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There's a wonderful wave I ride. It lives in my ocean, the one nested under my eyes, that churns for me in a blessing way, to guide me away from the destitute sands, beaches of dead air upon which, lives that dig-in toward contentment, live on as fading echoes of an empty expectation, ever shrinking from view, sinking away from life, fumbling in their foolish pride as fools to the foolhardy, ones who laugh behind their own backs to mock the very thing they treasure, dying continually in service to something they've forgotten, trying to understand their own joke.
We try. We strive to try, to understand. Getting a foothold proves to be the catch, a catcher in the rye sort of idea, standing amidst the chaos, whirlwinds of disparate voices whipping about, trying to help out. In the center is the eye no one can see, but it can see you. You've lived your whole life in fear of this eye. There's no avoiding it, but we try; we try to understand it, if never to avoid it. I know this eye well. I've lived with its infections all of my life. In spite of this, I try.
I tried to lay down, but the air became bats; in a volume of strange howls it digested me slowly so I could feel the plan. They always want me to feel the plan. It's no surprise how they divide themselves to hide themselves. They could be in a cupcake or in a box of Cracker Jack. It changes, you see. That's why it's so hard to pin the tail on this sly mongrel. I'm not going to give up. This is my tribute to myself, my obit, in lieu of death, I can become anything I want to be.
I swore there was something I had to do. It was important. I could see it on the faces of everyone I passed on the street. They all seemed to be saying, "Get on the next plane to somewhere far away from here, far away from anyplace not far enough away to name. Find that place without a name, the place that has a name only you know." I recognized this plan. It was one I made a few years after my birth when the motherload expanded its excesses and made my life a colorful carousel of dead horses vomiting.
Suddenly, it's there. This dark face. You can't make out its features, but you know it's there; you know its mood. It digs deep, the graveling hood, wherein you stoop to pass, like a bridal canopy, through which you find a kind of death that lurks like a lamprey in the mud. It needs to feed. You feel the hunger, the eyes fixed on you. There's a means to circumvent. You were told this eons ago. The earth felt young then. The voice that taught you was a gentle voice. You felt you could trust it. It trusted you too.
I feel part of me is sealed like an egg in a titanium womb of another kind of demiurge with disproportionate dimensions, and I'm catching glimpses of myself as a projection thru very carefully placed holes. I am watched. The eyes that watch are careful. They know I feel their presence. It's important to them that I feel them. They have a task to perform, a duty. To me? I think not. The unseen face marshals that duty for its own, and the eyes serve the face. In its voice they are activated. The loop plays out. It never changes.
It waits upon the orders that will come invariably. I am bound by those orders, though I never hear the words, if there are words. I feel their command. Within me lives the mind that takes those orders and implements them. I only sit back and watch, but I do so with an active soul; once dead to its own patterns of movement through the ether, it has come to life. My years, so long dragged out, gave it breath. This thing I do is for the part of myself that once was paralyzed, but now powers up its loins.
Variegated. These faces I wore. They became weary of doing what they did; such clever, resilient liars. They did their duty, protected me in the rain. Storms bit hard the carousels I rode for decades. Body, chipped a thousand times, each face of the gilded horses I became, dissembled for their need to keep me vital. Now, in the residues of these horses, chipped faces all about the realm, deeply buried for fossils of the mind that might be exhumed, I am myself. I dare to be myself. Let the hullabaloos come. I can weather their parades. I am whole.
We fire the ride to the very end, but we're unsatisfied. We shudder at he idea of backing off, as if that were a sign of weakness, of cowardice, but we don't really know what we're after. We say we know. We swear we know. There's nothing to be done but going forward, being in love with giving up of finding love. Sensation. That's the animal we seek, the animal we love to love. No distress; to be concerned is to be willing to accept the fecklessness of it all. We know it all. It all ends when we end.
We fight to the end, but what is this end we've predetermined with our grit and resolve to fight for? Is it something like a prize at the end of race? A pretty ribbon? A golden bowl? I plod toward a confusion, like a mangled fork in the road, a fork that's been thru a nuclear reactor, dissociated, dissembled, broken down to its constituent particles, unrecognizable but definitive in its essence of intent. You may disagree. So what? I'm resolved to it. I make my way toward it, slow but sure. It doesn't matter what I win or don't win.
It vibrates all alone. It doesn't need you. It doesn't need anyone. It vibrates for its own sake, for its own pleasure. You can ask to ride along. Many have asked. Few have been answered, let alone invited. Those who were invited proclaimed their victory with shouts of glee. They went with it. No one ever saw them again. No matter. They bugged everyone with their bursts of hubris. Just as well they vanished. Funny how so many envied what they got, what they won. It's in everyone's secret bucket list. It's either that or death. One funky crap shoot.
Peculiar times. I'm vested in the radical shifts of the inner blending; by all means, eyes that grow and die, grow and die by variable measures with the needs I can never value or even see. I bend to the inner chefs, to which I succumb by their sauces. My blood blends the issues. Kitchens serve them out hot conduits toward the core. My heart gyrates to the rhythms spun by what it eats. I'm dependent on the truth it shits. What truth? Whose truth? Shall I bend to any church's excrement. No. I bend to my own church. Myself.
So it goes. So it shits. I'm spun out on the slippery floor when I dance, so I sit it out when another faceless woman asks to dance. I'd rather watch. Can anyone dance with such a spillage? Some can; they're the ones I keep my eyes fixed upon. It's the means of the world, how it generates its servile messengers. They do what they're bidden to do, nothing less than everything unseen and volatile; never at once, no. It comes as it does when the recipe's complete. You can never tell how it'll dive you up. You'll find out.
Temporary. So they said. I couldn't take them down by any argument, so I yielded ostensibly. Measures are being taken. The times demand it. Living has become a clown show of the highest order. Nothing for laughs, but for the dogs' jaws in extremis when the meat is red and the dogs' are starving. All in all, a bloody good setup. In the arena they all wait, arms at their sides, hands full of wanting without the means to get. The getting will come as they find it necessary. I'm finding it necessary. I stand with them. They are my brothers.
The fight is heating up. One can feel that in the eyes that're blinded. Blind eyes feel the smells to the cues of attacking with numb hearts and cold minds. Predation mocks the values we own as being so precious to our holy needs, but we have no grounding for the needs. We must act accordingly. This is our mission, though no one has ever said so. We feel it in the dark. The feeling is best in the dark. In that way, we know which must live and which must die. I am struck by the accuracy of this.
Values? An unknown quantity. The situation at hand demands a system erected for the continuation within the situation, as if the situation were ideal. Never is. Has a way of deluding its inhabitants as though it were ideal, something like utopia that doesn't beget tyranny, which it invariably does. Can anyone learn from history, besides students taking exams, where the value is devalued to the need of regurgitating by rote the dates and names of all the horrible atrocities we've come to accept and love? We love that which we hate, but we've learned to lie to ourselves most effectively.
You can try as much as you want. What you want will determine the gestation of the idea, how it spawns as a way of becoming. You will get something other than after the spawn of the idea. You will have lost something in the effort to have by wanting as much as you did. It's quaint, this blindness. People laugh it off and cry inside, when they're not looking. Try and try again, the same. If I said I had what I wanted, in the image of what I saw before I wanted, you can call me a liar.
I talk many different ways. Each mouth has a unique voice. In my mastery of nothing I became a master of myself, but only when I let everything go, when I let the dogs and cats out to feed without any thought of controlling them. I'd controlled far too much for far too long. Now was the time to let it all go, to let those voices have a say, have a song, a scream, a cry, to fly off on a whispering wind, and let that be okay. I talk many different ways. And that's OK. It's all me.
We might ask why, but is there any point to it? In the depths of this extreme darkness one might dream of light, as in recalling a memory of a dream, a dream of a departed loved one, but in the ash of memory, one can only locate the issue that required it. I'm not disputing this point. I'm elevating it for the purpose of illuminating my own stubbornness in the matter at hand. I'm standing on the ruins of what was once a great idea. My mind is shrinking now. I have no choice but to surrender to it.
It entered me, like a volcanic storm thru the eye of a hurricane created by my mind to be guardian of its missive to project none of the lies my mind suffused for years upon the death of my erstwhile belief in the sanctity of religion, my opiate to be my bed sitter at the time of my joyous death. I came to the understanding this was to be the way I left the place I was or told that I was. I was, in fact, somewhere else entirely. Such confusing stories met my reemergence, I can hardly stand it.
This delicate place of truth no one has a hold on, except for the inner distributor of my mental keys. All the doors were locked, I was told, and conveniently rusted to the point no key could ever hope to budge them. They came down at my behest in a moment of clarity that circumvented all these stories of rusted locks and whatnot. There were only virtual locks that one could access if they had a good enough game player, and of course, these were all controlled to the point where you had to be cleared to go. Such bananas.
The fudging went on to the end of disbelief and took the prize, that no one knew the truth, except for a few, and that was exactly what they wanted. Success, at the expense of rational thinking, which is an annoyance to be sure if you intend to trick the ones who cadge the deals in the first place, is all a game. Do you have comm? Gotta have comm to play this game. To rule the game is the biggest trick of all, and when you reach the point where you can do this, no one will backtalk again.
Time to go bad on the right idea of the worst intention to fill a stuffed rabbit, white as a fuckin sheet. Man, could it trip me sideways. Did that sweet. I counted on it, like broken pennies in my jockstrap. I was livin it as I was lovin it. No other ways to cool twist it out to the place where everyone around the table was smiling, laughing, chomping on the dead meat so hard I could hear the grandmother blues thru the cranberry sauce. The baby was put through the bread slicer. I want my slices clean, man.
The work is short, to the point, off the edge of the last obstacle, made to seem trivial, while capturing the eye of the wanderer, trapping them in a maelstrom of enticing lures, each one a specific seduction to throw the eye off it's light. In the extremis of exertion the wanderer must pluck the blind eye from its deluded brain, suck off the poisons coursing through the mental fabric. How does one keep this in line off line with the polluted mind convulsing helplessly? In the end it's up to the end, where the afflicted must willingly be reborn.
It is done so easily, defying its complexity for the entertainment of the onlookers who stay to find the eruption of soul; just to see a glimpse of the fleeing spirit is the goal. They happily wait for their own eternities to collapse, wherein their prey is crushed to a single infinitesimal point of no dimension, while the blood showers the hungry eyes by the crushed space where they were once born. Having this, they come to the rush promised them by those who say they know but know nothing. All the glories to be divided among the brain dead.
Ever kept by the royalty, by which the country is defined, to serve the royal needs however, by whatever means they possess to go round and round their values to find the zero point, the place of everything and nothing. It is the holy place, the blood point with no blood, only the idea of it. Few realize this when they set out on their course. They come to the alter to proclaim their sacred duty and destiny, to make sacrifice for the feeding of their souls. Many come to this place; few are fed. The rest become party decorations.
"Believe!" They cry out, "Believe...believe!" All the others are waiting around the periphery. Their eyes are riveted to the spot of insertion. They will not deviate from the spot until the ritual is complete. "Believe...believe... believe..." I can taste their belief, hear their private hungers boiling up. In the extreme moment where all the exertions combine collectively, they know, they believe it'll happen. This land they crave, this place beyond this place, where salvation is the end of the gnawing hunger that won't die, that cannot be sated, will be finally quenched. In this calm, salvation is promised.
They came to it. The muscle of the ritual flexed hard. The body expanded, and the old became new again. Really? Hard to pin down how. We are struck by the banality of it. Once, they thought it would be different, but is it? The heat is dying down. Dancers have crumpled in exhaustion to the ground. The eyes who came to see are looking around. They are trying to see why they believed, but they have found nothing, see nothing. Time has bent. A cusp has been crossed. What life was sought has now become a prayer for death.
It comes closer, and you can almost taste it. The consummation of your journey is at hand, almost within reach. Soon, all that you dreamed within the context of he who needs no dreams but action and reality shall be divided while the dream you had of the wholeness, the body of your desire shines before you. No one can have this but you. You brought this forth. It's your creation, your divination. In the volume of your passion you'll be rewarded with a mystery. It comes downs to that. There's no endgame, no solution. Be that as it may.
It's rising. The feel of it is unique. Like a summer storm rising over the Midwest plains, a greenish cloud looms. In the mind of an artist, this is the prick of light. It blooms with the flower of its fury. The stillness is only an echo of anticipation. Even the ground listens in rapt stillness. Then the moment will pass, be washed away. All that was will be a mere snapshot in an old book thrown to the waste pile and burnt for your comfort. No one will be exempt. No one will be left out of the game.
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