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Oh, to the flux gardens, expanding suddenly in the new light I plant myself, peering over the soils of my flesh stretching out, pushing slim tentacles under the iron faces naming this, naming that, keeping all things boxed and labeled, under all its eyes and feelings, under all its control, that all this control may be corrupted as it corrupts, a fitting irony; by its own design it slowly dies, nothing but it can blame its demise, yet how it howls, blames this or that, demands the blamed be held accountable, held without bail, placed in the market place, executed.
Have I granted the sky to bleed? Have I wounded the darkness to such a degree there is nothing I can do to spell the end for another beginning? Am I so lost to be found that the organs displayed by the night eviscerated one day, one minute, one second ultimately show the proper one to excise, the necessary one to pluck, the one that I must eat? Shall I grasp this thing that I feel wriggling under my ears humming a song to sing, writhing for a dance to spin, for the element of I to finally become you?
The revision is in the review of the end, such as it is, the beginning juxtaposed on expectations flouted. Such is the key to the door into which one propels themselves to escape being thought of as trapped; into the void one goes, like a child investigating their genitals for the first time, sauce meat upon heat, flesh conceiving its need to breath, where one sees to see again, to undo what's done, to revise that which resists nothing but the gestures to compete itself, and to that end, we are clueless. Yet we agonize, convecting our needs to complicate.
Tumbling into the core, a memory of a dream upon waking, where the trapezoids no longer fits into our cubes, settled so delicately upon the nest of our subconscious craft riding the roaring currents so easily, without strain, without compromise, with the common feeling of being inviolate, this convection from one plane to another, from one landscape to the wakeful one distressed with knobs that must be turned, else we remain trapped, but without the confines of our nocturnal castle, those knobs become like air, like the flotsum of wishing, then shall we all be freed by a mere thought.
Twisted on the place of twisting, garments become ill-fitted to the evolving form we are in a guise of our disrepute, that no belief otherwise could change the course that's inevitable by decrees we cannot unravel by ear, there is no sound, no gavel pounding, no judge for judging, but the soundless metronome in our minds tripping its ineluctable rhythm without pause, and such we dance as it bids, speak as it bids; we are trapped, though streets are crammed by selfish gestures turning love into brackish blood, into the detritus of a dream, a fit of deadly withdrawal.
My word. Taking task to the recipe. All ingredients drawn together. Bowls on deck, clean, dry, waiting. The consequences of my actions, to the point of the point. Making sure all is set. Nothing ajar. Nothing askew. Keeping my eyes on track. Holding my hands accordingly. If word comes to the contrary, I deck that hall of opportunity. I breathe it out. It is not geared to the recipe. The recipe is everything or nothing if ignored. My word. I keep it sacrosanct, poised as if on a cliff over an abyss. I draw my strength in. I hold myself up.
It is strange. No other way to describe it. Moving as it moves in a strange way. The face of it becomes the rear of it, both the same in all regards. What's frustrating is there is no distinguishing it from itself. In a neutral way it functions as a lure, but for what? There is no knowing what. It will strike when it does, and then the secret becomes like vomit, and it's gone. A drain eats it. We can vie for as many other options as we can, but in the end, there is nothing else to choose.
I could feel the movement before I moved, see the land stretch out to hold me when I was too young to see its depth, I could feel the earth revolve to accommodate the ironies it breeds, I could hear the sounds of the mothers and fathers who regret not regretting, believing in the lie they had the chances to do the right thing but never saw the wrong thing coming, and the land giving way to its beginnings, there is nothing to be sad about while knowing we were born to be alive as we know we must die.
For all the land speaks of us as the fading memories of our birthplace. It has taken us away from all of that and rolls out its music on the rivers rolling in our capture through the spiraling moons and suns without end until the end while the end bespeaks how we go, for going precludes the raptures we have at our fingertips, I can feel the muscles moving with the roar and spread of the earth's flesh to take me into its heart, show me the true blood, how the true blood flows, I must yield to the flowing.
I will find my end when I find my beginning again and again, I will hear the boys and girls shout their innocence over the playgrounds that became our battlefields, but before all of that we had our day, our days in the endless suns and moons following us, preceding us, wrapping us warm in it mouthpiece shouting us out as its children to do its will, for the will is the script I follow to the ends of its breadth and width. I feel the minds slip away into dreams of something better, of something worthy of its beauty.
I feel I could watch without watching it, this death of mine that follows, beckoning me to keep an eye backward turned to the inevitable consequence of its need to be without knowing when, where and how, just that it needs its own to be its own, a sort of gateway to another place inside this place, how can I say, a place where the need to place the place has been undone, made unnecessary, moot to the point for calibrating location, as location will no longer exist but as a fading after-thought, like after the third nuclear bomb.
This time, placed correctly in its socket, connects me to you to all, such is the webbing we are, such is the dupe that time belies itself to be inside and outside our awareness of existence, this tick tock carousel we have devised, mocks us in its precise complexity, draws us into its web of lies, wherein, once insinuated, we are gone to the reality behind the reality, the place we are, the place from which we emanate, such is the need to keep that place hidden carefully tucked beneath an intricate array of simple recipes for comfort junk food.
The pit of it breaks off in the wound, you know how it goes, the mouth widens to express its blood, a fountain of red to cut the blue of sky in the eye that cannot see for seeing how it sees. Into the core one dives like a shark in a feeding frenzy on the back roads of a western ghost town hunting for a drink of anything to slake a thirst that cannot be nor ever will be sated but brought to bear as the motivation for the senseless slaughter of the innocents sketched as a hasty afterthought.
"Not very smart, were you," said the dim music box over and over, the one I lost for drumming up distraction after distraction too compelling to ignore in the war I fought without blood that choked the ground with its offal. To the digression I fell, once given the chance to look in the rear view mirror, seeing the familiar man running after me. No matter how fast I drove, there he was in back of me, his heels kicking up the red dust I exhaled to foot the gravel with a traction that led me in my coveted grave.
You want to come out of yourself to be yourself but the shell is the galaxy and the universe is you. Inside of it all emanates a voice growing louder, piercing curtain after curtain, approaching the head of the source, yet the source remains hidden as the core engine. What may one do to route that core out, make its face known, so the voice can find its mouth and speak out loud to the world? It is the mystery of self finding self. The carousel goes round. You take a seat. It spins. You swoon with joy and sadness.
It sits in the middle and waits. It stares at you. It knows you better than you know you, but it won't tell. That's not its province. It waits. That's its place, a place within your place, within you. It holds a mirror. The mirror cannot be seen until you see the possibility of seeing it. Time rolls on. Experiences divides off experiences, worlds within worlds within worlds, your necessary worlds to gain your world, leaves of your artichoke, each leaf a question, each question a riddle. There is no map but the map you draw; map and drawer, one.
Like looking for appraisals in the graveyard, tall faces rising under a gloomy moon, bespectacled, gods, brows furrowed, fidgeting folk diving through dark valleys of locked libraries, looking for the word with only one word coming, tired old contracts no one wants setting the tone, the deals, no new deals to be made, streets running with vengeance, hungry eyes after hungry eyes, no one's an enemy, everyone's an enemy, this is what you need, that is what you need, everyone knows what you need, and you need nothing. You got what you need. The word is that's not good enough.
A dull head is following intentions contrary to its passion, that its sky be its earth, that nothing be withheld as a critical function of its manner, all that's drawn from the essence, extracted for reality, be reduced to a dream, a fantasy of the dream, that a fold of parchment, old as the universe, remain concealed under tons of disappointments, regrets, resentments, all those things we hold dear that are utterly meaningless, this, our self imposed imprisonment, locked away for safe keeping, lest we forget our entrapment and pretend at freedom and put our prison cell up for sale.
You are there. You are here. The light is not what it should be. A faulty battery. I lose my senses of one and off often. In the passages I'm a free agent, but not for me. The walls see me. I don't see them. I don't care. They can have me. They have me often. Often I don't care if I make it. I'm there. Then I'm here. You are here. You are there. The difference is what you make it. One misconstrues the difference often. I need your light. I am patterned after a mosaic made in darkness.
You might trip suddenly, suddenly find the ground rushing up, placing yourself in a perplexing place where up is down, then a kind of turning, a folding of reality into itself, a mobius shift, where once you faced up, now you face down, with nothing but a kind of turning between the two perceptions; the distance traveled is the distance earned for the distance lost to finding, a kind of hiccup, a rip in space, and the blood is confusion, there is no wound to be seen, only felt. You had your chance. Then she left. She fell through the rip.
Of going and going, falling through idea after idea pressing the skull boundaries, meeting the volatility after burns, falling toward the source of it all, and the questions spurned by the regions of darkness inhabited by the pundits of the id, howsoever I meet this cross-roads in the depths is the measure of my intelligence split a trillion ways in the stars we are bade not to see, stars without reality, but merely light, we go on, we climb these peaks of our imagination and our fears, daring them to touch, keeping them ever so close, ever so far.
I told you how this was going to become its own annihilation, how its creation fed into its destruction, one hand giving, the other hand taking, in the middle a muddle of greed, ambition, blind philanthropy for no species on earth, looking toward the imagined, the fabricated, the spurious and opulent majesty of that which doesn't exist but in the mythic pocketbook of its drivers, all lands clogged to the end and to the beginning, no roadside diner for a burger to go, but all that's gone in a fever of waitresses out of work in a world without menus.
You clear the table in your idiosyncratic way with hunger in your eyes, as a heat rises in the back of my head. I watch you closely. I imagine taking you. Some call it fear. I call it inspiration. A feast is laid before me. I will not touch it. It is designed for my fantasy. It lives in me as the object of desire. There is no love here. There is no god here. Only hunger. It drives me. I clear the table the way I want to; nothing is ever sated. Everything remains as itself, goading the hunger.
I'm hiding. I'm going to hide. I was hiding. The hiding place is mine. I keep it safe. I move toward hiding for the sake of keeping the hiding safe. The safety of the hiding place is vital. I speak of it to no one. No one knows of it. No one will know of it. I keep it. It keeps me. We are bound to each other. It is vital to keep it secret. If I told, there would be no hiding place. I would have to reveal something. The hiding place sees. I trust it to keep it.
There am I. I see myself. A mirror hangs wherever I desire it. It reflects what I keep to myself. I alone can see it. I share it with no one. It is a face of mine I keep close. The cars move around me. People move around. The world moves. I keep to a face that sees itself as mine. In the center of moving there is no moving. That is where I am. Where I am all that moves is outside. I am inside. The inside is quiet. Inside is calm. That is something that scares me.
To the rising I feel a lowering of wits. A word comes edgewise, finds a loophole. The loophole is the residue of the secrets I forgot. In the rising a heat of a sort that's cold becomes like a wet blanket to my wits. I pull them out. They have the means to derive a contentment without regard to taking. I am tired of taking. I've taken enough. My wits demand a giving, but that's the question. It hangs above me and keeps mum. Its lips are sealed. There are no lips. I find it infuriating, but that's the reality.
I'm curling into a wide face of words, no body bereft of senses, but a full face of reality, piece by piece by words unwrapped on winds that have no feeling one might remember from the bygone fields where they killed their youth, as the adult streamers made fun of the climax you thought no one could deliver, since the series was cancelled two seasons ago, and you haven't got the correct url, the address online is out of line, out of bounds, in a spiral that no one sees or understands. The index is only laced with bad sex.
It subsisted on itself, on the premise described in the leaflet you picked up when you applied for work at the door with the laughing clown made up as Nixon or Stalin or Barbarella or the Temptations jonesing on smack. Given the volubility of the disease driving down its gullet with food that won't match the need, the diagram is displayed, and all that is required is to follow the directions, but who the fuck wants to do that? It's diabolical. The outcome is a foregone conclusion, as all conclusions with people actually holding hands are too terrible to imagine.
Into the face of it. Its lines, curves and indentations will become palpable as you become more relaxed, as the need to do something other than doing anything becomes greater, all you need is the power to move the screens along with a flick of a hand, with a nod of your head, with the tiniest gesture you can change the course of ennui to suit the needs of no one, as no needs are greater than the need to quell all needs of needing, such that your drive may dive deep inside a moment you can never really touch.
It drives itself. I said so. Said it many times. I heard myself saying it. The words of my saying so reflected back on themselves, back upon me, and I reflected on my desire to say what I did, and every time I did so, the words came back to me almost as a song, almost as a musical number, and I hate musicals. I don't like becoming my own enemy. I like sausages. I like cop shows. I like mysteries. I like horror stories, really good ones. But I hate musicals. This is a rerun I have to kill.
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