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I split when you arrived. The light drove its mind into my obsidian heart. There was an eruption. It spilled across the breakfast table. We took to the feast. Starving, there was no recourse. I felt vindicated when you consumed me. Inside of you I saw a wide plateau. You were smiling, as was the sky. I melted to the form you allowed. In this form you insinuated a clarity. The pieces of me, now molten, poured into the new mold. You took my smile and redesigned it. I no longer need to lie. This new shape you formed, lives.
I'm a fire waiting for the tinder, a makeshift mind spun out of nuclear intentions, circumscribing the need to contain, while needing to expand; this ever present, ever infuriating dilemma, this paradoxical existence, hanging in limbo, contains the knowledge there will come a time when balance will teeter off its stance, when the contrary needs will digress after the need to be still, dominates. How all this will be configured is waiting itself. These faceless objectives feeding off precarious intentions are the reasons for reason. I can no longer keep this stable. I no longer feel the need to control.
There's something outside. I feel it. A palpable movement led me to accept this. Under the usual radar I felt this movement encroach upon my consciousness. There wasn't anything I could do about it, nor was there anything I wanted to do. I accepted it. I've learned to accept these things. Death is approaching. The stealth of its approach is undeniable, contiguous with my day-to-day ramblings. Now, it's outside. That's okay. I'm curious to see its face. Oh, I've heard all the wild stories of what it is and what it isn't. The thing is, that, it is.
We crush each other brightly in the dark light. In the passages between we slip our minds through our various keyholes, seeing what we see, shifting as we need to accommodate the rabbits. Our rabbits' dialogues derive our idiosyncratic kisses. Down the holes we dive. It never matters how or where or even why. We must. It's how we are to each other, for each other. I like falling into your mind. I can never catch the rabbit, nor do I wish to. Catching it is not important; following it, is. We meet on the dive. Our love allows it.
There's no telling, but you tell. You can't help it. It's coded in. The design demands it. You tell. They tell. No telling how or why or when. We digest ourselves by the telling. By others' telling we are told. The story goes on. The grand plan is satisfied. I hope we can find ourselves somewhere in all this telling. To be lost is to be found by something other than. I can see where I am in the matrix. The rain pours on. Telling is mapped accordingly. Time to tell. The disquieting muse demands it. He is my author.
I should be in better shape. I'm being called. The calling doesn't come very often. I'm pushed to a wall, can't break through. A decision has to be made. There's no choice in the matter. I'm either in the mix with a firm stand, or I'm dissolved in a morass of indecision. I can't make up my mind. This is tearing me apart. My shape is changing. I feel it change. How it changes determines the means by which I'll make a round decision. If it goes too far there won't be any choosing. It will have chosen for me.
I'm divided in threes. A substantial deviation compels a need to consolidate. Yet, I'm blown from the center. My desire is on the windshield. In a furious dash I've collided the trickster obstacles falling in place like a maze for the delight of Pookas in vitro. Treading the syrupy mass, I'm spun out. Sky is dark, starless. No breeze. Sails are limp. Air is damp. I can taste my own disintegration. When and where I will land again is anyone's guess. I throw the question to the skies. A sometime prayer, when I was kid, fleeing my mom, in vitro.
In a quiet arena, I'm drawn to a challenge. My foe is a mystery. The mystery was culled from the residues I left behind when my child was brutally murdered. I saw from his eyes the mastery of the attacker. She was full of nothing; nothing drove her on. I ate the savage pills, downed with the fiery draft. It was ordained, so they say, God's will, your cross to carry. You Golgatha, an ant hill in the backyard where the dog was tortured for payback. I'm waiting in the arena. I hear them coming, a processional, a dark feast.
In a silent way I scream. My music, discordant, arhythmic, plies the chords of the unseen organisms of the Shadow. I dive to the Shadow for safety. In a fury I have nothing to offer the Shadow but a dried whimper....The way the world ends? I've been told this. A master said this. Should I believe it? Am I the whimper of my own end? Quietly, I am fondling the extremities of my chamber. It's not large. It contains the material substances I carry for personal identification under the radar of the walkaday man. My ministration is just beginning.
I keep riding the waves you drive to the fore. I'm lifted high. The ocean surges. I feel its power. In the stiff winds you steady me. Diving up to collect the sun, I'm carried by your light. It combines us. We are a fiery rainbow, wild kaleidoscope of colors in an infinite hall of mirrors. We see how we cannot by ourselves. Our sight is a multiplex, like the eye of a dragonfly. We are made a million by one, each of us combining the other on the waves in a fury. There is no stopping who we are.
The street moved in a peculiar way. The map became very non-Euclidean. I rode my body in a fashion that defied the expectation of bodies. Marvelous. I became a cartoon of myself in vivid basic colors. Down I dropped. The whole city stooped, but it wasn't watching me. I felt naked, very self conscious. The stones stared at me. My inner organs became birds of fire. I heard the opening strains of John McLaughlin's brilliant work. Once again I was transported. It's never failed me. In this bending universe, it's the one thing I held onto. Namaste. Namaste. Namaste.
I feel the vibe. From the inner mounting flame, I transmit myself to the unseen. I no longer care for the visible and trite. It has its function, yes, but in the end it's the inner that transmutes the outer to its basic function. Can't explain why. Call me crazy. I get that alot. Don't care. I am fire embedded in my own marble of life, like the ancient fly encased in amber. There is beauty in this kind of stasis. One may think it's frozen, but motion becomes its best delight. As you blink, it takes you by surprise.
We sometimes meet in battle. We define ourselves by war. It's a vital dialogue. One may regret it. One may despise it. No matter. It has its energy in a firm conduit. One to the other, a conversation evolves. It's hems are tinged with flame. Lips kiss the heat. Eyes bury themselves in the erupting lights. A tangle must create the fashion of its tears. Laughter erupts in most unexpected ways. There's delight. There is horror. There is even peace, a dry plateau one may stand upon to watch what has been, what is, what will come. A fitting station.
In a softness, a seductive violence, the riffs tell a tale. You may listen. It goes where you may not. Though, in a fond acceptance you may keep to the rush of lights, drive yourself happily mad, let go the stiff and stable, linear ride north to south, embrace a wonder, maybe ennui, ecstasy, the reason for reason, dash that, a reason to dissociate. Better that. You'll find a life there. When the toppling mountain of expectation fills the gaps between nothingness and eternity, you'll thank me, though you may deride me roundly. We'll be together in a glorious fit.
Sitting. Flying. Sleeping in a trance of wakefulness. You could catch the ball. It was thrown a long time ago. Trip, bounce, have a fit in a snit, fuck the rhythm you told yourself in those days when you had to write the essay the way they wanted it. Bounce the writing off the wall. Humpty Dumpty can go rut himself. Ride the streams, tangle in a ball rolling to the end and beginning. You're inside, on top, around, under the heel of the intention to fit dreams to reality. You know better. There ain't no way to say it.
Wishing wishing wishing your light was filling my hand, your smile in the palm of my eye wishing wishing wishing your skin was tingling on the tips of my fingers prowling like a panther for its young at heart wishing wishing wishing you could curl my heavy onto your light, break day with your bow decking modulation of a whisper wishing wishing wishing the time was bent back thrown upwards to a downward spiral with us in its vortex pouring our wishes into food for the love of feasting feasting feasting on our wishing wishing wishing being who we are.
My words are racing through your flexidome, my heart, the gas-main, gushing fuel for light, colliding your words, their sparks ignite, infusing the wild world we know under the drab world we tolerate, come what come may in the sound and fury of our volatile calm, we keep our days for nights a mobius construction that defies the mind, so be it, we will keep it, I am, you are, we are, this monument created in the name of something unnameable. So it goes, we go on, words words words, a conflagration of words, so fiery, Nero is jealous.
It's the source of it all. You can feel it. Crystal mayhem won't be pulling you down. All you need is a quick dash, a nod of certainty, a lunge away from the heat. Easy as that, easy as dying. One can make a melody, put lyrics to the tunes, hop along, have a wild time under the barn light. It may feel pointless, like you're wasting your time. Quite the contrary. The source feeds the dance. You must draw from the source. It's always there. Those who wield the dark crystals will see. You're no longer a mark.
Strength comes, myriad ways, waves unseen, the tiny rivers, serpentine, completing the outer to inner, a lattice, endless, a billion harbors, shipping docks crammed of harried workers furiously loading, unloading, trains bulging, thumping through the byways of the body. I feel the energy rising, the sun pouring its gold, cells flexing, taking it in like a furtive lover, in passionate haste, feeding, feeding, feeding the hungry and starved. The fury is unlaced on the breath. Lungs spark, blood heaves, to each organ comes the vital electricity. I am completed, over and over. Never ending till it ends, and then, again.
We might look out into the desert. That might give us the answer. If not that, the question. Either way, in the dusky air, there's a solace cowling a secret, many secrets, in fact. They remain secrets, because they exist in peace; not a peace that holds back retribution, but a peace that asks us to be quiet. They who seek this peace cannot be quiet. They are loud, boisterous. The desert absorbs them, and the secrets remain intact. Seems it takes a lifetime to realize this kind of peace. Ironic. Soon as you understand it, it's time to go.
The mind flexes, hand disobeys, rejects the signal. My I's are disparate. Voice is stunted. Organs are bereft of my I. The flow is wrong. Something is wrong, terribly wrong. I want one thing. The need unseen cries out. It's ragged signal spurts the energetic gesture, frees the thing I want entrapped. It is not me that's acting. A dark emissary without a face works the levers. Try as I might, the sky isn't clearing. Storms are crowding out the sun. In a small space, a private quiet space, another eye meets mine in the darkness, and I am saved.
There is this thing inside me that won't allow a orderly flow. From one thing to another, I'm a walking puzzle. Pieces are strewn over my non-euclidean earth. Playing board is unwieldy. Wish I could go back, go way back and make another turn when the light commanded the sun to shine with the moon in abeyance of its wish, that I might see another way forward. Time is shredded in the sense of moving as an arrow might on a true trajectory toward the apple. This is no game. I haven't time for apples and their respective arrows.
A transparent figure emerges from time to time in my eye. Its form outlines my vision of the world. I'm bound by its outline. Within the form, I'm conscripted to an unknown set of rules that change often, randomly. I could laugh it off, and at times I do. There's nothing else to be done. Most times, I sit back inside my open smile that greets the world outside the world that defines who I am, who I've been, and who I will be if the machine of the figure obeys its own indisputable desire to see me rewired, repossessed.
It unfurls. No stopping it. You're caught in the bag. A big hand grabs. You feel it. Can't see it. On a long road you're whisked. Somebody somewhere will be inside you to say the words you may or may not understand. It unfurls. The hand is doing what the hand does, has always done, will always do, is doing. It unfurls. You made fun of this in silly poems that no one liked. You caught an edge of the imminent reality. You jotted it down. You read it aloud. Yawns. Belches. One little flash in a shy little eye.
One must stay at the bottom to see the top. Both are the same thing. You make yourself available for the whole thing. The big thing. You open yourself. There's no one else to open but you. You've got to do it. I could try to explain it to someone else. Futile. Some kind of rude comedy. But you got to try. With jots. The impulse grabs you. You do the jotting. There are some who will find a simple resonance for themselves in these jottings. No one knows. You don't. That's not your place. Your place is the jotting.
My body tells me something I shouldn't. The day falls into a night that's more like day in my heart. I strain to see what others see. They tell me things I don't understand. I feel my body. It feels the way I feel. I'm told to feel something different, but nothing different comes but confusion. I hold this dilemma in my hand daily. I carry it. Lately, I shared it with someone. I expected the usual rebuff, but she didn't recoil. She took me in hand. I wasn't used to this. Now my body tells me something I should.
I'm sorry, my hand, I'm sorry it flexes without the hand of my hand controlling the hand. There's a schism to negotiate, across which a long wire from here to here is looped in defiance of its loop, a bad electricity for a split machine churning for its errant life in deference to nothing but its life without cause of being aware of being aware. On that high wire above the abyss, being cocky that way, that nothing should be as it seems but as something else, I'm on the control panel flipping whatever switch seems right that's always wrong.
To the other side I bend to listen, but the bellowing whispers crumble too easily for their own expressions, like the roar down the mountainside, post eruption, flattening trees, even the idea of trees, roaring over placidity, as though it were a disease to be stamped out; like my foot on the crippled fly, I'm fumbling the sidewalk looking for an escape, for which there is none. I'm listening so hard, listening for the slightest clue as to why I must listen. I ponder on the 'other side,' this enemy, I presume. To what do I owe its existence?
It's not that important being good at what you do, but that what you do is good to you, for you, about you; an inverse relationship becomes paramount. Apart from the need to satisfy oneself, one needs to satisfy the desire to complete oneself. This has little to do with sating desire. But the cycle. How you are in the cycle, how it feeds your cyclical existence. How unnoticed this goes, yet we think we know how it goes. We deceive ourselves so grandly. It begins. It ends. It begins again. The only stopping is in the awareness of it.
I am at a crossroads, one that's new, one that I've never seen, nor has it seen me. I will diverge. How I diverge will depend upon the day, the words, the climate of contact. This remains a mystery, like the ruling sealed in an unseen envelope. This will be opened on that day. The climate will change. I will change. Everyone there will change. Transformation. This could be good. This could be bad. It will be both. At that point new roads will appear. Upon those roads some of us will go. To the ovens or into the sun.
This is another end, another beginning. It goes and it goes. I can't keep it all in my head. My head keeps splitting. I'm in all directions and no direction. This place, always moving, always still, confounds me no matter how many times I think I know. What I know is nothing compared to what is. My dilemma is never finding what I'm finding. The question looms. Answers buzz about like maddened bees. The hive is bursting. The Queen is nesting her young. They have it in their mind what all infants have, a thirst, a hunger that never dies.
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