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I've signed in. The billboards have all gone blank. Notifications on all social sites have been deleted. All queues relating to the advancement of the project have been emptied, and all the missionaries assigned to the project have gone transsexual in atheistic fits, where condoms of many flavors were tossed about, much to the delight of a wide line of disgraced Episcopalian workers outside the sexual reassignment headquarters. This has become the world I've rejected in favor of being by myself in a whirlwind of gritty, low-pixel reworkings of Our Gang episodes, where Spanky and Alfalfa are Siamese twins.
It's like, too fast, too slow, in various realms a parade of shadows pretending to be the light, too real, too unreal, an intended confusion, a cavalcade of what's to be done if it isn't done, what's not to be done if it is done, a circle of contrary orders, round and round, a festive collection, ornery collection, on either bank of the river, hunters hunting for themselves for each other, having a hellavu time figuring out who to aim at, so they aim at nothing, then someone turns a channel to Nick at Nite, to avoid complications of autoeroticism.
If you could, you wouldn't, no one would, if you couldn't, you would, anybody would, the correct proportions of doing and not doing are predicated on your ability to train the cat correctly over a period of three hours, then to ignore the cat. It's the randomness of the procedure that confuses most men. Very few women ever complain of confusion. They seem to know what to do immediately, which calls to mind a question. The other thing, is that if you could hang-glide and brush your teeth at the same time, that would be considered inappropriate and weird.
I'm keeping something I don't understand under my eyes inside an awareness that has no legs, only a tongue to shape sounds in a language I can't understand. With all the factions vying for control, I pay mind to the one that sits patiently by, silently watching the rest exhaust themselves in the effort to sway my mind. My soul keeps watch. It keeps the tongue warm, keeps the language sharp, keeps me attentive to my sensibility, such a thing I cannot control. For if I had control, I would tear the tongue from its roots and expose the safehouse.
I hate nothing that I can see, but what I see in my head, behind my eyes blinking red, is the form without form seeding my hatred, keeping the hate intact, hot in the vestibule of conjurations that have no audience, no declaration, no spectacle or parade honoring its rising. In its heat it knows me. I fumble for its gears, but it trips me in my stead. It dialogues under hearing to the organ for the engine. My car is readying itself for the journey, and I must attend. The driver is waiting. I will watch from the backseat.
What was that you said? You said what I thought you would never say. You said it. I was surprised. The family were all out. No one heard you say it but me. I was struck by what you said. I said nothing back. My place was to listen. I listened. You said nothing else. The snow began to fall. By evening, there was a soft map of snow over everything. It glistened in the moonlight. You insinuated yourself very easily into the snow. It accepted you. I was glad of that. I was afraid I had to return you.
The timeline fell out. The numbers became confused. They didn't match up. We were told to follow that timeline. Making sudden shifts was hard for us all. I fought like hell against change, but that didn't stop it. We fell in line the best we could. There was no map suddenly. We had to make it up as we went. I found that infuriating, at first, then it became funny. We became funny. Everyone thought they knew our places. We knew nothing. Nothing knew us. It grabbed us and held us tight. Nothing would its way. We had been sold.
In our nest we found many new things. They were unknown to us. We had time now. We had nothing but. The visuals softened. Eventually, they went out. The glass became dark. Everyone expected that to happen, though no one wanted it to happen. But I did. I wanted darkness, and I got it. I was pleased. No one else was. I played with the idea of inverting the experience. I toyed with that until it became my reality. I inverted myself. It was necessary. In the eye of my mind that followed, I was surprised you came along too.
You draw me out. I become real again in your infernal eyes. In their gaze I become real to you. We circumscribe each other. We define our speechlessness, though I resent being dumb to the word I need to say, the word I cannot shape for its consequence, its definitive end consequential beginning. Yet, I need that beginning past this movement contained in the word we cannot say. In a boat on an ocean without shores, we keep to our gaze, our internal dialogue, blithe to necessity. Rudderless, it drifts, looking for a rudder. Might that word create the rudder?
On the other end of the line I heard I was dead. It was a lie, a ruse to convince me to crawl out of my shadow, to ploy a method to re-insinuate myself, although I didn't know why re-insinuation was so necessary. It was a joke or something like a joke, but I didn't think it was funny. I kept hearing on the other end words to the effect I was dead. It made me angry. I imagined nothing was to come of it. I hung up, and understood why re-insinuation was important. The necessary ticket.
Now, the fierce heat you struck under bad expectations, lifted out the bad-ass nonsense for someone else's graces, keeps the dog out and in. One doesn't know how to address it. Feeding the means to keep it sated, with what bloodlust hampers the desires so perverted, it must be placed in the shallows so one can ever lose sight of it. The sky feels the heat. Rising over the cold fears thudded in the base of the animal you've hidden for so long, no one can say or do or even think an alternative to the inevitable chaos brewing.
Okay, the wounds are opening. They're out there, waiting for the cue to come rushing in with their assortment of potions to make the mom you thought was alive go back to bed in the grave under your dimmed eyelids, so much so, the evening charm loses its grace, and takes everything you created and puts it in escrow for a stranger's trust fund, once your ashes are traded for stamps. These particulars are never to be ignored. They have to be attended to, while the youngsters blithely go about their youthful trials and tribulations on their yellow brick road.
I was told not to go but I did. The frosting on the presiding cake was too thick, and the bridegroom was too moldy for his intention to sell his semen as a gift to the bridesmaids, but in the end had no recourse but to sever his penis and become a woman before the reception started. They say it's all about water, and they're only half right. It's about two inches too close to the edge of reasoning, being the last resort of a marriage in theory, yet what holds up, is a burger with a slice of Nixon.
All's a strange way of feeding the monkey that won't quit, won't stop singing that ratty old tune from the 70s, where the monster does a dance for his lady and ends up being cooked in the ratatouille without any seasoning, in the sense of knowing what candidate has the best chance of wooing the prime minister from the Russian sauna he's addicted to and the spice bath in the back with the fat masseuse that's always drunk on snicker's bars. It's a heavy scene, and I wouldn't be surprised if it ended up as a 3-D horror film.
Diabolical inversions, no matter, what viable crunches tip the balance off bright toward a dull prairie clutched of dead dogs frozen in holes staring at a black sun for no good reason, besides being dead, pretending to be alive like mannequins in a downtown store window selling guns and ammo, you can take the time to the limit, hang off the hands on revolving numbers, no matter, it's what's left on the floor when the killing's done, after the meal of flesh is made, when the hooker goes, crammed of cum and bucks, it's the emptiness staring back that won't.
Under no circumstances will I wonder how to feed myself when no one offers the meal, closes the doors, keeps the dog out and the Queen without her riding whip? How does it function in a place that changes its nature in a heartbeat, once here, now there, a post office, movie theatre, penny arcade, confessional booth, pew where I lost my virginity and was confirmed an utter imbecile, nodding to the father with the funny sexuality. Such is the ruse placed in my mouth at Unholy communion, then a biscuit in the backyard playing ball with my dead dog.
I can only salute, must. It's a given. The value, bygone by drift, carries the notion I placed in my mind to honor you to the place where all is nested with serenity, a place far from any place touched by man, a place of imagination. Lest all minds be drifted accordingly, the value rises; it cannot do otherwise. I am situated in the place best to honor it. I am ready. I see I am alone. No matter. The honor will settle in my heart as the dust I feel as the dust I am becomes its own bereavement.
It's hastening to the end, galloping at full tilt, this hideous strength with all the power I have in deep, revealed at last under the sun as a means to capture the moment, defeat its ignorance, convey all of its truth to the best of my ability. It moves as I desire, takes to the approaching fray with honor and pride. I am possessed of its intent, filled by its capability, strengthened by what it represents, this tiny thing I have, this insignificant thing on its own, what I have, is the greatest weapon I possess, the reason I live.
Taken in by the happenstance, that peculiar trip of time that gathers a unique trick of fortune toppled to the pocket of chance in a hip hop clutch where you pick up a gift that was never dropped, created in a collusion of abstracts you could never play if you practiced on the keyboard of the game for decades. It ain't in the throw of the die. It's in the die throwing you, an upward tuck of a downward chuck that doesn't have luck as its mediator, what you've been given when giving as been given up as anything certain.
I wind around back, flip the end over, tuck it down, carry it through to its birth and death, my course, its path, a mobius circuitry, a mass of confusion with certainty and clarity at its root under the gloss of the twisted knot. I laugh all the while diving down to go up, diving up to go down, all around, this thing I have, what I've sought in vain, is in my vein; my arteries pulse with its issue, its logos before utterance, having been uttered from the beginning of time, no sense for truth, it's in the antisense.
On the way to the next when next is unknown. You just go. You don't think. Thinking is for making up excuses when you can't go, when the going is anathema, when you feel it's best to stay put, locked away like a trinket in a safety deposit, with nothing to save but regret in the end that values its worth in the stasis you've become. You go. You burst the locket. It ain't got what you need. What you need is what you get by going. So it hurts a little, so it takes your crown away. So what?
It became a lot sweeter when the crust broke, didn't it? It served its purpose, then you walked away. You didn't think twice about what it felt, how it went, where it would go. It was sweet for the taking; you took it, and you took it hard, then you went away. It went away. Neither it nor you thought of the other. It's the way. There's no other way. You always get the sweets when the need is bright. The day is bent for that need to be met. Then you go away, and the night eats you both.
I find this need, and it's hardly met, not touched, tasted, grasped, but in my soul, though no soul could speak of its quality, its quantity devalues the soul, shrivels it to an insignificant wisp in a wind of my own devising. The machine roars in my guts, mind is a flutter of sparks, a firework show for my private joy, yet no joy but a sacrum of falling stars, bullets of heaven shot from a withered gun, never making their marks, all too old, all too diabolically clever to be strong enough when the going was actually finally good.
I could see this was coming, no matter. Belief in the contrary held forth. Final secret, out. No stuffing it back in the bottle. Genie's gloating. His hunger has been rising for millennia. I've watched and waited pensively, wished upon a dead star. I was duped so long it's embarrassing. I've been undone by myself, withered, like a dried spice on a rack stretched so far pain was only a dream. There were no more secrets to divulge. I let myself be dried. I let myself be hung out. I blame no one. I force myself. A new secret.
There it is, you; I find you nestled. It all boiled down to you. I was comfortably alone. In deceit of my own raptures, being shaped by a reflective muse in the fortune game. Now. I am tripped. Mere floating in the rubble will no longer suffice. The blood spins off the eddy. You're in the flow. I feel it curling, as it serves a future I do not know, never suspected. You are the nugget in the matter. You diagrammed a thrill I had believed fantasy. You saw to my unraveling, spread on a floor peppered with unfamiliar smiles.
It becomes something aside something, that which isn't a thing so designated or delineated, a thing inside, such a large thing one may never circumscribe its entirety, yet all within, it exists, all within a heart beating blood thru fingers painting a soul that some might say is who you are, but who you are has no limit so described, so sketched, a thing beyond, and that which speaks, that which feels, that which hears, that which touches is a distant thing, yet all within. We live so alone in this shell, with a thing we can never truly know.
We move the clay, it yields itself, a warm form that has no form looking for a form, wishing in a silence for a form only a few can hear, and this hearing is a thing that touches, it moves the fingers that speak. They tell a tale that molds the form, that gives the form its true identity, its hidden identity. We can hear it touching us as we speak to it, as it speak to us, to the few, those we deign to give it shape, a soul, a beingness, a dangerous thing it is to give life.
I could be very precise in spilling sauces on you in the bright space between waking and selecting eggs for a holiday food fight, yet the impulses I own are focused on selecting the sauces carefully in light of your need and desire to sleep comfortably under a moon wagging in a drunken fit about the dress it has to wear to the ball, yet in the muscular confusion, parents will be asked to give up their graces for a special punch to be served in the back as people are leaving for their respective morgues and ice cream chops.
What to say in this drop down moment before the curtain drops? What to become for someone else's benefit in the moment before passing from here to somewhere inside here, outside here, beside here, for where in here, out there, beside here is a kernel of a mind that's searching for itself, rounding the surface of a sphere inside a sphere inside a surface we cannot touch, makes the moment special for those who know the moment's worth, for those who see the tree, all of its branches, roots, flowering petals, the fruit of which, being the true salvific nourishment.
I am beside the word telling me another word, a contrary word. I am inundated by words flipping back and forth, words without solidity, morphing words, ghost-like words that belie themselves, words conveying a language that cannot communicate, which holds forth in an alien place calling for unity, a place for words to commiserate, to bond, to become, and all that comes is confusion, a rainstorm flowing up flowing down, a gibbering syntax. This is the mindset I own in a dome where thoughts exist in isolation with no human contact, merely contact with themselves, an incestuous boiling pot.
The kind of man you'd want to exsanguinate, want to embalm, treasure as memento, keep with moth balls on the photos in the attic, strapped to a chair for fun on family holidays, the kind of man you'd like to kiss in a horror film festival. On a stretch of road in your mind that extends through every relative back as far as the myth of Adam with a pristine penis just waiting for a giraffe to suck, on the order of compliance, you'd divine the scruffy and sordid ideas, then bake them with brown racism, lest they politic away.
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