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We are so made by our imagination, that a meager word may generate a world, a galaxy, a splendorous fantasmagoria of infinite creation that is of no equal but by those who wish to create and to belong to their creations, give in, let go, be at one with their ever expanding gardens of light and dark, that their absorption may take them on chariots of fire. We are so made of these heavens and hells, by droppings of mind mixed with soul, the ether of spirit, that the birds of fire we become may drown the dragons of evil.
This is my place, my earth, where I emanate, where I live, with the homeless and their agonized carts, the rich in their Mercedes, I say yes, the loudmouths, the quiet shadow seekers, yes, the garbage, flowers, the cyclists, cars, subways, buses, yes, I say yes, the druggers on benches of the donking deals, dealers in their fitted sneers, the crackheads, spikers, spoilers, spilt minds in chaos' rain, fashioned minds of number crunchers, loan sharks, pimps, the girls in the game, lost souls, found souls, worn soles, cracked sidewalks, street sweepers, pussy peepers, Harry Winston, Tiffany's, 7-11s...my home....
My home, all of it, streaming, scheming, slipping from one to another, each a singular, each a universe, one bleeding into the other, ever and always...libraries, acrid tars poured from paving trucks, stooping curbs, uneven roads, high bridges, overpasses, mad bums in their rotted cups, scheming businessmen with their billion briefcases, crushed coffee cups, yes, I say yes, to the skyscrapers, gleaming steel facades, articulated stone, gargoyles bending down, glowering, the cathedrals, store front chapels, shrewd buskers, mimes, dancers, crippled dogs, dancing dogs, break dancers, broken dancers, serial killers, bedroom preachers, atheist creepers, yes, I say yes to all..
There is something running up this hill, my hill. It's getting closer. I feel its information. I feel its necessity. I feel the urgency. It's disquieting. I feel something is about to happen that needs to happen. The hill, my hill is long; it changes from day to day. It changes location, It changes its mind. Its mind is my mind. I feel it changing. I also feel something is coming. Something is running up the hill. I feel this thing has been running up the hill a long time. I feel its time is now. I feel its destiny.
A smile is widening. It's appearing, as if a Chesire has materialized in my mouth. I cannot swallow it. It's getting bigger. I am not afraid. What has to come forth will come forth. I must allow it to come forth. If it doesn't come forth I will be destroyed. This is what I feel. This is what I know from knowing. It cannot be un-known. I am in labor of this birth. It is an odd birth, but very typical. When I bring it forth I will be saved. I do not know how I will be saved.
One's heaven is anothers' hell. I am in a book. It is in flames. It is frozen. The book is looked upon with disdain. It is not considered while people are thinking of reading it. It closes its covers. Its covers cannot be opened for the asking. It is not kept for anyone out there. It is kept for me. I am in here. I am in the book. I am the book. I am out there, as well, watching. I cannot change this book. It changes me. I am at the mercy of its fire and ice. My magic.
Around the space I contain my wanderings as I move through the space, as it moves through me. It designs me, as I design it. I am fully aware of its necessity, as its aware of me and mine. We dance around each other. We rarely speak aloud. We keep our silences loud, though. They reverberate the walls in my soul in my mind in my place of all changing. I change for its pleasure not to change while I change, but to stay firm, stay certain, even while it's uncertain. The certainty and uncertainty are the only things immutable.
Fluid like a river of a different substance wholly removed from the realm of any expected fluid or even desired, sunk in the mire of a dreamlike state wherein the end is not defined with any beginning, nor is the middle set as a function of necessity, where one must finger the fetid rapids like a fool without any table manners whatsoever while ingesting a disease ridden plot unlike any story that might suit as a reclimation plant's culvert, and the family hasn't even arrived yet. There are no provisions for the get-together, nor is the river winding down.
Investing, always investing. The drollery of the need to contribute matches its expediency for wasting time, as time bends back for those who drive it into dog races at the end of day when the bell is about to clang, and the slips gear out for the open air. Then we might understand how buildings heave guts to expend all this vapid time doing nothing for a stranger's wealth. Always that. No way around it. The dog races are a gerbil wheel gone berserk. I am in that wheel. I am in its gears. I sweat the time bending back.
There's a large pack of small grey dogs running past, snarling and barking at nothing I can see. The sky is flat blue. Air is still, dry and hot. A large cockroach is staring at my foot. It's all very strange. I feel at home. On the face of it an expression seems out of place. Feelings might flow in any direction or no direction. There are no buildings around. You can feel the people, but you can't see them. They can see you. This is what you feel, as well. You don't mind. It could go any which way.
There's a rhythm generating from deep within. On the surface, all is quiet, as if the air, earth and sky are falling asleep, but this is a deception. Everything is awake, waiting. In a moment a cue will come, like the shot at the start of a race. You don't know where it will come from, but it will come. I am resigned to this. I have no place to go, no place to run to. I don't feel the need to go anywhere. Escape is futile. This is where I am. The cockroach is still staring at my foot.
Sometimes it matters little what the words can do for they have a substance of no regret. They can only fuster up their syntax with not a jot of knowing how or why or what they might convey, but in the grit of meaning with intent as the muscle of their pride, they can fashion a womb in which you can muster a rebirth, redesign the habitat of your death and life, and I can only write this, better without voice, for the words are the bullets and panacea. They kill me. They give me life. They draw me away.
To the sum I yield, all of it, with the constituents of being and nothingness bundled in that addled, overdrawn cart of dark philosophy in the trenches of French despair where no man could open their eyes, lest they die. They bartered sight for seeing nothing but decay in the mud, and in the marches they kept this seeing bundled in the couches of the pilfered nights. There, with clutches half forgotten in the din of need, their eyes dug deep in the flesh they bought, flesh that surrendered, flesh that marked a denial and acceptance of this freezing heat.
It's late. It's early. Time's dead to itself. It doesn't really matter whether that's a lie or not; it just feel right. It feels like the truth, and that's how we roll in the accidental occident. It's hardly worth it to check the matters in hand. We decide. Thumbs up. Thumbs down. The arena is full of questions waiting for a ruling. Marriage or funeral. One slips into the other and back again. We marry the thought of marrying, and then we die, having forgotten the reason why we die. We just do. It's a game. Early. Late. Doesn't matter.
A thrall. The joy of letting go to the other side, whom we cannot know, as they cannot know us. We only know they are there. We are here. We let go to that other. We let go to an unknown, and we buy their things. We hold these things in our hands. We fill our bellies with them. They keep our dogs dry, our babies on a leash. They keep our private things public, our public things private. We keep nothing for ourselves that we wouldn't take from the other. We take from them. They take from us. Booty.
It could be anything. You feel it coming. You feel it going. The floor is heaving. We are breathing through its heft. It moves up and down, this thing. We feel it on the ceiling. We feel it on the walls. This thing. This mystery. It moves ever so slowly, ever so certain of nothing. That's it's power. There's nothing to be done that might gather this mystery up. We fall down to the mystery. We say we love mysteries, but we keep clear of its fevers. We'd like nothing more than to drown in its certain death. Funny children.
That's what we've got, staring us in the face, deep down from the heart of it all where it begins and ends. How we drive ourselves to the brink of madness just to avoid madness. Our sanity sits in the glove compartment. We keep to the steering wheel, but we don't know where we're going. We need to feel free of something, so we bond to everything, then complain of the bondage. It's our right to complain. We've made it our business to complain. The bondage speaks. It has a loud voice. We gave it that voice. Now it's ours.
Long drawn spillage from the easy loss, a mangled remembrance in the crush of an evening's sweat from a sideways glance, her sliced smile stabbing at the caved sidewalk diving close from a distance hoarding all the keepsake times locked away, and he speaks no word, screams at the passing gaze in a hollowed silence that will haunt the heavy days and nights for all whose eyes stay open, though they be closed, open to the sinewy dogs of passion waiting nervously in their slips, keeping focus on the distant bead, that wavering spot, coveted, quivering in its humorous anticipation.
I run this way and that, keeping time to the dangled tresses lapping over my mind's stage, my eyes stay riveted to the gyrations in no body's glove. I see what I want to see, I feel accordingly; the heavy and light are in my hands to shape as I want. The stage is bare. I keep it that way. It is for my pleasure alone. The dancers are mine. I keep them safe. I hold them under the stage. They say nothing, till I bid them speak, and when they speak, they dance. When they dance I come alive.
The days creep ahead. I find myself wanting to lure them into my room where I can keep them entertained, where I can mold them into a shape that doesn't defy me at every turn, where I can teach them to love the way I need to love, where I can become what I dream of and seduce them accordingly, buy them seats in a glamorous bus and drive them to my world, where no one can take them away from me, where I can truly stop, where I can finally have the moment where I see myself without lies.
If you can fly as hard as your imagination sticks to the sky folding down and around in a shape that defies the mobius geometry in its cleverness to dissuade the curving fabric of the universe to a flat denial of existence, how may I come to your senses without my own, without the degree to which I stay in place while moving constantly, expanding while contracting, getting longer, getting shorter, becoming my own free form without definition, without logic or the cumbersome construction that hammers at our senses, saying, come home and stay, stay where it all makes sense?
The speed is in my mouth. I race to its idea. My head spins to a stark stillness. The edge of my intention sharpens to a razor glare in the icy sun of my mind rising over the horizon, finally rising to its inevitable zenith. I hold the speed in my mouth. I keep it still to itself, as it spins, as it whirls, as it does what it does to keep me alive in its speed. The speed afixes me to its stillness. I cannot explain it. It is nothing to be explained. I must never open my mouth.
I see the stars illuminate the caves, the winding labyrinth I manipulate in secret to secure my legacy without pause or regret. It's the place I need to be, the place I can retreat to, place of my interment. How can I sum this place in words that have no pronunciation or spelling? These words I fumble for are the magic words I need when the sky closes and the earth opens, when the time is at hand, when nothing can stop the ending or the beginning. It will start again. It will end. I will be there, as always.
I can be where I am, and you can see me, can't you? Can you feel me? Are the hands that I open large enough to hold your light? I am in need of your light. I have so very little of my own. I dream of the light. It comes to me in dreams. I am afraid of it sometimes, but I need it. I hold onto it. I hold onto the possibility that someday the light will be mine. For now, I see the light in you. You have opened your eyes, and the light has fed me.
It's in a fit when I see it. It comes on a raft of confusion. Chaos is its pilot. Its craft rides the mind to its core and degenerates to a wide panorama of smiling dolls, till all that I can see or feel is a panic house of screams. The screams are songs, serenades. They calm me. I laugh with the irony. The laugh is private. I own it, though. No one can take it from me. I will hold it tightly. Each time I ride the raft, I laugh in silence, as the screams float madly to heaven.
My baby is swimming with the foxes. Her glue is off the charts, sticking to the ufos in my mouth. I have an appetite for her sightseeing on the global market hunting for alien love. I got her alien fingers playing a melody that will never stop. The flesh connives its undertones to meet her counterpoints. I dive to the fox mind she coughed up, and the abstractions she sings with every horn up in blaze of atonal bliss, it's her foxes, no other way around that hunting ground with my lady straddling the best of hurricanes and nuclear smooches.
I hold myself in your hands holding me, and I'm reborn to a lost idea. I lost it in the maelstrom that became the fabricated womb of another life I led and lost in the spot crazy glare of calm, where thoughts of dying were no longer poetry, where the angels of distress welcomed me to redesign their wings, reestablish their geometry. This, I can say, was the arena I fell within to heal, now it's your hand that guides where no other can, through arenas most children understand blindfolded, but not I. I am almost in high school now.
The river always takes you back. It's inevitable. No way around it. You can fake it. You can pretend it doesn't. You can say it out loud how it hasn't taken you back, how it won't, how it can't, but deep in your heart you know that it will, that it always has. Fighting it only makes it harder to accept when the inevitability smashes home and sells your moxy to the lowest bidder. Then, at the standoff, you can feel the loss and the gain. You go in both directions. There is nothing to be done but humble acceptance.
Standing off in the light you can watch the sky fall. At the moment when darkness overtakes your humility, you might be able to understand, even only for a moment, as in a dream remembered upon waking only for a moment before fading, how you are where you are, and what. There's no denying. This will pass, as it always passes, then you can go on believing as you have, that all is well, all is as you wish it to be in the light that's so brash no shadow might catch your image lest it become who you aren't.
The room is moving though it's still. The floor is rising as it's lowering. The buildings go by as I watch the street flow. Inside my mind I am still as an exploding star billions of light years away where nothing remains but the light of its passing, saying yes and no simultaneously. You can see how it flows, though it's dead, has been dead for eons. Its life remains, inside. The substance of its life is feeding your eyes. You can eat what's left of its life. You see how it's all moving, as it's still, as it's you.
Then comes this thing, a tapping. You lift up your gaze. You see only a wishing. There is nothing there. Yet, it's there. You can feel it. It's inside. Tapping. Inside, there is everything. It is where you put it long ago. You've forgotten where you put it or when you put it. The time passed so quickly. The need was so great. The putting was automatic. It's hard to find sympathy for yourself. You feel you should know better, but there's no way of getting this knowing. That's also passed. You need to come to terms with this death.
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