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Yes, here we are, the two of us. We complete each other. Such a cliche, hackneyed, overdone, baked to a cinder saying, but true. I work around the rhetoric; it stays the same. I found myself alone when I yearned to belong. I wasn't even looking, then I was blinded. I finally saw. I'm still seeing. She rises with me. No matter where she is, she is there. She is here. I am with her. We are complete. In a distant land she's coming together with her language. The adopted one is now mute. She will speak. I will listen.
Trying so hard to move, blocked from home; the wall keeps changing shape, thickness, appearance, the matters of its nature, and this is the crux, my thorn. I can't keep up with its nature, or even the way of it. It halts me as I go forward, pushes me backward, spins me around, stays me in a vortex, where the tempo of my dreaming mutates accordingly. I am the friend of none in the belly of this enterprise. I am controlled. I could take matters into my own hands, but I've lost my hands. They are somewhere outside of me.
Subservient to a rogue energy that flows on its own terms, I must stay alert, which is the only variable I control. I keep a hard hold on it. It provides a living window onto which I can look upon the river, home to my confusion. Moving like a maddened wasp, I grasp this pane with determination. It will not defeat me. Just wish I knew more. Wish I could move better. My age bespeaks erosion. I'm deteriorating. Never expected otherwise. I must live in this game of soul. No choice. I will have it, or it will have me.
I was gone. Now I'm back. Part of me stays where I was, though. In a flood of trees and storms. I worked beneath this patchwork of green and rumbled gray. I was colored and became part of it while I ministered to my art. All things blended. In a tumbledown fury, I saw many things I couldn't name. Such a delight. It was mine, I surrendered to the unnameable. So rare. I keep these delicious whorls snug in my swollen heart. They keep me alive. Being back now, I tender to the chaos I grasped like a secret lover.
Tiny spillage. A pile of gas curls up. No one's around to see it. Just as well. The growth has begun. Seems innocuous. How can anything bad happen from such an innocent little spill? Around the edge of the puddle, a green skin curls up. Fluid bubbles. It widens. The jungle commands itself as the tempo of its world. Every thing within must yield to this command. It breathes deep into the soils. All creatures breathe with it. The invading growth is oblivious. Soon, the nature of its poison will become apparent. Such a fine place for a virgin contagion.
The inner march. It has begun again. Too many forms crowd the eyes of my eyes. Vision's overwhelmed by the miasma. Nonplussed, I sense the proceeding festival with curiosity. It is a festival. I decided that soon as I saw its face loom from its fury. It won't last long. Creates itself, as it destroys itself. That's its way. I've seen this many times. It never ceases to entertain, though the stretch of its life can sometimes burn. My body's patched with many burns. I learned to accept them. Grave knowledge comes at a cost few can accept. No matter.
So I see you. You see me. Our river connects. An ocean separates us. Such a small thing. The complexity of your vision, as you scan your homeland, combines and derives such thunder and delight. In a speck of eye that combines my mind, I'm fretted with grins in the tempests we are, with the whirlwinds we command to firm our art, colluding as the creating energies of our lives. There is little else. There is everything. My life has insinuated you, as your's has insinuated mine. When I nod to the deepening night, I can feel our river burn.
I can't find the words. They're lost. Enisled. No matter how frustrated, no matter how weary, I'm on the search on a ship without a rudder. Funny and hopeless. I'm a gadabout on a windless sea. There ain't no satisfaction in the dance. The waters themselves are a saving grace, though. Sound of waves against my hull keep me awake and assured the journey is real. I'm always afraid of finding out it's an illusion. I adored illusion. I made it my gaming friend. We charted many years in the hot bed of games. No longer. I need some reality.
It goes in. A fire starts. No one can see the fire. It spreads like a rampant cancer through the spirit, divides it off from its own center to create a new center. In the center of the center a cell is built, into which familiarity goes, into which a face people knew is placed. It sits in a frame neatly positioned near the spirit. Soon the spirit will grow tired of the face, but the face will stay. It has to stay. That's the rule. Around this center the fire rages. It attracts the ones who like it. Pyromaniacs.
I tipped my mind into the woods, and let it flow. One became two became many in a blink, and then I was happily lost in every direction. I didn't care. This is what I sought, what I wanted. Each river was an inner eye of me. I saw the end and beginning over and over. My exaltation knew no bounds, until the bounds found my skins, barriers between in and out. I thought I knew how to navigate in and out. I was wrong. Seems a no brainer. What could be simpler? I have so much more to learn.
What's to be uncovered remains to be unseen. The catch is the missing of it. We prefect our ability to miss. It keeps us safe. We miss the moment and live in a missed box where the ins and outs are defined according to an undisclosed array of numbers to be plugged into the past and future. It's our lot to be either behind or ahead. We live in a missed box. Our clocks tick to the rhythm outside of seeing how the ticks and tocks combine. We just assume they combine. It's our delight to be so rigorously assuming.
It approaches. We fantasize about a gun. We don't have a gun. We fantasize about running. There's no place to run. It's approaching. Fear gives us a feeling to be shared. We like sharing fears. It's something we can talk about on lunch breaks. No matter how much we talk, no matter how much we share, it's still approaching. The design of it has a remarkable ability to hone in on us no matter where we think we are or who we are or what we want to be. It always finds us hiding in our dreams. That's the funniest.
I've made myself ready. It took all I had. There was place I made. No one knew about it. It was the place where I'd have my way with it, where it would have its way with me. So I went to that place. I waited. Nights and days passed. The world stitched its web with me as its needle. I sewed myself without doing a thing. It was done to me. I had no issue with it. Doors opened. Doors closed. It was the way of it. I wasn't bothered. I was ready. The time was about to come.
I saw how easily people degraded themselves for a piece of putative heaven. They buried themselves in pockets of someone's coat, someone who told them heaven was in those pockets. The pockets were deep. Many people lived in those pockets. They didn't do much. There wasn't much to do. Thought they were saved. They believed in the worthiness of those pockets. The one who owned the coat didn't care. They were only dedicated to filling those pockets with as many people willing to bury themselves. It didn't take much to convince anyone. They'd lost their faith in crackerjack box prizes.
I hear it. She's on it. The wing dips to my eye. I can feel the draft, premonition of her imminent arrival. In my solace I can hold her in the boxed air. My arms hold light. I give them that. They have a substantial conveyance. She is nothing less than the sun in my soul. In a weird way I've become her in the displaced air. I've lifted myself over the drab angst drumming up my corn. There in a fond field, I see the familiar eyes rising. They do that when she approaches. We will all give cheer.
I wonder what will come of this night of dreams? A portent tainted my coffee. Bitterness. I can think of nothing else. Perhaps gas? Ha, I'm a better cook than that. In a fit I'll soon slip the reason for the tremor. Inside my eye I see what others cannot. A mountain is swelling. I feel it. So, this may be my day. It's been long coming, long anticipated. Whether I see the other side is up to scatter of miscreant variables. They're the mischief I am when I'm reckless, when I tender the easiest route from here to satisfaction.
There's a long river, many tributaries. I've enjoyed a few islands. They passed. Islands of memories survive. I'm on this river. I refuse to leave, refuse to beach this craft. Lands come and go. War torn and packaged for disposal, they wait for the garbage man. They've been waiting eons. I take pictures with a shutterbug brain. My walls are pocked with dogeared photos. Most of the faces are no longer discernible. I feel them, though. The faces live inside me. I could feel more, I think, if I could only spend more time looking. Sometimes looking is too terrifying.
You keep the vortex in my eye, with a fullness cadged by the unseen hand that molds the matrix, swollen with light. Each rupture feeds me. I am drenched by that which defies derivation. When the freezing heat stiffens my mind, I can only fall; there's no hope to offer my spirit in such a descent. It is not fed by ecumenical liturgy. In spite of falling, I am risen each day you call me by name, each day you spear me with light that's your own. I am unworthy, yet you assault me each day. I am without words.
I'm setting up this. It's being set up. I hold it in my head. There's a commotion up ahead. I can't see clearly. The ground is uneven suddenly. That's annoying. It wasn't uneven when the bets were placed. I'm getting uneasy with the present staff. They don't take this seriously. I'm not in this to play crummy games or get the girl. I don't want to get the girl. The girl has gotten me. She's fine. I'm setting this up. This comes next. She's very supportive. We plan on adopting nothing but ideas. We both have ideas. That's the setup.
Wandering out a wonderlust of light in a mosaic of fantastical proportions, I'm threading myself through myself with an eye of you gleaming up my darkest heart, spreading it out for all the sky to eat. How can I defy my will to know this as true, keep this as my most precious possession, that which I do not possess or will ever possess, as I am not the visage from the mirror, nor am I that which calls out from my plastic realities held in my wallet? This wonderlust is ours. We gave it to each other. We belong.
I strew myself this way and that, off a crag of mind a precipitate leans into the action, splits from the base, collects its way to the edge, unfurls as it unfurls, beats the ideas out, and my emotions flare. Mind goes into a dervish dance. I'm alive to the fiery sky. I am the sky. I pierce its manifold of air. I become space. Spinning around the globe there is freedom and bondage. From above I descend, I rain into my own body standing, as if in awe of creation, being numb to everything, numb to the inevitable crash.
From a dead place I am risen. I crave the sky, where once I ate the dirt. It plays as it plays. I'm always surprised when it plays, and it plays often. I feel incapable, numb to the world inside; that I could touch anything seems impossible. Then it comes, this fiery ball of light. It bears a face, her face. I am glad of this, relieved. She holds me as I burn. I allow myself to be burnt. It's a good thing, a terrible thing. It hurts, but I exalt in the pain, for it blesses me with feeling.
Three degrees of me in separation on a split level mind, I construe my path as I go, whether inward or outward, on a raft, in a spaceship, or in the inscrutable realm of my heart. This is my course through a world I largely avoided for decades. I divided myself from myself. There was no stopping it. Control was from a board within the room I left as a bunker in case of a nuclear emergency. I forgot about it. Now, in a carnival room of many mirrors, I face a dilemma. Which one of me has to go?
This manner of my life compels me to dive into a barrel of nasty fish for a game of catch-a-meal or be humiliated. I often have to fend off the uninitiated who feel it's necessary to fight me for my meal. They haven't a clue of what I do to fetch a bite. I would gladly give them the go-ahead, if I could, but I can't. I'm obliged to be the only one who dives. I'm not a diving champion either. I can fake it sometimes. More often, though, I clumsily take to the dive and bellyflop.
I say thankyou, over and over, thankyou after thankyou, forgetting who I'm thanking. I don't stop. Can't stop. Not allowed. Thankyous come, thankyous go. They're continuous. Necessary. I'm obliged. Thankyous are the bookmark gestures. I throw them out. Bait, maybe. No. Flotsum for the perennially needy. They sit on their stools waiting for the thankyous, the fish. I sit in the middle of the shelf between thankyous. I am kept. The needy keep me. It's understood. They are fed by eager millions. I am fed by none but me. On the shelf I munch my vittles, careful not to spill.
I could see him and not see him in this film. I felt him. He's been inside me as long as I've been inside him coaxing him out of himself, sharing the idiosyncratic reasons why he is. In so doing, I learned why I am. The time was not propitious for me to understanding this. I needed to grow to the point where I grew out of myself so far I nearly fell out of myself entirely. When I fell back in, I learned. I knew. The time was right. I had a grievous time wrestling, but I came around.
There I went, like a firebird in my head through the roof of my imagination; I was free. The others buzzed about. I ignored them. They thought this was indignant. When they punished me, I drifted away. I watched as they ployed their pathetic means to remonstrate. I took notes. I sent those notes, my reports to Interzone. I was hoping to get a reply at some point. I waited decades, then it came. I read it aloud in my private space. The words blazed a message on my brain. Like a scar it reminds me continually of my duty.
There are monsters just underneath my skin waiting to evict their safe habitation, occupy my will and devour its pristine fabric. They are held at bey. I've been to bed with many of them. Strange bedfellows I can say are the very opposite of any expectation of them. They cream my heart with a slippery smile that tantalizes as it burns with lips made up for trick or treat in a chasm of lepers. I am the minister of the home, manager of something no one names. It has no name. In my mouth I feel the brains, the desires.
Labor intensive, dying in the darkness with an annoying light in the middle of an amorphous mouth preaching to no one. Its sound, grating at the peak of my tolerance, digs deep, a rough honed scalpel I cannot see. I want peace now, not cacophony. The ruckus only intensifies. I bring the matter out of my addled brain. I throw it to the wind crammed of biting mouths. I taste it being eaten. White horse rears. In the darkness its hoves pound my worries to dust. Angst scatters in the locust riddled air. I am emptied. Death's but a reawakening.
Comes this blue aura split like your eyes under tears, comes the blue flow, and you nod to the art, quietly slip inside sleep, then comes the meeting, again, the meeting. Comes the blue aura, and you’re inside it. I love being inside it with you. You pour me out of myself with your art. It crawls inside me, a blue firefly. Then the words come out like a split blue river to flow your art. You bless me every time by the blue of your art. You split me. I'm divided. Then comes a question. It splits. Divinity.
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