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We banged it through the end of itself and found something that smelled like a beginning, but from another ocean. It didn't smell quite right, but we decided to spawn anyway. The plankton had a different way of dressing. They slept in odd looking beds of random nuclei. I could vet the place for its uniqueness, not for it integrity of deliciousness. There were many different kinds of packaged things at the counter, but since cash registers hadn't been invented yet, let alone checkout people, we couldn't check out, so we decided to steal the lot. Sometimes life was hard.
So it came to another variety of uniqueness, and we were happy about that eventually, not at the get-go. I told the ones in charge they were headed for a disaster, but I didn't really know why. I just felt the inevitability of it. Also, the cream sauces they had weren't very smooth or tasty for that matter. This was particularly disturbing to me. I tried to accept the way things were, but it became way too difficult, so I flew out of the box and became what I felt was necessary to make reparations. I was kinda wrong.
Making weird choices didn't fly with the teachers. They wanted flat and bland but true to the intent to satisfy the ones who bragged of the greatest common denominator without any jello at all. Jello was forbidden, despite its seeming appropriateness. I liked it, and I was made to feel ridiculous. This went on for years, till the white rabbit under my bed convinced me it was really okay, and the ones who tormented me were foolish for doing so and would get their just deserts, in time. I bought a watch one day that I believed showed that time.
Cutting it all off, the day's meat, stripped from the bones by thick sheaves. The beast rears. I'm in its head. I ride the skull toward it's way of thinking, so obliquely cut off from the rest. Hours, seconds, hacked away and dumped. In my head I see the meat of the day fall away. I reach for it, but it eludes my grasp. I grab the beast around its bleeding neck. I keep to its rage to feed myself a reason, when the reason is clear, and no one need explain. I deign to believe this is my destiny.
It slips along the floor. It gets under your feet, inside your mouth. The clock. You may step away, but the words of its drumming come. You can't stop it. You can pull down your value system to stay with the rising stock prices, but you're wasting your time. They're going nuts on the floor. No one can make sense of it. Along the edges of the room one can feel this mind gather itself. It's a bright thing, a bold thing, something better than death. The clock. It'll have its way. One can only tick tock into the meat.
My wit world is bound by an unseen beating. A faceless dog growls in my throat. I chew its loud muscle but I cannot spew it out. It retains its form while bleeding for its pleasure, and a marked diadem where an incipient battle is felt to be rising, most like a bout of drunken clowns, materializes slowly. Therein I will create a form to fight, but in the dim of the day where all of this remains unfocused, unspecified I wait upon a clarity. In the vat of this reality I'm found to be in a dither I'm not.
They choose to dance around the fact. Scum is as scum does. In the world of the random investment, they parade as contributors through swelling domes of excess and compulsions myriad. For a buck they wind jonesing marks about idiosyncratic crosses to spend their worth in a vapid rush where nothing comes, everything goes for the cheers of the eyeless dead wandering about like extras in a George Romero film. The flush of soul in exhalation feeds the dealers till they gibber with black joy. For the roundabout frenzies, they come to rest like wax melted around the candlestick's feet.
Brainiac. Insightful. Just to be clever and evasive. Conspicuously brilliant. Keeping a secret, many secrets in folds of carefully executed smiles, the value of which determines the winner of the day. Each night it comes to a tally. The numbers assembled are all rounded up in a manner that excludes the obvious ramifications of a direct understanding. Directness is disallowed. No one gets out by being direct, but that's the point. The ones who are direct create the best smokescreens. They're relied upon assiduously. Nevertheless, to be clear is to see how necessary the muddied waters are and must remain.
The path is taken as prescribed by the inner drives. How can one not see that? It's so obvious it's overlooked as petty and trivial. In the triviality the devices are obscured sufficiently to be assembled when needed in the hot moment when there is no other moment. It has to be now, done now, here and now. Where the here goes becomes a necessary game for the gamer. The path is altered but never shredded. It's like a path independent integration, contour integration. And we all know there are numerous solutions to any problem in calculus. But what calculus?
It goes on without much change. We say one thing, maybe many things, then do something else. Sleight of hand. We're side show magicians all. There's not an iota of regret of hesitation. We've become used to this shuffling of cards, of lives, of time. In the game we're only concerned about one thing. Everything else falls within the carefully shrouded margins. Footnotes make everything seem so literary. We can read about what we've done tomorrow and log it accordingly. So it's easy. We know how easy it is. Moral scruples are easy to kill. Then so is everything else.
It's not designed the right way. In its value system, carefully conscripted to an idea outside of itself, the matter resolves itself by ignoring itself. No caveat could prick the awareness sufficiently to overcome this mindlessness. I'm so accustomed to this cycle of death it's almost funny. Were it not for the fact I die so often to the rhythm of being under a mountain of ignorance, I'd laugh and arrange for a screenwriter to prepare a script. The fault lies in the beginning, and no proper end might correct it, so the cycle goes on. My value diminishes accordingly.
Some demiurge remains unseen by careful design. Others are involved in this plan. The whole architecture of the self-demolishing construction comes from a mind I can't touch. It remains unseen. Yet, it remains firmly connected to my thought conduits. What tangle I perceive is like a Pollock. There's no derision in my eye. I adore it. It inspires me. My mind forms the image concretely. It cannot be mistaken for anything else. When I reach for it, though, I'm unable to fashion its form enough. It keeps mutating. My idea of it remains firm, though. In this I'm proud.
Deviant factors, overwhelming with gusto with the need to complete a task, erect a form one can barely recognize, but it's not in the seeing; it's in the feeling. All this is functioning in the mouth of the mouth, where a natural appetite has no jurisdiction. Jaw full of intent, chewing through moments to arrive the point of digestion, exceeds its ability to articulate the intent. While being capable, the functionality falls aside for the chewing. In excess of desires to sate a hunger that cannot be sated, the flesh swells to the edge, liking one to an aroused blowfish.
There it is, there, and there. All lined up in a row. Values become like pebbles thrown to a volcano. Take a turn. Toss. Rear back. Reinvent the cinema. It's up to you. Timeless retreads. Car skids on black ice. A bad review. The reviewer was high. The kids got bored. Half of them left the theatre. None of them were seen again, but they had their day with greasy popcorn. It's not fun choking while you're laughing. If you had done so in the shower, it might've been funny, but this time around...Ugh. Once again...all lined up.
Impervious to feeling. They gotta be. In the midst of the meeting they sat around the table suddenly struck dumb; not stupid, mind you, dumb, as in mute. But hey, maybe a bit stupid too. It went on for the longest time. A few dinosaur lovers made for the door, but the roof flew away and got them before they could make it three feet. Up they went. Where the roof went is anyone's guess, but I bet it had something to do with the spiked biscuits. Pretty stale too. I didn't have one. I got up to speak. Silence.
To lift fingers in aid of despotism, grant breath to that which steals breath, hold up that which should be put down, there's a mobius contortion in the heart. Insensibility. The value of the effort's worth plunges to a peak whereon one may scrounge in dark light, see nothing but the incipient fall, drab on the deep hunger of the evil mind that molds itself in a way that looks benevolent and safe. It lures the helping hearts to bad decisions. Under tons of shit one discovers their habitats, not that they didn't see it coming, surrendered to evil's will.
I must fold myself inside your caress, dive the bright mind I'm not, couple soul of your heart, spread wide your envelope of infinity, like a galactic arm sweeping me into safety, your love that has no bounds. I am a particle spinning in a blackness without boundary. I am a mouth craned for food to nourish my heart, and what breath I find plunges me into you, the wide mind of reality till I am safe again, birthing a new molecule nested in nuclear fires, pulsing mad, spitting lights of all moods, toned like a nova by infinitesimal breadth.
Down in the rhythmical baseline, I found a rare rhyming scheme inside my head. I saw the rudiments of that which faded many years before molded into that which foundered in an empty space looking for a scheme to give it meaning, to allow emancipation via lips and flesh of a willing body. I spoke out my amazement, but I never gave my consent. In the coupling there were many fine contradictions, though, which delighted this mind, too rigidly born on the wings of a mechanical bird called logic. In that baseline I found a justification for shredding that book.
To point to one, one is blinded. They cheat their own trajectory for a pocket full of praises that rot the eyes and mind from a deep well within an idea of hubris. To exceed the fullness of being is to deny it. To deny it is to live it, to find its truest worth that lives under fancy words, prizes and ribbons we wrap about our fears to decorate our corpses. In the extremes, in which I've lived, there exists nothing to extol it, but a highway of my own, stretching from the denial I accept for the path.
Oh, how clever. The perpendicular minds adjustment to the horizontal attitudes prevailing is brilliant in its value of none. How to explain. The radical shift from horizontal to vertical thinking needn't be the windfall of magic mushrooms. It can be assorted through the maze of logic by elevating above the maze and looking in, or looking down, as the case truly is, like that sphere in Flatland looking down into the world of squares and lines and triangles, trying to explain the existence of a third dimension without sounding crazy. I guess it's kind of impossible when you consider it.
A strange place of stasis, a round polarity, impossible to orient, I'm an indeterminate value, though bound to surviving at all costs. I would give anything for a mirror. To be seen is the highest virtue. One can be evaluated for their worthiness in a market that demands solidity. How vain it is to want solidity! The aspect cannot be overrated. I took a walk in my head. I was surrounded by a gorgeous garden. The flowers craned toward me. They bent as far as they could, but I was untouchable. The gift was being able to feel myself covet.
So you say what you say. Why can't I hear? You keep saying the same thing. I can tell. The room is dark. I haven't seen light in eons. The world goes round. Try as I might, I can't feel it moving. I'm afraid of feeling it move. You're aware of this lust, this fear. You are trying to tell me something. It must be about the moving world. Or not. I hate this game, but it's all I have. Somewhere along the way I'll find the secret. Sight will be mine. Until then, around we go, lusting after certainty.
When you got the mojo, stoke it, pile it high inside, feel the fire eat the rust, chew on backdraft mechanisms for the salutation of complacency. Generate the bomb inside the bomb inside the idea of bomb and make it a reality that redresses reality. From a mushroom cloud perspective, suck it back down to the bomb, the kernel of light before the light as the idea germinates. In the volume of its mass, you pull it in. You crush it down. You make it obey. The moment is designed for a force of nature to reveal itself, as you.
The drop. It grips you with ferocity. What cloudy meanderings aroused, disperse clarity, and draw you through a miasma, a kaleidoscope vision, beautiful, seductive, deadly. Confusion, in lieu of clear sightings called UFOs, devolve the mystery into a point, an infinitesimal point where you huddle, a place without dimension, dictating the circumspection of your fears as a grinding melody moshing order, slamming flesh with knuckles and knees spasmodically. In ecstasy the drama pulls laughter from a cistern of dust. You are exhaled. You are purged. The value exceeds its own expectations, and you come to rest without hope of rest.
I watched you, mother. You had a baby in your mouth. It had been decided. The remains would be discussed. Nothing else was guaranteed. I could feel the disquiet. It came from many minds, many places, many times. I heard and felt the ages of the world I'd accepted as my own. Movies. Colorized black and white. They mesmerized those who could be mesmerized. They weren't important. I felt my importance become a pile of chips in a reckless gambler's hands who has no control, no discretion. One's life hangs precariously in an addict's hands. The game is still going.
Who's to say how we meet the responsibility, swirling like an oil slick on the bottom of a well, lubricating an arcane value system creaking like a rusty machine churning, only to grind noisily to a halt, as if we should've known. Where once water flowed, now a mere memory, as of a delusion, drips; we are handed a cup full of dust. It scuttles through our entrails, though we decry its essence. It's nothing but a figment fallen from a delirium, besting the vitality of our deepest collective spirit. Should we work to stop it or to help it?
The field of our collective vision is revealing us to be liars. The lies told keep us insulated from true sight. A few of us have a vision under this vision that sees without eyes. It sees beneath the lies. How it sees can never be tabulated. It gives no substance to the curious. It just is. I follow these sights. My voice is mute. No telling will grant appraisal, only derision. With belief comes fear from the outside, lest onlookers become credulous to the possibility. They do not see wonder. They see threats. I stay well below these threats.
Daunting. The sky darkened. A face came into view. It was a kind looking face. A car drove up and stopped in the driveway. No one got out. There were at least four people in the car. The sky grew darker. It was only a little past noon. I heard someone say that lunch was almost ready. I wasn't hungry. The car's engine was still running. The passengers weren't moving. I noticed a huge crowd gathering down the road a piece, about a hundred people. The air felt wet. I felt sick. The mob was shouting. Someone screamed, "Lunch, dammit!"
What goes around, comes to a standstill, questioning the cycle, if questioning could foot the degree of reality to a point of sentience and take a stand. Lest the cycle be cross, one makes for the exit, but can't make it. The exit exists for finality. In the midst of being subject to the roundabout, it's nice to keep that exit in mind. It'll come when it comes. The knob on its breakwater will make itself known very clearly, unmistakably. All the drab insistence circumscribing the seemingly endless patterns we call life will suddenly give way to..."Which door, Monty?"
Shall I become a circus of me, a smug split on the alter of an elevated mind, each rivulet of thought a serpent too easily lost in my jungle of make-believe. I get to take the winnings, but only if you kill me first. I want to be killed, like I want to be born again. This dilemma, in the head of my most celebrated crime thriller of all time, never to be revealed till everyone is dead, grinds for attention. This is what I've been seeking all my life. Now, I have it. Shall I take you along?
It keeps asking. Never stops asking. Unsatisfied hunger. I'm beholden to the rich reward of not becoming anyone else, but I'm always becoming someone else. It's hard to reply with credibility. The plates continually shift under the mess hall line. Mind tectonics, the inscrutable infrastructure, amplifies the demands, carries them on circuits hidden from view. My plate never gets filled with what I want. The plates shift too fast, and I'm obliged to eat what's given. It behooves me to have a flexible preference. I'm glad to get something, though. I need the energy to respond when asked. But how?
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