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Now again, we start. The faces are the same but different. They've met their reflections. Thrown to the wind, they're all blown to shards. I am like a fell glassy shard gleaming in the spiral down, disappearing in the loam we call mother. I'd rather not be held accountable for what's coming. Everyone can feel it. A rupture is imminent. Where it breaks is anyone's guess, but no matter. Here we are at another beginning. I'd like to think it's a Tabula Rasa, but no such luck. Dream on! We are all sharp as razor spikes, straining upon the start.
Must step down. There's a nail in my head, too close to where It would compromise my need to be aware of the stakes. I've grown inward, and this seemed to happen without my knowledge, yet I gave the order; the trigger was pulled. I must take better stock of how I negotiate a choice. The roots are my face. Not too pretty, but I can't take responsibility for how people take to it. The value system is the key to my survival; not physical survival. I'm well equipped to fend off the fracture of flesh, sacrificed to the game.
Oh man! I don't know. You gotta reach in. Grab it, or it's just going to slither away. In the back room one has an advantage; that's rare. It's often in the front room where everyone can see how the trick wasn't meant for party favors with free drinks and twinkies. It's not the way they've painted it. Each incident casts its own shadows and light. Should you elude the former and exalt the latter is up the the crap shoot. It's the game, you know. You gotta go for it, or nothing's gonna happen. You gotta at least try!
We fish how we will. They're there waiting to be bagged in our loops of hunting the grounds for strokes to appease our addled egos. The strokes offered prick awarenesses when caught on the fly, and only if they're caught, but in distress of dialoguing on the matter, we divulge a quaint dislike for any and all intercourse, and the value extends beyond the issue at hand. It makes us feel uneasy. It digs deep, till we fall to the praying place looking for a convenient god to haul us, once again, out of a shit hole. It never ends.
It balls up inside. You think it'll just go away, melt, become something you can laugh at later with friends in a blood bonding without blood, but that's not the way it ends up. It balls up. You feel the heat. It may be cold, and the faces around you may be chilled, but inside you're burning. There's no outlet. You're trapped. The world you know is a consortium of wardens and guards. They don't know you. They don't want to know you. You're alone, and that's the way it's going to be forever. You're stuck. What do you do?
Best to go to a tanning parlor in the deep woods where infrared is an inappropriate joke. Ride to the heat inside and feed the aged trees. They know you. They've known you before you were conceived. They're watching, mindful of the necessity unfolding. Best to stay with the locked-in protocols. Beyond mere destiny, there's a feeling of prescience in collusion with the natural order of things. There's nothing to be done but to accept it and fill out the appropriate forms in triplicate. The line may be long but that's the unavoidable. All else is a messy improv.
What words may insinuate but droop in a drab grey, culled from a faded beige faded mind for the hoops jumped to please the critics hunkering in quivering silence waiting for the cue to curse you out? There ain't none. You can form the shapes for the lips for all the good it'll do anyone. The belly sucks wind, reforming it like a valuable bauble uttered like a fart. Could be gold, but it better not be. Such a gleeful dance for a tin recompense is the goal. We don our wits for nothing. They are broken. Out to lunch.
The news slips in. It moves in soundlessly. You almost miss it. It snuggles in and makes itself at home. You feel the change. There's no not feeling it. Stories abound in the head as cover stories, like the press in the face of ineluctable tragedy that can't be redressed or ignored. One takes it in stride, but the stride ends up taking you. There's a new dance awaiting you, and a pressure to learn it as quickly as possible. The pressure from within and without collude like feuding family members over politics, sex or the religion of the month.
We become like the mystery we are, so every move is a certain fallout of the reality we accept. Each move doubles the peril, doubles the winnings, that every heart may break in the bond as it's sown to the community. Blood bleeds thru interstices. We are fed, each one of us thru the breaking heart. A sacrifice makes this possible. A sacrifice, no less than one, but all are at risk. It's the game. You learn as you play. One must fall many times before they can rise. One thinks they know the game, but no one ever knows.
Punctuated with a certain idiosyncratic flair only my favorite professor could deliver, I listened, determined not to lose focus or be distracted by anything inside. The pooka phantoms had other plans. From within that unique place where dreams meet reality at a bidding table, they approached with elegant poise, such that no one would turn them away. They came to the edge of my mind, upon which the players dealt their cards. All of them were accepted. My card was pulled. I felt it played by one of them. The hand won. I looked around, alone. The professor was gone.
Losing touch. A keepsake memoir. I read only part of it. The rest was eaten. They told me it was nutritious. They never told me who they were. I suspected someone I knew, but I was wrong. In a back room, those who conspired cleverly, held court for a very short time. It was decided I had little time to make up my mind. My mind was made up for me. In a tiny space I kept to myself. They said it was mine, but I think they lied. Feeling around for comfort, I knew at once where I wasn't.
When something is made clear, a wrongness with gratuity to the people affected by not knowing why they couldn't be affected if things were managed differently, is expecting too much. What's different is the attitude that it could be different; it never will be. There's a wide range of possibilities clearly posited when the affect manifests itself. Boldly, no one has the key to change this methodology. In spite of the gross deviance necessitated by the affect, it's clear how muddied things inevitably get if the shooter would only take a moment and redirect their energies positively. Go figure, hunh!
I sometimes crack, and the volume of my creativity shatters. A volatile effluvium flows, jets of my unfinished questions. I ride those crossed rapids into a dark familiar chasm. Somewhere I stop. It all stops. Into the base degrees of this perplexity I swallow myself. I fold myself into a bead of wonder. I'm stalled. Then, there you are there. This light. I can't ask why. You just are. I'm blessed. The figures I've drawn from my addled brain fashion some mysterious lights into a form of you. A mystery. A gift. The gift of gifts. This love I hold.
Obsessive turn of the goldplated key, tin, most likely, toward a valueless confederation of nothing. In the midst, I'm dwindling, an incredible shrinking man of no celluloid worth, just a converting mass in delight of atomic conservation; nothing liberal about that. In due course, a melody rises from a deep place. Being no musician, I feel the peculiarity, wondering if anyone else can hear. Ears are turned off to anything outside the mundane hits of the week. I'm relieved. A door opened by the gold key. A room had been prepared. By whom? Mysteries follow mysteries. No end to them.
I found this. Clearly unique. It told me I was to keep it close. The matter at hand spun me inside a weird head. I found it reliable to the tune of the happenstance, as if I should've known that, although I secretly did. In the mire the keepsake discovered my hand to be slippery as my wit, so the digression sowed a remarkable solution, one that painted a radical thought process. I was used to these. My whole life was webbed by a stupid of them, like clowns at the uttermost, faces I could merely laugh at, or not.
This day has a largess to it. I'll find it at the appointed time at the appointed place. The directions are very clear, so is the mystery, like that mythic pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I never believed such things. Others did. I was told to believe in things I couldn't believe. They said, in time, belief would come; it would have to come. My life, being consumed by itself, would necessitate such belief. I'm getting closer to it, this pot of gold. I'm nudged from within. Something is happening. I'm on it for the ride.
Gearing up. The power of suggestion. We know what we want, don't we? We see our world, don't we? There is a solidity to it, isn't there? What's here? What there? What behind the wall? Is there a wall? We gear ourselves up for the execution of mystery, in its functions to possess our wits. Can we control this? Should we control this? There is fear in our eyes. We may deny it, but it's there. We gear ourselves up according to this fear. I am settled. In the settlement, an agreement was made. Soon, the wall will be negotiated.
Through a delicate looping, something is found that was lost. Around and around, looping the loop through itself, a Mobius convection of currents in and around us, a kaleidoscope of colors in a stupid of whirl-i-gigs. Can we be so round as to deny this? Yeah, we do that ever so gracefully. We're so good at it. Lying is like breathing. It conveys us from one lie to another, around and around, looping the loop, daring us to find the source, the pit of it where we originated. Such is the first and last question of our lives.
It's difficult because it is. You can try to spin around the heaviness, spiral out to a better view with little or no detail to obfuscate your delusion of knowing this or that as the truth above all. We love our truths, each one of us holding their own close to their chest. In a bluster of ministrations, the earth is crammed with voices crying out of their wildernesses. Is there anyone to listen, to answer back? Depends on the perspective. They look for validation in a handful of dust. Can anyone find a better reason to live and die?
I'm waiting. I feel the others waiting too. In the center we've cleared a space. It's ready. Now. A heat of a sort is rising. Those who have gathered, feed off this heat. It's nourishing, though enervating. In a cluster of wits wound too tight for consumption, the distribution of visuals must be attenuated. Clearly, the design is created to set up a calming environment. The center must remain calm. I'm watching the event unfold, like watching a glacier move. It's riveting if you belong to the earth as a constituent of the earth. Otherwise, you may elect another god.
The coffee's done with me. I overheard the pot. It was whispering when it thought I was otherwise engaged. The means to the popped mind was effected, but only to the extent I was relieved. The journey from the bed to the floor was arduous. I'd stepped into a challenge I wasn't prepared for. This made me queasy, but I didn't relent. I gave up on the coffee, because it wasn't behaving well. It took a wrong turn with my gesture to exhale the rust I'd accumulated: this offered the opposition an advantage, so naturally I turned myself inside out.
It marks me now, this place. I've insinuated myself deeply into the vexation of this place. It has supremacy in the vitals I carry for assurance of continuity in the realm I'm most uncomfortable in, this place, a howling place, a divided place, one of many houses, many rooms, each room possessing a different mask. I don the masks accordingly. I wear them with a forced pride. I'm not allowed to speak out of turn, lest I offend the master. I've never seen the master. It is a concept I've accepted. No choice, really. I'm beholden, though vexed. I'm here.
Could I speak? Shall I dare to speak? It's silent now. There's no movement in this space. I feel its geometry, the simple design affording numerous complexities. It's a puzzle. I'm not good at solving puzzles, though I'm assured the puzzles will continue. I'm aware of the need to change my attitude. It's hard. Stubborn, as I am, I accede to this need. I'm slow to its attendance. Like a slug sensing food, I move along the path to reach my goal. I'm hungry, yet this is a hunger not of the flesh. I'm puzzled. Again. Puzzles. They never end.
Vitals. They surge with a life all their own. I'm conscious of them, yet unconscious. They do their duty. I'm not on the control board, although I wish that I were. There's this big room stretching out before me. It's empty. I want to inhabit it. I want to walk into it. There's something in the way of this intention. I feel a code is necessary to enter the space, but how do I enter the code, and where do I enter it? I wish these puzzles would cease, yet I know better. I'm hungry for a bite of air.
I could yell, but I won't. It would be too funny. I'd disturb the silence, the stillness. This canvas isn't ready for my brushes. I have to wait. I stand back and watch for the sign. There's always a sign. It's given at the appointed time. I have no time piece. I gave up on time. It's a disquieting muse I'd like to abandon. I'm told there will be a place that I'll go one day that exists without time. I'm ready for this, but I'm obliged to wait. Yes, I know I must wait. That's my duty. My vexation.
It's looking right at me. I can feel it, though I can't see it. It's waiting for me, but for what? What am I to do? Is a simple gesture needed? I have the ability to execute many gestures, yet I'm still and silent. I've only one chance to get it right. This confounds me, frustrates me, maddens me, yet delights me in its contradictions. I'm used to contradictions. They've been my bedfellows all my life. I should be proud of being able to see so much, yet deep inside, I wish I didn't. I crave a simplicity. Too bad.
Momentary dust. A storm. The floor changes. I'm bidden to walk as a dead man walking. I don't see the floor. It doesn't matter. What happens outside me is immaterial. What's within matters. The inner can overwhelm the outer. The situation always defers to what's happening on the outside. I'm on the inside. I want to stay there. I'm disgusted by the antics of the material world. Dust storms of gold. No matter. Storms. They blind the eye and embolden the body. We move as the body commands. We go forward. The storm invites us. We seem to like it.
Let's take a good measurement. It's important to get the correct temperature. The mood is getting sharper. We're getting closer to the point where every motion matters in the extreme, and nothing can be discounted as trivial. There are no periods, no commas, no colons. We're on a free ride down a new kind of river. It's leading us on to an ocean we've never even imagined. I'm excited. I feel fear. I smell and taste it. I see eyes averted, dashing in their sockets for a way out. There is only one way out, and there's no going back.
We don't know what we really need. We hear the infomercials, and we nod like trained cockroaches. Pavlovian dogs salivating. There's a lever to be pushed. When the bell rings we push it. It's inevitable. A circus of many circles where we dance like bears at the end of a whip wielded by the ones we chose as our guardians. There could be a change if we really strove for it. That change would mark our lives on the tracks as the way to end the misery, but this end would be the true end. Endgame. Closing the books forever.
Shall we rewrite the books? Can they be rewritten? Hell no. They don't even exist. Big Brother? No way. Goldstein? Nope. It's in a fiction where we'll find our true destinies and true paths, but where will they lead us? Fuck if I know. No one knows. No one wants to know. There's no way of knowing, except for one way alone, and that way can't be revealed, unless certain conditions prevail. Let us sit at our desks. Let us take our quills to point. Let us redesign ourselves, our stories. Is that what we want? Really? Ask yourselves. Now.
Metastasis in a grim glowing vat, relentlessly, the lumpy knots of ill trumpet out our collective asshole called home, as we so blatantly lean on gluttony to feed our starvation, while the grand lie grins like a malicious poltergeist, for there is nothing left, nothing but shreds of lies perpetrated on our heads for the value of none but greed's vacuous pride. Let it be heard, known like a brand from a red hot iron, we are corralled for the slaughter, though some of us actually accept, are even relieved by the incipient release coming to a Newstand near you!
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