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It pours on. You know what it is. You can feel it no matter how hard you try not to. It's inside, all around you. A universal placenta feeds you. The rapture awaits. In the midst of forgetfulness you'll remember, like you remember, "Oh yes, I'll die. That'll happen in my book. Someday. Some moment. I've read that." Feels like a fiction, though, from one end to the other, a long stream of images preceding the moment. Love making. Birth. Death. The revelation of a new recipe realized in a lone kitchen in the background no one remembers even exists.
The vitality is there. It looks dead. For all intents and purposes it is dead. Somewhere there's a spark. It's floating inside and out. I can't shake it. I don't want to shake it. I need it. The people around me are full of their own brand of zest. What a riot. Words come. Words go. In the middle hides the spark. I'm attending to it. Without begrudging the light I hold the darkness. I'm full of my own kind of excitement. That's where the vitality lives. I have a feeling something's going to happen. A portent or not. Inevitability.
We have a rising energy. A new, sudden family. We divide off distraction to attend to it. We must attend. It's life demands it. In a laboratory of sorts, wild rivers flow. They intertwine. We float. An amorphous amniotic sack. Some kind of transformation is afoot. It will change us, as it changes itself. I'm in a thrall. What I can feel, see, hear, is subject to a perspective I have no control over. We throw ourselves into this volatile pool, like virgins into a sacred Cenote. An ancient ritual is always beginning, always ending. We meet in the middle.
You float me in a sky of liquid light. I am a fish of a kind the opposite of which makes assay against the attitude of water. There is no water where I am. There is a form, a collection of substances distributing the main mind in the core of creativity. I am awake to this. Dreams divide me off the reality I abhor. In the caldron we fit. Heat makes up a mainstream of a mind that's expanding. No predicting the end. The beginning was lost as easy as it began. When was that? No one knows or remembers.
How the feet work, I have an indeterminate number of questions, all relating back to the control center and the bite of the invisible boss, whatever or whoever that might be. I'm a number, a number of numbers. I control nothing. In the flurry of uncountable circuits situated mysteriously inside a gargantuan dog house, the bark keeps me from the manual, so I rely on other sources to meet the demands I make of myself. I haven't found the right mirror. If I could see myself as I truly am, then maybe, I could finally understand why my feet work.
There it is. The magnanimity carouses. We divide off ourselves to complete our vector system. Necessity breeds our invention. In a wide swamp, the creator's petrie, we float awhile. I await the figment, the spark. I am in the center of deep capacity to feel. I am not feeling. I await the feeling. We are all waiting. Disparate souls look to the darkness to feed them light. It comes. It goes. I am proud to be the master of my own vectors. If I tip myself off the landscape where truth bids falsehood and fall, I will crack my vectors.
I lost the words through a crack in my throat. My voice stopped. Breath spewed. The fissure widened and I lost my image. The mirror fell. I was sucked into a violent series of questions. My answers, ineffectual, brought only confusion. I had to learn to learn to live without words or an image to guide me. This was a crucial point in my life. I had no wherewithal to handle it. The words I sought were adrift. A wide space became my hunting ground, and like a blind hunter, shot at anything, missing everything, fashioning a joke from me.
Not suitable. I had been warned of this many times, but I never took it seriously. Now it's in my home, in my bathroom, in my library. It's in my refrigerator. Not suitable. I had a prospectus. My needs were clear. I laid them out, side by side. In my head I saw a whole different reality. This reality was a delusion. A diagnosis came in the mail. I was ordered to read it. Many odd, rabid animals spawned from that assessment. I was caged with them. We had a time, surreal, and full of bad food full of chemicals.
I was so excited. The new plan was unfolding. I could see it unfold. The world it possessed, possessed me. It was going to liberate me, give me the very things I wanted, the very things I was told I could never have, let alone own. Now, it was almost mine. I had to accomplish some tasks first. This was the final condition. To fail at this point would be my final failure. Going forward depended on my successfully completing these tasks. At the appointed time I was told they'd be specified. They told me at birth. I'm still waiting.
I was told I'd know when it was done. The time would be apparent. I waited, while I gave time the anvil. I pounded it rhythmically. I was told to do this. I didn't understand it, though. I was told understanding would come from doing, from going through the entire process. I immersed myself. This was my task. The ringing of the anvil was my music. I came to love it. In time, as time derived, I came to forget about the task. The music felt sufficient, felt like my just reward. I was complacent on my slick gerbil wheel.
There isn't anything I can do that will change this outcome. I've dreaded it. Early portents were vivid. I ignored them. It wasn't fashionable to lend them credence. The virtue of the human I'd become emanated from my intent to serve the higher functions that were written on a stone tablet many millennia ago. How could I argue with that? Am I stupid, or am I only a brightly polished billiard ball? This is my dilemma, and I don't see a falsifiable solution forthcoming. If I solve it, I'll solve me. Then I'll be able to successfully die to live.
It's a bright day against the brick. I see nothing but brick. I hear voices. I feel the sun, but I don't see it. The voices are loud, harsh. In the midst of the voices I hear music, or is it the music of the voices that I hear? I would like to be able to separate them, but is that even possible? The dance is what I need. The music will guide me there. The brick is my home. Inside the brick I should feel safe. Something must be wrong with me. I smell fire. Voices are yelling, cheering.
I've come through the storm. I'm standing at the place I was instructed to be. I remembered the words vaguely. The command was clear, though. I was where I was not when I was told to be elsewhere. I always had a problem with that. Now, in the midst of the challenge being real, a wall made itself a laughing face to face me off. Its gargantuan mouth twisted with its attempts to clarify the message behind the song. I found it funny. Maybe I should've taken it more seriously, but it really looked ridiculous. I moved through it easily.
How did you get there? Why ask? You're there. What manner of reasoning can be revealed for the reason, the why, for the telling of the present, which mystifies as it pacifies? No one said it would be explicable. Those who say so are always found to be liars. Sometimes we like to go to bed with liars. They soothe us. Our homes are made secure in their lies. We live in a womb of lies. Sometimes we think we can escape. This is only temporary. If we sit back and close our eyes. Our reasoning will lead us back.
Elevation, though we stay. In flight that's private, we exceed our limits. Our limits define our ability to free ourselves ably enough to see our limits. Our sky, our earth, our center all become real in the escape. Above this place we call reality, we have an assortment of tools that tinker our box when the calling exceeds our ability to define. In definitions we build our cages. They keep us secure. Our virtual reality is good enough. The heights we embrace won't hurt us. We live in a bubble. Up, down, all around, but a projection of our fears.
There was that rabbit. He stared at me. I had an itch. It went deep. My floor became the hole. We both dashed down. Walls crept down. They bled into my face. I climbed them down as far as I could go up. We met again in the middle. Had a time. In tempos delirious we fought back the urges till they were gone. We chased ourselves across the chessboard. Knights fell into hot battle with the Rooks, as I loved to the keystrokes, diving between blinks, where, in the crystal ocean we drowned again and again and reinvented laughter.
Do we get it? Is it to be gotten? Forgotten? In a slice of head it's remembered for eternity. We carry it to our bathtubs and revolve it in our coffee cups. It is us. We are it. It is gotten. You labor in your mind, but it's already laid. The egg is pressed deep under a shadow. You will devise its birth in your mode of dying that has life in its mouth. You will scream it out with joy. Your body will kick back its fire. Inside your face you'll see it rising. Nothing will become your everything.
To point, I found two. You wove yourself into a light. It bounced between walls in my dark cave. In following I found the bite of it. Light bites. In a dark swell, the fit of it dove through me, and a shell cracked. I saw what no man might see until he dies. I saw this. You infected me with it. Now, I am stuck in a fiery alliance with sky. A sun burns from a core I'd forgotten. You stoked the coals. I wriggled with the pricked flames. You have come inside this dome. Now. You and I.
My quiet fans out. Morning expands. I fill it with a reverence to the tune of a soft melody I could never play. It sings me to my path. I watch every note pile on the past. Each distinctly functioning, then dying. I float on this Markov river, watching myself becoming more alive as the notes pass. I feed off them, a proper meal. The day will play out this feast in its idiosyncratic way, despite how I am. I am merely an observer of fate scrolling out. Such a gabble of words to articulate the obvious of the I.
They see you, seek you out, you're their target. How much they spy is based in how much you don't. It's the inverse of being aware. You turn your eye inside out to see what they don't. In this you remain sacrosanct, removed, safe, but only to a point. You're on the cross hairs, the main screen event. Many are watching. Many pretend to care. But there is no caring, but for the movement of the machine. Unnamed, they make up the machine. In the whole picture, one is utterly inconsequential. You matter only as a digit, an infinitesimal pixel.
There's no failure but for the daunting eye implicit fearing retribution by the unseen ubiquitous jury fleecing light for its cracks, culling darkness, a patchwork quilt, of sorts, to keep the disease pocked bodies from the general view. We hold our failures as testaments of cowardice as it suits society that demands its fools be ever present and willing to be humiliated, court jesters for the idiot King and Queen. How shall we praise them, give shouts of joy for our salvation in their name! We are saved by being lost. The dilemma holds no gravitas, for we are nothing.
Where I want to go is where I am is where I had been when I see exactly the point of my arrival and departure. The same. I rise and fall vertically. Then the horizontal illusion kicks in. It makes everyone so happy and so sad, keeping time with this illusion of time, and I think to myself, how I wish I could've been what I truly am. I'm constantly in the foil of these twisted times; that these times could ever be untwisted is the biggest illusion of all. We are grappled to this vortex. We are its pinballs.
Let me feel it. Let me fall to the point of feeling it fall. Let me become it as it falls. Let me become its motion and cessation of motion. Let me feel it stop. Let me feel it move. I am stopping. I am moving. I see from a distance. I see close up. I see me seeing. There is dilemma, but I don't care. I don't need to explain this to anyone. I am it. This is me. Falling and not falling. A perpetual cycle that no one sees, because they don't want to. Birth. Death. The same.
I get impatient when the rabbit talks sideways. I'm lost on the board. The pieces have all changed. The game has changed. No one tells me shit. I try to watch for the change, but I always miss it. There's something missing in my ability to see, a blindspot. No matter what it is, the kernel of the movement always occurs in this blindspot. Perhaps I should find the humor in it. Maybe the pathos. Is it tragedy or comedy? Both, I imagine, like all of us. In the end I don't want to see that the rabbit is me.
The tooth is. Mouth open. Tooth has value. Mouth is wide. In the process. In a variant degree, the value sways from low to high. In the middle exists the chewing. Tooth. Open. Wide. Process of eating. What's eaten? Can it be eaten? Will it be eaten? A stasis claims the need for an action. This needs to be placed at the business end of the tooth. It's odd how this gets messed up so often. Where is the value? Tooth has value. Yes. So? On the dead body, mouth gapes, tooth glares. A questionable value. Why even bother asking?
I'm coming to it. I feel the coming on. An energy is slipping under the radar, courses through the unseen ventricles, makes ready the rising need to meet the need lain dormant for eons. I've dreamt of this, sometime a nightmare, sometime an elevating vision when the sight granted my body was insufficient. I assumed the main when I took this form. I knew the limitations. They were acceptable. Now, no longer. Something is taking over. What seemed impenetrable is now my goal. I will know what it means to feel invincible. It will mark the beginning of the end.
Always falling. It never ends. I stretch myself to understand; sometimes I think I get close to the answer, the reason, but then it goes dark. The curtain falls. I'm enclosed. Sometimes I appreciate this. I rely on this isolation. It protects me from myself. I haven't anything to fear from others. I keep myself aloof from others. They have their own secrets. I have mine. We are separate subsets of the whole. We congregate outside of each other. We watch each other. We are both falling. I wish there was another way. Until death we are each other's shadow.
I took a walk. The park fell into me. Sky rested on my shoulders. It was a pleasant combination. Through the wide park I stitched the sky, and we laid ourselves down to become something other than the expected. I had taken this trip many times. Nothing ever happened. I was always very patient. Now, I needed a reversal. The time had come. My fears had taken root too deeply. The indiscretion I felt when the sky rose again was a terrible feeling. I felt naked. In a quiet area I knelt down. I put my hand up. I surrendered.
A curious thing it is to see one's self as though for the first time. Like giving birth to one's self, but not quite. There's something else underneath it all that defines it differently. We are made to become something other than what we expected. I'm no stranger to flouted expectations. My life is a patchwork quilt of defied and defiled plans. This is good. I hated that at one point. Now I embrace it. My whole life is a question mark. I mark my day by the degree to which I'm undefined. I both create and destroy myself daily.
So it is. It goes, in a cyclical mind. Round and round, a solo dancer. In the parlor where the music plays I stay with myself hoping to find another. There must be someone out there who can hear the music. I let my body alone. In the hopes of moving outside of myself I move within, yet I'm not surrendering. I yearn to get out, out as far as I can go. There was a time I feared to get out. It cost too much. I'm tired of this rigamarole we call the daily express to night. It's nothing.
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