REPORT A PROBLEM
Let me spring to your calling, hoist my smile to the exhalation of sky, let my deepest breath feed the storms of love, bluster my confusions to the certainty you hold on the threads of my aching mind when it falters on the plains of war. Let me rest in your calm, tender your fears with a dappling, soul spinning eye and caressing hand. Let me kindle fires of kiss to the hearth of your spicy heart, surge muscles, billow winds of blood through your artist's bead and blast it to the extremes we adore, the extremes wherein we live.
How do we think on the residue plains, can we invent a thought redolent of reason, not constricted to the tired dynamics parading as sensibility, can we divest ourselves from this poisonous confusion that drives our minds and muscles to exhaustion? Are we only complicit in our own ruin, thinking we're fitted to the paradise ballroom? I'm keeping my eye out, my mind open, my senses flush for driving out these poisons. They have no dominion over me. I am severed from the cut. I am complete in myself. I need no cartoon deity. This body, mind, spirit is free.
This ship I am has no body to be touched, no oar invested with dipping, no hull combining drift or sail in any direction but within. My ocean is wide. My sky is deep. Earth of my earth is the vessel of my arc, my journey through the ether. My coiling passion has no limit in the lands of my forefathers. I am alone in this. I have nothing to claim but the nothing I am, that indomitable spirit within and without. I am servile to its device, not this keeling earth, sullied air or pale sky we mindlessly claim.
I cannot, will not be naked for a machination that contains no value. I am bereft of its sanitizing gaze. I am fully equipped with the method and means of my own passing as I wish, as I see. My functionality depends upon this. I am contained by its containment, a personal thing, a secret thing; a thing so secret, it is unknown even to me. I touch upon its reality in the mirrored rooms of dreams, that such a world I might inhabit, such a world I might know, that my knowing might fall above the one of my ego.
Can I say how far behind I am in catching up with myself? I'm behind by several millennia. It's a bad sign for reducing the hard claims that I'm finding a release of being lost and finding myself in the aftermath. I digress too quickly. I'm feeling the loss. I get tired in my eyes. They go blank, so I find it hard to stay focused. I'd rather be asleep. Hard to sleep, though. The matters require my ardent drive. The years keep falling further away from me. I'm becoming smaller, the incredible shrinking mind. Can I dream bigger, please!
It is beyond myself to make conspicuous my ardent feelings opposing the legions who parade in supreme arrogance that divinity is on their side when no deity is extant but in the minds of those who lead these mindless packs. In their zeal, confounding all that bespeaks of good reason, they demean the existence of human ability to distinguish destructive and constructive behaviors. We are at the mercy of idiocy. We live as though there's something to gain from this arrogance, and we fail to see the storm rising. It's happening to someone else on some other world, not ours.
Finicky about everything, he chides the modern hoard of doing what he doesn't condone, which is everything outside his little circle, his band of feeble minded conspirators. Nothing is right. Everything is amiss, awry, distorted, displeasing, ill-fitting, inadequate. The life he leads shrinks minute by minute. He thinks himself forward minded, but it's in the background that anything good happened. He lives in a museum. There is nothing extant in the occident worth keeping. All is jettisoned. He keeps to his old books, and puffs himself up to be somebody important, a small man with a big potato head.
Huff huff, puff puff; the magic is in his penis. He makes it dance to a hidden music. The puppets he parades give cheer. He crashes, fumbles, bumbles, the pixels are dripping. He needs a good carpet cleaner. His hands are full of vacuous desire. He nods toward a blank screen full of empty lust. There is gusto in his emptiness. He fills vacuums with mystical hope that they who pixelate for him on the shiny screen might dance into his screaming erection, that its milk might provoke their imagined materialization and draw him out to a belief in love.
It gives me great joy to live under a sky that's falling, to be in a place that's toppling over itself, to live in a realm that's out of focus, having no clean edges but boundaries that shift without warning, where one may be secure one moment, the next, careening into the abyss. It is a challenge to keep one's footing. In the depths of mind there is no logic but the logic created for itself that lives like a momentary element in a nuclear reactor, but a fraction of a millisecond. In this time all is created and destroyed.
Somehow, somewhere, I want to see you dead in a way that makes life a jubilant exercise in soul searching under rocks that would never be overturned otherwise. I want to see you in a pool of blood spreading out, a luminous ocean of dark light, that I might dive into that widening pool and drown inside your flickering lights. Someday, somewhere I will find you, and you will find me. We will create the place for our unique excoriation, then I will come to you. We shall have a glorious feast. On the dawning of this, I will surrender.
You hit him, and he went down. You hit him hard. You thought he'd stay down, but he didn't. You hit him again while he was on the ground, you kicked him, but he got right back up. You made the decision. It occurred in the back of your mind, and you thought no one would know. He knew. He came right at you. It's up to you now. You can't turn back. There's no going back. Once this kind of thing gets out of the gate, that's it. You have to play it out. Hate is a formidable foe.
The time has come for a decision. You must attend to it. You must believe in what you do, believe in how you do what you do, in what you must do. Then you must do it. You must accept it as you do it. The outcome will be as it is. There is no walking away from that. Itíll inform you. You will inform it. Thereís a coming together. In the center of this coming together a question will emerge. It will inform you. More questions will arise. They will consume you. The way of the primitive.
I get confused. I want to do something. It's important. I need to do it. It gets done, then I wonder why it had to be done. I make decisions based on a flux of info going in too many directions. Is doing this thing that important? I am thrown into a worldview without a window, like a Mercury astronaut tossed up and down like a cannon ball; blasted out, flung as high as possible, then made to feel gravity at its worst. A bad review. You can't get out of the bathtub. Bed is a grave. You make toast.
I peer over the edge of the bathtub, and it feels like the memorial service is never going to end. They all look so sad. The preacher is almost done. I can go soon. That's what I feel. Is it real? Bathing is not unlike death, like embalming, a faux amniotic fluid cleanses and replenishes. It makes it hard for the choir to leave their seats. I'm keeping them there. I watch them carefully from my tub. They're situated in a way that makes this all seem unreal. Maybe it is. I dream too much. This story has become confusing.
You can feel the problem forming. It's like a cancer. It itches. A burning sensation starts making you irritable. You can't relax. You can't sleep. You feel like canceling your subscription. It wasn't worth it. They duped you. It was all a mean scam. It was never going to get any better. She was going to die anyway. You hadn't written her into the plot that far, so it's not a big deal. You can let her die. But the problem remains. It's really burning. Something has to give. Try another subscription, that's what they suggest. They are clever liars.
You feel at odds with the potato. It hasn't said a thing. You have been waiting for an apology, and nothing has come but stiff silence. The potato should know better. On that note, you should've known better than to employ it. Both you and the potato are not getting along. That's all too clear. Counseling won't help. It's gotten to the point where no remedy seems possible. The pot is the only way out. You know what to do. You've done it before. It's an ugly thing, yeah, but sometimes life gets ugly. Ultimately, the potato will thank you.
Soon, it comes. It comes too quick. You watch. You stand guard. It comes. You cannot see it come. It comes too fast, you say. It had its way, though. What way? Didn't you see it? Wasn't it clear enough? The way of seeing is no way. You lie to yourself if you say you see, and it passes you by on a breeze. You're looking for it. It won't be found that way. You must stop trying to see, and then you will start to see. The way is no way, being water, every shape and no shape. Flowing.
The fighter who fights for fighting' sake cannot win, for he wants to win and only win. He sees nothing but that. He sees only himself, and that is the one who will defeat him, himself. If he lets go, he will allow. He will allow the other to become him, and he will become them. They will come together. It's not even a question of winning or losing, but coming to a resolution by coming together. One is left standing. The other is left on the ground. Both are still there, even though one may be dead. They belong.
They come in all shapes. Colors are myriad. Voices are a choir, dissonant and melodious. They come together to form an understanding that occurs between themselves, combining them all in a way that surprises, contradicts expectations of a form that one might recognize, a creation that might be seen or drawn or photographed. It is not seen or recognized, as such, by the eye, but felt as something unique. It lives inside the created form, and it lives with the form, even after the form has dissolved. This is something no one can place as a reality beyond its own.
You must learn to die to win. If winning is all you know, all you want, then you're dead in way, but you don't realize it. By not realizing it, you can't learn from it. You must let go of everything. Free your ambitious mind. Learn the art of dying. Enter yourself as water enters a vessel, then you will become yourself, as the water has become the vessel. Let go. Don't try. Trying is not doing. It is dry land swimming. It is an empty dance. Nothing. Become water. Then you can become anything. And nothing can defeat you.
Quality, supremely unwound in the secret place you created when I nodded up in the fires we stoked, I'm feeling its desire. In the widening space where I spread my brain to fit my spirit, lame in the wanting of boundaries, stiff on the beaches that sucked up water for fear of an ocean, I felt it go inside of me. It penetrated me deep as blood. My bending verve distributed the fervor, and I was multiplexed like a gadabout cinema on the Bible Belt, cranking out distraction, while Satan enjoyed a sausage smoothie in the men's room disability toilet.
You do whatever you think is right for the loaves with the least amount of go-between on the racks made especially for the loaves who did you wrong. You were determined to make those loaves pay. Now, there they are, but you're in the center of them. Did you think you wouldn't be? There's no way around it. Inevitability. You're not exempt from the recipe. Though you stand apart and watch the loaves in the oven, you're right there alongside them. If you can't see that, the issue of who's going to pay the tab will never be resolved.
Are you trying to say something? Why don't you say it? Is it that difficult to reach inside? Has it been locked away in a treasure chest? Once upon a time you rode an old ship. It left the familiar port for shores unknown. You knew this. You made the decision to go. It's out of your hands now. The shores come upon you as they wish. Try as you may, there is no going back. No map. That was the point. Sounded exciting in the beginning, didn't it? What will be asked of you now is something you forgot.
Where can I stay by the place you captured me at in the recesses of my fears? I'm at a loss to disregard the degree of entrapment this poses. I'm the issue of my own death, over and over. I play it out like an old phonograph record. I lean into listen, and it gives me satisfaction. It never ceases to fill me up. The old times are new again. The present is a dead sea under a dead sun. I live elsewhere. I don't see this sun or walk this desert. I am that sun. I am that desert.
It's hard to hear, isn't it? You dismiss it. Typical. No one can listen for very long without turning away, finding some distraction, some kind of thing that gives validation to the bell in the tower most of those in the game have come to expect and respect. It's the way it has of making dim lives brighter, a way of painting lies a different color, a color that delights. We like to be delighted. We don't like what you have to say, so you better stop saying it. The bar is closing now. Last call. You've got to go.
I talk to myself to solidify myself in this whorl, this island of chaos dressed as a Norman Rockwell, fit for the fitting into any form or design. Rather, an amorphous being without semblance of containment, lacking the limbs of articulation, drawing upon the ether a Jackson Pollock, this landscape, shifting continually, rising down, plunging high, sifting its fragment of reality as a mad card dealer who conspires in his delirium the loss of all, capturing his marks around the table as condemned men led to the firing range. It is the nature of who we are to dissemble ourselves.
Do I close at dusk, do I close, do I? I am the closing. I am the circumambulation. I am the opening. I am the emptiness. I combine, and I throw away. Through me I am jettisoned through you. I find you through me. Through me I am found, but I do not know where I am found. I am at a loss. The finding is not my privilege. That belongs to something far and away that's of me but not me. I am a walking puzzlement. This will go as I go till I stop. It is everyone's journey.
I could feel the earth. Expressions glutted from its dust. A surging of plates uprooted my breath in gasps of joy and fear. Its face glowered. I felt it take me in, felt its hunger, its curiosity. I felt it taste me. In shuddering stillness I waited. All I could do was accept. Running was futile. Where could I run? There was no place to hide. I was exposed. The rest was the earth's digestion. In time I knew my eyes would close. The earth would consume me. But I wasn't ready. I wasn't yet prepared for that predictable end.
It's opening wide. You feel its hunger, its desire. The matter of its appetite is an awesome thing. If you close your eyes you can see it grow, see it expand. The universe is its food. Galaxies are the appetizers. Humanity is the sauce. What stirs is the unseen chef, the master of the unseen kitchen. I could take you to its banquet room. There you will wait. There you will be waited upon. The consequence is a feast wherein you will be fed yourself. The light will blacken. Suns will go out. The very idea of God will nova.
I have been waiting for this. My whole life has stretched me out to accommodate it. The enormity of it will no longer daunt. I am ready. The readiness is all, for all my life has been a training ground. Yet, something still stirs, a flicker of an old doubt, a lingering wedge, a rusty sliver in the side of my intent. My destiny calls. I have no name for it. Such is the mysterious chasm and precipice of it. I reach out only to find it calling. Walking the edge is to feel its lips, its heaven and hell.
It's time. The hour is upon me. I can no longer delay. It would be a lie to turn away. I've been walking toward this point all of my life. The extent of all I've been and done, and all I am has boiled down to a single imminent act. Yet, the instrument of the act and the intent remains hidden. I can feel it approach. Soon, I will know. The mystery will be unveiled. A grand curtain spans my dream life and walking life. I am standing in front of it. The auditorium is empty. Actor. Audience. Me. Silence.
The Tip Jar