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Heavens! It's begun again. That rag-tag cycle romp. And you get a new chance for the prize. O yeah! Go get 'em! Where? How? Why? Disavowal begs conveyance to the edge of belief, as usual. Never changes. You say it wasn't your intention. Can you ever control that? Sometimes in blind hubris you think you can. Trips. Falls. Over the falls in a barrel. Some kind of rude magic, and no one ever claps. Will you ever learn? Doubtful. The marriage of intent with reality begs a crash. Just sit down. Pick a ditch. Time to meditate on bleeding.
In a dark swell inside the mouth opening this mouth, a germ of the howl trips the hour's call. I slip into sleep, leaving the rag tag behind with skulled hollows of a dire mind begging on crumbs of hope to keep me safe. But the hour comes. It envelopes me like a watch hand embracing the clock face, always the same, always different. I feel it enter me. The germ expands. Petals of an eye that glares muscular stoops to hand me off to the night as an emissary with a message to deliver. Who will receive it tonight?
It foots it hard. The drop down deceives no one. All in all, after the kick one keeps saying, over and over, "It'll get softer, it'll get better, it's not going to continue like this." But it does. Always. In the end, no matter how kind the hosts are with free food and such, when the commander shows up and you have nothing to show, that's when the going reverses itself. The mainframe self destructs, as expected, and the next dramatization will involve a brand new dynamic, one with different players altogether. You need to understand how serious this is.
I will make the best attempt. I'll keep at it, won't give up, won't give out the secret to anyone. I'm true to my word and impulses as an adept dedicated to the great work. No matter how much I cannot hold onto it, I believe in it's necessity. Believing is the thing. It has to be there. One can achieve remarkable things if they truly believe. Of course, one can walk away from their words. Happens all the time. I won't walk away. This is something that I have to do. The picture of my task goads my soul.
Excuses come aplenty. One knows not how to bury them. You can call it whatever you like to make it digestible, but the guts of it remains the same. I am spiraling deliciously close to the heart of a thing that has no soul that one might call a soul but a mission so great it envelops the world. So odd that so many miss it, so many misconstrue it, even if they see it. It lives in the darkness under disbelief. That's it's protection, it's hoodie, the one that smiles affably in the grocery and asks, "How're the kids?"
It drives me forward on many highways. They run through my brain. My soul exhales the detritus. Rough edges define the roads of creativity intertwining the landscape I've made for my desired redemption, yet the shape of this reality constantly changes. I move as it moves, yet what's found is a source of joy. I cannot understand how that works. The very defiance of my intent is the source of my happiness. There is nothing in the expected. I defy that which I construed the objective of my energies. I am found in being lost continually. Such is my life.
So true how it scrambles ahead of me. I run to catch up. It runs faster. I fly toward it. It flies faster. I defy the earth. I spin my heart from the flesh core, divide off the air and become like light to catch this enigma bolting away. I am entertained, as it defies me. How wonderful to wear this form of antagonism as a fine fitting suit, wherein I shall challenge the prince of the air. He is one to expect such rivalry. I will not disappoint, nor will I please, for my suit disguises my secret plan.
Could we meet at this table? What might we say? Is there anything to say? The time is now to see, to find out. We fall back. The earth falls away. Time evaporates. We stay at the table. Our eyes are locked. There's no telling what's behind these eyes. They share little. Caution defines the path. But what path? I've labored to see this day. The artichoke was peeled down to the heart. Now, all is darkness but for the pit of eyes clutched to each other. Darkness envelopes us. We are waiting. There's nothing but waiting. Time has evaporated.
The floor meets my feet in a weird way. I'm asked to explain why. My hands fall by my side with a telling vibration. From the feet to the hands is the extremity of the design. Form meets form in a delineation of the beginning to end. Deformations are inevitable. I can't explain why. There is no why. It was a trick. I wasted time trying to reach a why, but the falling away of analytical disease was my healing; such was the healing I never expected. From cell to cell the form creates itself, and I was finally released.
We do as we say, if we dare. The words fall out of a mystery. They appear as if from nowhere, but really everywhere. Silence is broken by the logos without tongue. Fire is the source. Crucible is soul. We stitch our spirits to the web of soul threaded by logos looking for a way out, looking for a tongue. How stunning to see this cloak when we truly see, when we put our words to action. How rare is that? In the depths of what we deem our minds we grace our words by an action, wherein we burn.
You have an impossibility before you. It has a face, a mind and a shadow that envelopes the habitation within and without. One might exhale the detritus of such an infection, but how? It is in-and-of-itself, the self-same disease you fled. It has caught up with you. You are face to face. Distribution of mind is disaffected by the means between spirits, a vast gulf. Standing on the rim of The Grand Canyon seems indisputable, a reality, but this has none. The meeting is attained by one thing alone, death. In this you will find consummation.
Supposing is just that. You hope for something, a change. It has become a leaf blown in the gusts of fall slipping away from the green to embrace the quiet cacophonous silence of brown where all remains the same but different. In this gulf exists the calm. Not so simple. You must allow it to find you. That's the rapture. You can easily miss it. Time spent trying to find it is time lost. You wrap yourself up in the pursuit of that which cannot be touched, let alone caught. It's here. Can't you see it? Will you allow it?
That could be. You think? Is thinking the place you want to be? Taking time away from the path. Is it separate from the path? What path are we talking about? Not so easy, is it? Not so clear to delineate. The value of thought exceeds the worth. One might think themselves into a gray zone. A patch of blah. Some might enjoy this patch. Forget about growing anything on it. You pit yourself to a point. In that point seems to exist all you could ever want. How clever. An ingenious lie. An island you can maroon yourself on.
Pitted. A broad mine field. I watch you across the way. Our coffees stand like battlements on the crumb strewn plain. One wonders about the next move. Not when or how. Why. A hand makes for the artillery. Butter is splashed. A grease stain. Blood puddle. We can follow the puddles to the place where hostilities commenced; the same place where love commenced. I can't stay here much longer. It's smothering me. One can't see. Trench warfare is not for the impatient. I am sodden with a loss of hope. Drab threads make my cloak. Undoing my mind seems best.
You try and try. Each night brings you to the same expectation. Gas fumes. Greasy streets. Furtive eyes planning to dash. Words crammed with deceit. A prayerful journey. Brakes. Door's flung. A dash. Mouth droops. Again. No honor. Fighting to keep the balance. Despair creeps like a menacing soldier in the mud approaching under the radar. You feel its presence. Nothing to be done. Waiting. You thought it could be different. Everyone comes to these same hopes. Dreams. Pipedreams. A stand of old tin soldiers falling over in a pile of rust. Fleshy dust. Whipped hopes. Maybe tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow.
So easily we sit in judgment of the inevitable. I feel myself disintegrating, bit by bit. Like a towering Red Oak, its sinewy entrails consumed by the industrious termite making its eating way up the burly shaft, might feel the earth calling him back home. When time dissolves as master of the day, the crux of being and not-being is felt in an instant. There is nothing to be done but smile. There is that time, and it is good. We fold into another crucible of becoming, granting life its magnificent reflection for reflection. This is who we are.
These words resonate. Who we are. In the bright dash of a new morning, when movement captures its necessity by the wages of the clock, when the toppling structures of every expectation give way to the march of the moments, we destroy ourselves a billion times a day to make it through the day. I cannot place myself in a position of authority over anyone but myself. Who we are. Hands, without others, shrivel. This is no time to bray our superiority. We are infinitesimal dust when snatched from tribe to shout our own. We. Hands holding hands. We are.
Miraculous floodgate. Night. Her gown spreads violet. Lithe fingers stretch the stage, a weary mind bends to attend, players advance, her skirt billows, softens the edges, and all the spirits roar in unison, yes, yes, yes, a furious dash of lights, fiery darts flung helter skelter from the uncaged void. We are all called. Nothing is withheld. The great skin splits. That which is unseen is seen, felt like a lover, intrusive and complete. This is the hour. My day holds its breath for this. All I can do now is fall. I am taken. I am hers. Born again.
We are held. The feeling is not to be felt but known. In a scramble there could be something left out, forgotten. There might be this one tiny thing, insignificant things, a thing you'd pass over even if you saw it, thought to be useless, a piece of junk, and the very thing that would release you, hiding in plain sight. No matter. We are held. The thing called patience is its habitat from eternity where time is crushed. It will wait. Watching from my icy vantage, I am made aware of one thing. Being remembered is becoming increasingly insignificant.
I can say nothing and everything. My face unveils how it turns from silence to an eruption of logos. It's the light, how it divides, from white to blazing bands of color. A rainbow. Between the bands comes the sensibility no words may expose. Eyes plucked. Shadows sown to my soul. A landlocked spirit. Its name, unspoken, is carved on the minds that gather at my dance under the moon. I'm mute, yet I'm screaming. I'm blind, yet I'm sighted. We are the chosen ones. I don't know how that happened. It seemed impossible, then it was. Now I'm marked.
You need to give when you take. It's the rule. Maybe you'll ignore it, but it won't ignore you. Wait a bit. Make believe it's false, that it's silly romantic nonsense. You'll see. The merry-go-round has a way of turning on you, fooling you with a change of colors. Nod your head, then look up. The schoolmaster is standing over you. Apollo. He's holding Sycorax. In the playground a kid was pretending to be a stone. The Medusa lured him to the swings. Seven kids have to stay after school to get their chopped off. It's the rule.
My face you hold. A glass womb. In its core dissembles a cacophonous silence wherein I write my life. You take dictation. I am inserted. One set into another, a quiet mapping involving the mystery of you and I. Each of us came to a certain place with hands outstretched. There was no object, no physical item to be held. We were held, though. Your face. A glass womb. Both were folded into each other. Each remained distinct. Each remained autonomous, beholden to themselves. But within the mix, we were held. Are held, till the mystery of death. And then.....
Overindulgence begs a slice of my time. My eye fits my stomach to a cue by a mythical dance to the rhythm no one can refuse. My own private Siren couched comfortably in a nook I created for her in secret. Let the festival begin. My mouth cranes. Saliva flows. I become the pattern of my inner eye. I see my prey. There's no stopping the hunt. What can I do to appease this ritual? Nothing. It is more me than me, and I have to obey. I must oblige the call. Such a meaty fury to be chewed delirious.
Serving the call. I am by myself in a dither of confusion, in a whirlwind of dust within my soul, yet I go. Horses stamping. I feel their heat; I see nothing. Nothing is to be seen vividly. Wild hoots of a desert flavor. The sky bleeds red cuffing the clouds of dust pounding the air. I cannot touch this. My skin has been covered by a choice I made. I am hooded for the storm. I feel it pass over me. Yet, I am held. Some kind of mystery again. My life is molded by mysteries. I am kept.
It's nowhere, but it's gotta be somewhere. My vibes are dwindling to the wrong cue, for the infection is dancing up a storm and the fighters are off rhythm. I'm in a pithy swing chop after my own pleasure principle being lopped off at the gate. I called out, but the answer I got was they don't have the beef no more. They gotta have the beef. I need the beef. Where's the beef? It's probably in the cloak room getting comfortable with the chief organizer of the party. Why can't my wish be made like a firework on high?
My foot spoke out. I let me leg take dictation. My hips gyrated at the thought of complying with a leg request. I was stuck between my irate hips and puzzled shoulders. An argument ensued; my hips almost got into it with my chest. Damn. I wasn't expecting that. It didn't last long, though. Hips were placated by a soothing message from my forehead. I could always count on my forehead to mitigate these upsets. Suddenly, my ankles got pissed. My feet wanted to go somewhere, and this ignited a whole new harangue. Nonplussed, my forehead took a sleeping pill.
I had this audition today. I know I've told you about auditions that were hum drum, actually boring and even awful because of one thing or another. That happens. Then auditions like this happen too. I can't tell you how it happened, but it did. It happened. Maybe it was the girl who was the reader. She bit into the material on her feet. No chairs. We pushed the chairs aside. She bit into it, and I bit into her. Then it happened. Blew by like a summer tornado on a Minnesota plain, almost frightening in its intensity, even dangerous.
We bit into it. Then it was over. Silence. I gotta be careful how I say this. Don't want it to seem like some high fallutin hubris or inflated ego talking. No. Maybe you work up to this. There's an invisible mountain you climb. You can feel it under you, beside you, over you. It's there and it's yours, no one else's. Somehow you get to a plateau or high cropped ridge, and the sun, man, it fills you up. You feel unearthly, and that's okay, because you know the earth is waiting till you get back. You know it.
It was over like that, snap. Silence. And they all applauded in unison, loud and long. I felt weird, almost embarrassed. Didn't know what to say, at first. Then I heard a voice, "Bitchin hot. That cooked glass, man."I didn't know who it was, then he walked up and clapped me on the back. "Damn, fucking hot, man, thanks!" John Turturro. Then I walked out the door, got on the subway and found my way home. Was high like nuts for hours. Settled down slow with a bath and some good eats. Made my bed with a new glow.
It all brings itself down on itself, an imploding joke after the fact of humiliation in a multitude of forms dating back to before there was a thought of dating back to anything. At the source one finds a billion reasons why, yet none of them fit the facts as seen. We are doubled down in a confluence of troubles, many without clear definition. I am looking ahead. My eyes are fixed out the window on a spot beyond my seeing. An island sits in the middle of a delicate wilderness, and I have only to say the word, now!
Taking it in stride, there's a vision unfolding in front of me within me. It fixes nothing but establishes my place, albeit precariously, on a mission with consequences, though none of those consequences have been specified. I feel the imminence and the portent. Where I am is on deck of a great idea. This idea, when engaged, will pull the decayed remnants out of me. I need them out. So, I'm preparing myself accordingly. At times I feel distant from the mission. I feel detached. That is a grace, a momentary palliative, a breath of cool air. But now, onward.
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