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Occupancy is nil. The empty place gives no protection. You must find that on your own. The empty place is empty. It reserves itself for a special mind, a special eye, an important soul. One cannot be fooled by the idea of it being this perfect panacea to all ill, for all ill emanates from a desire to possess it. I am in need of possessing it. My life has been drilled down to a simple need. Survival depends upon it. I can't wait. I mustn't wait. I have to go now. But to where And how? I am quandary.
I am sick. My body feels inside out. I can see the sickness. It has a face. Mine. There is a trajectory I can sense, though I cannot tell where it will lead. This comforts and infuriates me. I am amorphous. I have become amorphous with this illness. My mouth vents spleen. I spray the world with its poison. I kill people. Their hearts are ripped to shreds. Their bodies are dancing to a death dance. I am the choreographer. The steps will lead to the edge. Each one has their own edge. It is unique, like a new bride.
Funky rhythms. The cat is in a spin. Dervish dance is attractive. I am on the periphery. I'm watching. Lusting. I want the rhythm. I want it to become me. It may release me. It may give me what I need. My wants have been shaved down to a discernible precipitate. It's taken me this long to see them for what they are. I am amused by this and disgusted. How was I able to spend so many years desiring them? Amazing. Life has become simple. My trajectory is clear. Goal is what I find, as I find it, now.
I am wondering how I might proceed, how I might pave a road on a landscape that's continually shifting? We are living on ideological quicksand. The spin of the searching mind proves a tornado, digesting all the particles winding into its vortex. It destroys homes as it rebuilds them, fashions them anew to meet the new demands that change by the second. There is no stability. There is no uniformity. There is only going forward. "If you're going through hell, keep going." That may be the only reality we'll ever know. We stare upwards, ignoring our inexorable slide into mud.
The immediate concern devalues my first impression, dissolves it in a morass of answers begging for a dime in a crowded subway while you haven't reached your destination, being bombarded from every direction, fumbling your way in the dark holding it in. In a strange house, your own, the toilet seems like a fantasy. You must find your way. No one will help you. No relief. In the sweat; as much as you might want, there's no escape. The time is now. There's none other. Fits. Body is twisted. Mind has ended the search. Race is still on. Golden vomit.
Spending a day with my vomit. Little bombs on turd submarines. The squirming bits, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. multicolored little faces fighting with the feces, makeshift battleships under a torrential downpour of oily rain. I could build a house on that tiger plain, roof like sky on the underbelly of a dog in heat hunched over the porcelain operating table. Only a few select veterinarians could even approach the challenge. I'm game. In a heaving fit, I launch the next volley. It's a hit! And the ship sinks. No life rafts left for Danny.
I could get edgy, but what's the point? I'd be violating my curfew by being late to my own funeral again. It happens every night. I get born, and then I die. What's simpler than that? If I took a huge spoon and tried to gather all the brain bits I've lost along the way, I could make a really raunchy reality show about dead dogs trying to find their way back to their doghouses that never were but blurry ideas in a junkies head. I can attest to the dilemma. I'm playing the same thing out again without smack.
Can anyone ever edit themselves out of a scene from yesterday where God got his lines wrong, no one knew how to manage the BG, and the director was on crack? I'm looking for an editor who can do this. It's a recurring gig if I dig your work, and it pays real well. You can have all perks if you note them properly. I have a bunch of scenes like this one. They all have to be seriously edited down, and I would like it very much if I could be edited out of all of them. Much obliged.
I'll cover you, love. When the sky is the decaying dog, I'll cover you. All the elements in synch, by value of their commission, to the degree they may collude, I will lend myself, the emissary of their heart, which exists in vitro of an unseen fluid, to you. For you are the engine of my new life, emanating from a touch I never anticipated; as the dog was clear, I was to be alone. Such was the decree I tacked to my gut, so I can't communicate as well as I'd like to the dog. I eat alot consequently.
It's a small step, a gentle gesture, tiny movement. Trivial. It moves toward. It moves away. In the center of motion, if you keep yourself clear, draw yourself up from the answers, you will see the contradiction that's not a contradiction. Time and time again, I've asserted this, but very few listen; very few take heed. It's either one or the other, toward or away. Both. You gotta be crazy, they say. Nuts, they retort; they, who see only logic. It is this blindness that pervades while the winter descends, while the clouds thicken, while the still air becomes foul.
I'm looking toward you. I see something behind you. It's blurry, but distinctly there. I'm not mistaken. Whenever I look at you, I see this blurry apparition behind. It's real. And it's always there. It reminds me of something, a very familiar thing. I can almost say what it is, but I resist. It may be something else. I fear there may come a time when I'll have to decide. A moment of reckoning will arrive, and my fate will be decided. You are there, though, always there. I'm looking toward you. Would you please tell me what I'm seeing?
It settles on me in my fears like a warm blanket, threads its way through this labyrinth spirit to exhale the afterthoughts swinging up my soul, as from a gallows. My breath dispels the rotten grist in an exhalation of tornadoes. I am saved from the mushrooming fevers so common in this thorny, black garden we trod without thinking, without pause, without ever questioning the diseases flourishing. I am levitated, unharmed, untouched. You give me this. I know not how, but by the alchemy of us I am saved. The Christ I can accept beams from our core, our love.
Dusk is falling. The ratings have risen. Praise God! In the round I'm found as a face looking for its expression. You can find me again when the race has settled into its inevitability, when the comfort zone has expanded to include all the things you were denied in the time of your parents' fears, screaming down the Christmas alleyway where the cats were blinded by ecstasy only a genuine sadist might appreciate. Am I found again? You say this could be a relief, but it isn't. I don't want to be found. Being found is being labeled, being dead.
Just to feel knuckles against the badass jaw, smile smothered in a whitewash smack, derivative to the down slug. Matters of the guts pounded, a belly full of rage spat, spun, swirled off the mosh pit you got in the pit of your smug asshole fuckface, yeah, you'll have a run of it, won't ya! Slide it into home, shove the buster gun to the drip of the drop on the pavement. You know it, bitch! It's not gonna stop till you stop, take your hammer into a multiplexing movie house, stupid faces expanded for all the world to shine.
The day's gone so fast, I hardly can find my way back to myself. I'm stalled in a spiraling vortex one calls the workaday drills, and I'm not found; just as well. I don't want to be found. I'd rather be lost in my own self-made labyrinth looking for a way out, just that, out. It's a maze where creativity is a clever rabbit who knows how to evade me, a rabbit that knows the hole that knows the graces of Alice in her Wonderland. Out is a land of evermore, a place of nevermore, where we become poetry.
Misanthropic whimsical, a bite of the dog when it's feeding, you gotta know it to feel it, to know the tooth bearing down, the naked pulse of hunger stripping away its face of conviviality, the way of the suburban dad and his manicured wife with two and half kids looking for the abortion that got away. You could tell how much the family cost when he said the price wasn't right, and Monty was a faggot who kept the cool cars for himself as an after show treat. The parking lot surveillance cameras could tell a fancy tale or two.
Making a run for the ocean or its queen gives you an idea how much it takes to make the grade. The cutoff is steep; those who can't, won't be in next years photo album. Dad is getting worried. He hasn't the time for the next bailout. So, you're in office now, what are you planning? Just to keep at the same old drudgery of trying to hard to please yourself, to look good in a mirror that won't reflect the truth? This is a sad time. No one knows how they got here, but everyone is blaming everyone else.
The word manages to blister in the heat of severe examination; how one might take it to task, to brave its meaning, stretch it out over its own graveyard, let it laminate the face of your bravest intent to serve language, is the greatest challenge of its deepest vernacular. The curious will stay for only a moment, then move on to something more pronounceable. The diehards will be delighted to find themselves in sparse company. They know the field shrinks as the stakes rise. The prize waits at the end of the line. It will wait only a short time.
I give thanks... I give thanks to the friends who were truly friends, friends who helped me stand when I fell, who gave of themselves, I give thanks to all that I am, to all that I've become, I give thanks to all of me, to all the worlds of me and all the worlds of humanity, I give thanks for the awareness of being with me, being inside and outside of me, of being me, being strong in myself and my friends, of being aware of having no need of a deity, whether a deity is or is not..
I give thanks for all of humanity, for being never alone, being right here in this eternal moment, I give thanks to the smiles of strangers, smiles that lifted me up in faltering moments when I forgot I am not alone, I give thanks and sing praises for the remarkable woman who came into my life four years ago, who has helped me be more of me than I ever knew, I give thanks to the strength I have found through all that I have found in my cleared vision beyond the dull grey of alcoholism and its persistent death.
I was gonna write, but I hit a big blank zero, none space. I found myself fishing in a dead pool, no bodies either, kind of a sanitized petri of my own creation. I took a dive, and I found rock where there was hope of mashed potatoes and my aunt in her ubiquitous good nature feeding me chocolate chips cookies till I'd get sick and bend over another big blank zero. I could watch my vomit bob up and down only so long. I guess I liked being alone in a blank space being talked to by a toilet.
Found a strange but compelling melody while whistling in my sleep, found its cue from the bend in the back of my ambition to excel at living my own death over and over, and it saved me for another day. Living a voluble time in my soul. I feel the urge to propel outward while diving inward. I feel the need to spit words like water on a flame that's getting out of control, but I run dry. The well is spent. I reach for a word, but it's not there. None of them are there anymore. I am spent.
I ask a question. It floats away. I lose track of it. It doesn't lose track of me. I'm held in limbo where questions are forbidden. I am laden with answers, fermented answers. I'm drunk on answers. I need answers to survive. Questions are anathema. They give me gas. No matter. Try as I might, they keep coming. They scare me. A man stands in front of me and threatens to light a match. He looks like me, but he isn't me. He hasn't got the right rhythm. I'm different. A lit match would solve a lot of my problems.
I thought I could tell how far I'd go when I was released, but I was wrong. Don't like being wrong. The traffic lights changed. Their rhythm was off. Someone had moved them when I wasn't looking. Thought that was mean. Then something happened. I began to take to the new rhythm. I fought against it. I was told to fight it, although I can't remember who said that. Maybe it was no one. I'm on a strange new road now. It's heading in a direction I'm unfamiliar with. No matter. I've yielded so far, and so far so good.
Then it comes to the end. The end is defined accordingly. Each to his own brand of end. Like cigarettes or whiskey. It goes like that. You start a certain way. You end a certain way. It gets kind of boring. You try to make the middle as interesting as possible, but many fail at this. Many say a lot of things. These things sound cool. Only words. Many people build houses out of words. They convince themselves these houses are their way of going on adventures. Perhaps it's true, adventures in their own private TVs in their TV minds.
The fire begins in a dark place deep down inside. You can't see it. It flints up the byway back of the mind turned up for a star fall; some kind of romance begets the thoughts to ride the head back into itself, like a tennis ball turning itself inside out. You know the gag. You can't see it happen. It's a magician's trick, sleight of hand, nothing supernatural, nothing out-worldly. Same with the fire, but the mystery remains. Who started it? In time the conflagration consumes even the mystery. No one even tries to ask the question why.
I fought for this, a place to call my own, a place to call me. I had forgotten the place of me. It was misplaced in a time of gaming with pieces that kept changing. The rules shifted according to the whims of the powers that ruled. They had trouble consolidating their efforts. I was shifted from one board to another. No one asked me what board I wanted. It didn't matter. I played the pawn to the hilt and gave way to the reckoning sought. The day I was finally removed from their boards was a day of joy.
You watch it, and you don't watch it. Parts of you are scattered in different times, different rooms, different cities. You're there; you're not there. In an isolation all your own, in a very peculiar framing, you can see the bits of you careening through their chosen voids. In a fractal mind you collect what you can. You piece the bits together. In a deep, dark laboratory within your mind you become Dr. Frankenstein. You understand the myth. It ceases to become a myth. It becomes you. No one may ever know. They wouldn't believe even if you told them.
It was the defect. It spoke loud. In a silence that was cacophonous, all the work necessary to offset the balance in the spirit of the dark alliances he'd sworn were good, made the man ready to change. Change is a terrible thing, a beautiful thing. It creates the place to leave the place, time to claim the time as gone, with a new time to renew. There was no predicting how this would end. There was no planning how it began. It began and ended, though. The defect made all that possible. He became good by first being bad.
If you just watch it again it'll be better, it'll be different. Somehow, it wasn't right when you first watched it. It'll be better the next time, you think. Each time you say aloud, "Next time," and every next time proceeds another, yet another and another. Eventually you numb out. Every next time doesn't matter, although you say it will, it doesn't. Round and round you go, looking for the right film, the right cut, the right rhythm. It's never there. Someday, you think, it will be there. Some next time. The runaround takes itself seriously. Not you. Not anymore.
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