's comfortable, stitching a network, decorating our prison.
It waits calmly, as if sleeping, as if dead, as if nothing might arouse it; on a bed of shifting earth and sky it awaits its time to feed, that feeding might be offered when we assail our right to leave, get up and go, break away, leave the roost, break those sacred bonds of family, ideology and putative truths of a inscrutable god, pinball master at the helm on a rudderless ship, drifting haplessly on the face of an ocean, we are the crumbs, bits of meat, scraps from the heap, the oils for our onerous time-clapped zoo.
It does not obey the calling to rest, dine or feed the appetites otherwise gleaned from the dark silences of desire brightly lit, no, it grabs heart, flexes its ventricles as muscles bound to a mortal battle that cannot be won, cannot be lost, but fitted to the flesh of mythic creatures unnamed but by your ferocity when pricked to volatility on the highways to nowhere and everywhere, such is the calumny of the call, the fit you feel, cramp of mind, unwound by the arch of the flesh grasping means, setting about the carving of ideas on reality's face.
The art you bear, leaps like trout under a midnight moon on a lake that won't tell, before stars that spit light in streamers you pull, pulling at the catch, knowing not how it may be, what teeth or means to grind your bones, but how you love the weight, the feel of it, the tension, how it yanks you to and fro, how it brings you up, bids you yell, "Yes, yes, yes, I'm alive....and to the battle I go"...that it may wind its strength tight, uncoil, here and there, delivering you the illusion of selfless power.
You can't stop it. It will never be stopped. Everyone wants to stop it. At some point. It won't, though. The mystery of its perpetuity defies the deepest eater of frogs and barbecued rabbits. There is no sense or anti-sense that might lend credence to the belief that it can ever be stopped. This is the dilemma people can't wrap their heads, hearts or sexuality around. It is, though, one of the greatest dilemmas we have. We own it, because we created it. It's all ours. Funny, no one knows what the hell to do with it's dirty underwear.
Finally, the day, the second, the moment came, and in a gust of muddy light it was revealed, just once, back when, quickly, like a flash, like an orgasm, you could feel it, dive into it; it absorbed you, completed you, destroyed you, but fuck if you could ever recall it, or even get a sketch artist the vaguest idea of what it looked like, felt like, was, in its entirety. It may not have existed at all. Some think it was all an illusion, a made up dream, an opium hallucination, but then again, we know better, we know.
It bears no resemblance to how it was described, how it was painted on the body of humanity so long ago. It comes from time to time, but we've forgotten how the movement we call time shapes its form, how this form links precisely to the movement on the river of time, the ever changing notion of time. No clock may bear the proper face. They are all a sham, an impolite joke on the minds of those who might believe, want to believe, need to believe that change is illusion. They have become their own illusions, their own jokes.
You see it like a quiet smile that burns inside you when no one else is in your eye, when the back looking eye turns down and sees the bird you are become lit, become like a wild fire flying out of hand, in hand, flying out of control, in control, well within your mind to blow your mind, to become the sky around your mind, to absorb your mind that your mind may exceed its own imagining, the sum of who you are, the you you folded away too many drunken times, the you of your long awaited resurrection.
This is true. This is false. In between swim the questions. A whirlpool expands to consume the questions. What is false? What is true? There, in in that nexus, in that semblance of truth and lies, one exists to decide, to ask, who should we save? Who should we kill? What deserves saving? What deserves the loss, the bite of the drowning pool, oblivion? What deserves salvation? All these questions, that the firm grip on these questions takes precedence over survival. All else fades as these questions rise like virgin suns at midnight; the rooster crows. Time to wake up.
However intemperate, the ideal place sits lower each time you look. Each time you reach, there is something new between you and it. Between you and it, you create the walls you curse, create the means to fling frustration at the very thing you made by heart and soul under tight wraps in a dark place where you once played innocently, thinking mere play could exhume the demons playing so delicately, so subtly on your soul. Through this thick maze you stumbled and rumbled. You filled its interstices with a volatile rush of nothing to be found but death.
The training appears when the student is ready. The call is put out, and the ears that were made for hearing, hear. They perk up. They feed the brain that sparks for the new, teaches the few, jeedz its forces for the needs of the new, the feed of the few, for the few that will meet the standards of the new that no one knew, no one saw waiting but for the hearts of them that bent, the brains of the few, the mouths, the muscles, raw desires, all that was ready for the teaching of all that's new.
I bend nothing. I am nothing bent, though the bending be inside me by the resignation of the heart in the face of oppression; though bent I become, by pressures to the head I cannot control, I rise in due course by necessity, for reason of that which I call my mind, my soul, my heart, I rise for my life to be lived as a life without chains, though chains wind slyly by ministers of suppression, they play at their methods keenly aware of my viability, my vulnerability. This, by the source of my seeking, I am kept alive.
The Tip Jar