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Ah, at the edge, and Iím stripped of identity. Such a predicament! Not to fear. Iím chameleon. Itís my calling. Iíve lost many identities along the stream called Dan Berkey. I keep the convenient moniker for the sake of airline checkins and doctor appointments. So it goes, a steady flow but not without its wholesome convulsions. Buildings of myself go up. A muddle of calculations are performed. What can I do but submit? I smile inside, from time to time, thinking to avoid the fall,but it comes, ineluctably. How odd it is to think otherwise.
It fulfills itself. I give in. It does the work. Beyond analytical prowess, it functions through a void no pen may touch but its ever deepening tongue of fire. Once given to the source, I split. A mitosis of another kind occurs. For in the widening light there's a darkness that keeps the key safe. I'm beholden to the cycle. I draw myself in, as I draw myself out. In the middle I feel the necessary machine. So it goes to the end and back to the beginning. Impossible to see, feel or realize without taking the cup of light.
It tries to divert me. It compels me to forget my path. Pictures of luminous delights distract. How could they not? Pause allows assimilation, years beyond the wreckage, where impulse divined the action, where thought exhaled itself in the wake of lunging forward to wither as an unwanted appendage. Lives were lived in deleterious waste, yet not without the acquisition of that wisdom one attains only by dying to oneself a multitude of times. Seeing can only be without eyes that see distractions. I stay at the point of distraction for my own relief of being invulnerable to its coil.
Formidable keeping. I'm locked in a thrall. Around and around I go. The ministrations of the carousel pull away the masks I keep for ignorance to blind my dreams. In these dreams I feel the necessity of true sight. They leave me, though, very quickly in the dust of forgetfulness. I reach. They rush away. Once clear, the dome of seeing shatters. Then, to the coffee pot I run for relief. Tradition. Should it be known as a means to a profitable end? I doubt it. I like coffee. It fills the newly emptied place. I can then move on.
Service to the lowest common denominator keeps me in elementary school crisis. I was fitted to a crisis room in the days when they didn't know what else to do with me. It's typical thinking that lacks thinking. Reconstruction of thinking was the potable arousal in the blank sorties of sometime school yard bullying. How I dealt was how I dropped away. I dipped my flaming wick in the pool of rising unstable flammables. There would come a detonator time, I knew full well. So, I smiled and fell apart in the days of relentless plotting.
Full. It says it over and over. I regret the time I spent backtracking into ozone space of never-never-becoming-more-myself-land, but this is my terrain of doing the undoable, such that I can no longer feel bad for feeling bad when the box becomes obsolete, when the fever claims are derided. Excluding the ministrations of morality check rundowns, it becomes very easy to function where I mustn't. It's fun. It's free. It gets you nowhere but otherwhere, where service to the mind is paramount. I dip in. The mind reacts. Being, feeling, thinking conjoin. I swim.
Always pass by the regret, looming like a gaudy billboard on a pristine landscape, a sore thumbnail pic of a virus loaded porno site. I consort with the minions of this space. Faceless, feelingless, lacking the functions that usually accompany being, they go about their tasks without complaint. I'm keeping them secure, knowing how much I need them. It's silly, so they say. I can feel the faces spinning about me judging me, stuffing me inside their insidious brains crammed with pointless attitudes governing their habitats and behavior. Could they be less suited to reality? Hardly. They're the ruling class.
Okay. The fit becomes us. You'd think it wouldn't. We look misshapen in the fitting room mirror. How one decides to buy or ignore is a mystery, one that's insoluble. I get a kick out of this paradox. I'm in a thrall, where visions of reality divide off my head from my eye. I begin to see when darkness falls around me. I see the minions of the darkness being themselves, always hungry, always looking for hunger, and I'm hungry. I dip myself. I feed their appetite. They feed me. It's a dangerous game. Russian roulette looks pale by comparison.
All about the skewed rhythms, I divested a large portion of organic thought. I could do without, I smugly brayed. One must learn, if they can. Some can't learn. Some can only mimic. The carousels go round. The horses have a keen eye of you. They want you to ride along. Psychopathy rides, and they're free! Come ride with us. Be with us. We'll take you to the desired place, the coveted place, even if you don't know this place, even if you don't even hear the question. The question will come alive in you. They'll do it for you.
Oh, say can you bleed, by the dawn's lagging light? It's a fun thing. Days of yore conspired to teach themselves the chemistry of bleeding for your health. It's still there. All you have to do is say, "Yes." Reach out your desires. Fill your hands with gestures designed for taking. Take. Dive in. Open the pool asking from the ads. Get yourself adorned with letting go. Be at peace with the fall. You know the seasons depend upon the cycle beckoning you to hold. Go ahead. Pull it in and drink of its mystery. The secret will become yours.
One may itemize regret, fall their will, like a sword on offending chemistries, defy the urge to ruin the racetrack fitted for the gobbling frenzies of equilateral hungers that cannot be sated, but it remains, the spirit of the hunger; it resides unseen in a cavern constructed for paranoia's grace, duck and cover, duck and cover. You do your best. It reaches you. Fingers of a radiation that no one may measure grab, rip and tear. The masks slip. They crumble. Understanding comes after the blast, as the vaporized souls settle in the streets of your mind. Desolation place. Home.
It folds. It folds. Digressions bleed for payment, not to be held accountable as the purveyor of indiscretions aplenty when the dim lights finally faded, the man stooped to avoid the glare of the crowd wanting their just due. It was too late to claim this payment, but they muscled on regardless. I felt it happen under the peace of my sleep, when the clatter and rush of my dreams collided with the inevitable. No one could point him out. He's here. There. Behind the crowd. He's up above. Below. Looking sideways it gave everyone the excuse it's not me.
Can defeat be admitted? Must it be on the shadowed sidelines, till the roar of its value rises to a deafening pitch? Are we bound, hardwired to the sanctity of lies? Is the residue within enough to choke off regret and feed the necessary compliance driven into a heart caked with pretty paintings? We love our mirrors with the laughing masks. We stay inside a comfortable dome outside the reach of eyes situated on the periphery, waiting for a word, anything to suggest acceptance and rejection of the obvious. No one stays for long. You see, there's an oven waiting.
Fluctuations, you bet. Up the hill one can feel the gods emanating. Our imagination sees what it will, as it has to, when functionality of the need overrides the immediate concern to pay the bills on time. The rapid beats come faster. Like love. At some point, an ecstatic surge will blow out all the key circuits. Then, the baby gets returned. Womb has a festival feast. No conjuration of the Scarlet Woman could hope to supercede this delightful enterprise. I have a hunger that never dies. In this process I assemble my strengths. My weaknesses, however, close the deal.
It's above the line. Extractions will abate upon the max; it was agreed. Then the cooking began. They all descended to be a part of it. No one was without ambition in this enterprise. The assumption that something would result felt foolish in the light of the outcome. It was always the same. Always a disappointment. Hands were bereft of reception. Above the line. They never quite got it. How could anyone expect anything to happen above the line? A few thought there might be something beyond it. They were considered foolish, outcast, renegade, inhuman. Diseases. Fodder for the ovens.
It's about going. Back and forth. The decision rankles the heartiest. You can wait or you can say, fuck it, and go. It's up to you, or what you deem is you. Perhaps the you you deem is not the you that acts, but the you that sits back and watches, like you're the star of your own sci-fi show in the front row, but there's no other row. You're the best you know, and what you don't know is what everybody else says is the next coming attraction. I think you better go to the toilet right now.
It sweeps me under, the sound of my breath exhaling in the aspect of your colors, a wild panorama I could've imagined no where else. My dreams have become a fractal scatter of delights when I don my nod of love told me in the umbrella of your kiss. Sounds like a voluminous cacophony in utter silence that reaches a point no one has ever seen, felt, touched or even imagined, but there you were, and there it is. I am swollen inside, and I rise like a golden fire in the delicate reality of us. The magick is here.
We spiral out to close ourselves in. We peer from within secretly, looking for that reason, the impetus to spring out, reveal our innermost selves. It's a clean house in a pristine district; nothing around to threaten or compromise. It is from that vantage I seek this impulse. Then, on a dark day under luminous clouds there came a roar inviting me to stay, to hear what it had to say. I listened. I stayed rooted to the spot. It came closer. I saw others running for cover, running in fear, as I felt my running into a calm stillness.
All around my eyes came undone. Sockets, bereft of use, gave up their ocular guts, and spat out their bound colors. I let myself go. It came. It asked of me, and I let myself go. There was nothing else I could do. The choice was to remain blind or rip the mind out of its reason, shred the dogmas, theorems, platitudes of pure thought, not to deride, dismiss or denigrate their pristine offal, but to dive and to rise, obliterate the casing I inhabited and see, just to see, if ever to touch, I should glide myself into sun.
Easy to jangle the nest, difficult to blast from its thorny confines, surrender yourself to the soft expansion, falling away from lies, to become lost in the golden fire, become forged anew, 'cause it's all about letting go, brother. I loop those words a million times to affect understanding, acceptance and the rousing ignition. Into a place you could never anticipate or even dream, you'll be thundered into a new way of thinking. Such as it is, you'll depart the comfort zone. How you navigate is up to you, all up to you. No one can pilot you like you.
All these platitudes. The guy down the hall is listening, but he doesn't care. None of the platitudes will work for him, only for skips and trips. Slogans aplenty, there seems to be recovery at every corner. Not so. This isn't the design you expected, is it? Another volley of epithets are met with wry sarcasm. A few hit home. The odd individuals take these to their little caves. They hoard them, thinking they'll help one day. No telling what that means. They know, though, at least, they think they know. You know too. You know better. What you will.
You can barely see it, but you feel it. It's there. You can sense the enormity. Under the vibrations exists a kind of numbing drone, the sound of something that has no sound but for the persistent need inside its need to be alive. How can one find a sensibility enough to occupy the space of you and it? This isn't a question to be answered. It has no answer, but it has a significance. You have to take the ride, go the full length of the journey. You'll find out; in finding out, you'll know the futility of answering.
A thrall. Mesmerizing. You can't stop it. Why would you want to? In the midst of sandwich making you can get distracted by the weirdest things. No one can predict the outcome as it goes and goes. The hunger stays. The sandwich doesn't. It vanished somehow in the wanting of it. A thrall. In deep, the pondering makes a shallow go of hiding itself from the ones who would most likely benefit. You need that sound. It trundles a mighty sound without sound. In the end you can say this or that, but how. That's it. How? Indeed. You know.
Just one gesture. Simple. What's asked of you is compressed into this one thing. Either you do it, or you don't. Consequences will be severe either way. In your quiet moments, when you've seceded from language, you've been given the secrets. No words will touch them. They are for you, no one else. How can anyone learn then from one who has been given this treasure? You learn by not trying to learn. Be there and listen. The silence between the two of you will tell all. In the vast dome where you live, you will touch your kindred's mind.
I tripped the light, and darkness keeled over in a loud thought of how I managed to get here. How I'll get out is a wonderment. I feel this mystery. It beats a living drum in my heart; it never abates. I can only imagine how it'll be when it ceases. Will I cease? What'll cease? I wonder about that. It doesn't bother me. I understand why it's here, drilled into a new kind of reality that's taken me out of the sense of being totally with it. I can't deny the puzzlement, but I can affirm the delicious wonderment.
Into the swell I made a home of being lost. I delighted in the perplexity this created around me. Inside me lives a certainty about it, which I cannot relate. I wouldn't relate it, even if I could. The mystery lives in me. I gave permission to myself to take myself over, to be utterly responsible for me and me alone. Should I quell the desires of those about me to know what it is I found? No. They must find their own mystery. First, they have to allow the mystery. Key. Willingness to give it all up. Be free.
It's drawn by means of instinct under the approved table where manners abound in proper proportion to absurd degrees. None of the latter connect. They are vacuous tissues with no substance pretending at substance. They devolve into flotsum and jetsum with the swipe of a mind in control of itself, aware of itself. Being aware of being aware of being aware, there is no end to the mirrored assumptions drawn as the aware rip through black and white realities coloring it boldly as night falls its towering shrouds over the black and white prisoners while the aware minds dance freely.
The hand approaches the canvas. Light emanates its root, fingers trip manners out, all the while the mind sees as it sees what the canvas may learn. In defiance of the obstacles jumbled like mad mice in the head, driven to plunge light into shards of darkness, there is the mind in its determination, whirling creations to the tip of colors, dripping, swiping, splashing, stabbing thru gripped brushes animated by the heart with no boundaries but by their own, collecting fears for cautions of being lost in the maelstroms of rejections. None of that holds, but do what thou wilt.
I close myself off. In a mirror I nod farewell. There's a commotion in the center of the room. You can feel space opening. Reason notwithstanding, the volubility inherent in this spacial rupture would overwhelm any sense applied to its analysis. I regret to have found nothing to hold onto in my dome of mental trinkets gathered over the many decades I sought to elope from my own heart, so I cannot explain. I do accept it, though. The inevitability reeks like a three day old corpse left out in the sun on my grandmother's porch. There will be consequences.
I burn these metal eyes, cyber runts in a row falling up for a prize undisclosed. Is there a choice? Am I to make another choice? How can I do that? The viability of being right here, seeing what I see, feeling the emptiness collide with a fullness with all the indistinguishable facets a whirling morass; runts grabbing how they will at anything, I'm indisposed to be a good observer, try as I might. We started out with an idea, and that idea mutated into bad dreams, DT fits in a whorehouse, being scalded by the burning metal eyes.
It took me. I went with it. In a spinning flash downward I glanced over to its grip, smashing me into the newborn light that was once a dark pit. I feted the generative delight and sobbed mercury tears. The smooth plate was soon etched by angling drops of silver into rivers angling this way and that, hard streams on a flatland, spilled from my growing eyes. I began to see, clearer as the rivers flowed. I was mystified while the creation squirmed. The fog cleared ineluctably toward a view I hadn't anticipated. So this is it? My new heaven?
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