REPORT A PROBLEM
It opens again, the valuable cubby, into which I apply my necessary logo ointment. Smears from the side of my mind, I scrawl a calculated portrait, forever morphing into an idea of me that's always past in a future clutch, where time has no value, nor spacial configuration. The world seems a fractal miasma, as my eye takes measures of its worth for nothing gained, hurled into the wake of a great ship headed toward the end of the mystery. I yearn for this mystery to be continually unfolding questions. There is nothing greater to me, this fountain of questions.
Nothing said. What is this nothing? Something. Volumes of this nothing said clamor many rooms where the ears of ears await. Sometimes silence lives in wait of nothing to breed a fullness no one knows until it comes for them. Silence holds this nothing like a child. I hold this silence to my heart flowing the main and out to the edges. The village is sustained by this. Who sees this nothing? Who hears it? Indeed, who? Let it be known how difficult it is to be sent away with this nothing. Through great hardship, its treasure will be revealed.
We take from others without much ado. They give us how they give us in a blink of an eye that has no proper focus. We use this. Under the skies when the stars begin to suspect us, we take to our hiding places, so one one knows, nothing knows. Like squirrels we hoard our takings and ourselves. In time we bury them. I can see how this might happen, that we might bury ourselves. I'm buried right now. You see, I didn't want to be found. What I had taken involved a price I couldn't pay. It was just.
The gusts you depend upon reassure connection in an abstract way. Feeling it is all in all, though feeling may drift as a drunk fish. We rely on this. Taking it apart devises nothing to be seen but tiny bits of intention collected in a drop of pure memory. You know what it was, but you can't touch it anymore. It's in there, though. The gusts reassure you. Outside is a place you've only imagined. What if you had the chance to go outside. Would you go? Shred the fibers connecting you to what you know, to what you believe?
Fractious. The common state. I log in, first thing. The day metes out its parameters. A game evolves, a form out of blackness, like a black hole emission. I ride my sense of I through the maze. I'm a gadabout pinball dancer, a light blinks. I feel the jolt, rebounding with a loud expletive, meaning nothing but it's own fuming. I recede to a place of falling free, then another blink, another honk. I revive my attitude, as I log in for the end of day inventory. What emerges is a new sense of me, a new I. Game over.
It becomes something elusive. You know it's hard to watch, even pocket in a rush after the show's done, but now you've got to take it for what it is. I'm sorry it means you have to lose sight of the hero for awhile. In a cup with a dram of forgetfulness, you can hold whatever you deem important up to the light and feel the necessary darkness flow. Few will tell you the truth. Fewer will abide by the truth. It's the one they're looking for that's vital to the flow. You may even know what I'm talking about.
Stripping through the bit silence, a spray of eyes from inside the clumsily hid notion that if I go blind I might see for the very first time, see things that have no solidity but clear ideas, such that the progression of ideas might allow my escape, as I so desperately need to escape, the formation of truth might actually burst the bubble. We've all been watching this bubble. It leads us to its own conception of Valhalla, or that's what someone said back in the ticket area. They said, "Go there, and you'll have a new kind of fun."
The sidewalk speaks, it's a bit slow, A cracked whisper, and my down trodden step takes the city’s Shadowed hand. Looking in a muted gaze off to another kind of idea, I can't imagine how I actually got into this predicament. What derived from a sometime certainty was a fledgling question penetrating the concrete night like a mad lover on the arch of his heat from a gloved god within. Could I but give this out, make this a reality, I might feed what otherwise would certainly perish under this scathing moonface, beggaring my spinning Mind. I'm still looking.
Tagged. The loose ends found a way to insinuate their chaos. I'm bound to the capture of my raptures, fixing me to their own necessities. I'm a delicious compendium of sense and antisense. What I can value is the the spiral into one. I seek this spiral. In planetariums they have marvelous displays of this. I reach out with my mind, but I find nothing but projections of superannuated beliefs. I'm in a dome of sheep. They nod complacently. I've divided off my stance to fixate on the reason why I'm here. I'm tagged. They have me? No fuckin way.
Stirred into the mix. A proper way to blend. That's what everyone wants, right? To blend in. Disappear. Be nothing but a countable head in a vast herd. Sooner or later, the chop man will chop. You can feel the herd moving. A light in the distance guides the way. In no time at all, you'll find peace, relaxation, contentment. Your god is speaking to you. From the obelisk it speaks, between station breaks. You may try to ignore it, look away when it speaks, go make yourself a sandwich, but you see, the sandwich has already already made. You.
To the table we go. We're hungry, you bet. Starving, in fact, although we know it would be rude to admit that. To be standoffish in a polite way says everything about what we really know, what we really believe, what we really want. It's becoming a dirty reflection. That's no good. The mirror has to be cleaned. This one is no good anymore. The oven's cooling. It's almost time to eat, or is it time to be eaten? I can't recall. I get so mixed up with everything happening at one. Best to let the one in charge decide.
It rang out as a dangerous silence, this unearthing of my truth. It took decades of cacophonous ministrations resulting in a vast complex nested in my mind, humming its base power like a mournful song without end. At once proud, I was dissatisfied and sad. "Something's not right." I took to becoming my own creation, as something special. Leaving off designs with a wink and a nod, I begged myself to look again, see it for what it was and try again. "Is it yours?" Look carefully now. Under the guise of creation, I only redressed an ancient prison.
Guns go off. A servile minister waits to take a head count. The servants haven't returned from the market. There has to be a pause. The film jams. The projector overheated. Most of the audience is pretty pissed off. More guns go off. I can hear laughter in the street. Many cars screech to a halt. It is understood, finally, that nothing is happening. It was all staged. The audience is not getting to see the whole thing. Very few did. The list is in. Discrepancies. No one is brought to task over this. No matter. More guns go off.
It amounts to something I can't articulate. The beating drum fashioning order as the reason for revivals, throbs in a dim dark. I float on a vast pool. It's dark. I can see only when I close my eyes. The values I ascribed draw me out to a series of questions. They fondle me in their gentle insistence. I'm not equipped to say nay. I let them sink deep within. A reassembly occurs. The circuits have been altered ever so slightly. In the midst of a oncoming storm, I'm suddenly calm. I have nothing to fear but a tiny disquiet.
Intermingling the infinite fibers of the matrix, being entranced by the billion screens swirling, flashing, blasting light from the mystery within, I am offered a challenge. Words are rubbish in this welter of mind. All logos disintegrate; their mockups vanish. So what am I doing here? What words, what logos can I offer? I'm swimming in a pool of contradictions. There is everything here but nothing to hold onto, nothing to give. I shall be content. This impossible enterprise is my enterprise. I am happily lost in this dilemma. There's nothing to do but to sit back and watch. Learn.
They know, "One needn't scream and holler. If you're certain, speak softly. Charm your way. They'll listen." How could they not listen? Let them put you at your ease. Let them open your minds. Remember, an open mind leads to discovery, something new, something bold, daring and beautiful. You see, the President even acknowledges how nice they are. "Good people," he says. Put down that stick. Become more aware of how your world could become a nicer place, a cleaner place. It's up to you, you know. This is a country led by the people for the people, clean people.
The valley is widening. We have the right to protect it from internal subversion. It needs our help to protect it. Gird your impatient loins. Sit up, be a proud American, and act; don't just speak, don't just sit around getting fat telling brave warrior tales of old. It's time to get up and act. Do something. Let your intuition be your guide. Don't let the stupid rule the smart, the capable, the deserving. You know who they are, the ones who need correction, who need discipline, remonstration. The time is now, brothers. Show the sun your brave white face.
This tiny but vast encirclement describes my path perfectly. I go where I've been and never been. I'm there at the beginning and the end. I know the course toward which I'll fashion a mask that tells onlookers to relax. I know about this. I have nothing to fear. This is a perfect ending, or is it a perfect beginning? It's up to the onlooker, I guess. I have nothing to say. Whatever I'd say would be rejected anyway. No one believes a person who speaks the truth. There is no truth except your own. My disguise is working well.
The freedom to be. Who I am is not who anyone tells me I am. I am that thing that's lived under the presumptions and assumptions assigned by dictum from an unseen arbiter having no grace unto itself but to suppress, and I declare the right to assume identity far from the center of control. I am that thing I declare. I am that thing who says I know how I know by how I know from who I am without connection, without desires needing satiety in a realm that exists without me but pretends it is me. Not I.
It was swollen, this disease. It metastasized by order of its deliberate growth to avoid detection. It lived to live without my seeing it, feeling it, knowing it for itself but nothing more than a distant disquiet, if anything. Now, in the welter of that which passes as vilified for any good and denounced as evil incarnate, if it should be held as true. No more will this thing go by its undetermined, uncharted way. Shall I say how? I cannot. I go as I go to unwind, divest myself of control that is not me. Do What Thou Wilt.
Is it driven toward it, or is it being driven away from it; how are you situated in the event? Are you a participant or an onlooker, as the case may be, you might be both. You may be at the end of the event and at the beginning as the arbiter. "There are no onlookers," you say. It's an illusion you keep to yourself to maintain that air of confidence, which thrusts you through a thorny storm. We could exhaust our wits trying to explain how we are cogs in all of this without blame, but why do that?
You get stuck. It happens often. Try as you may, it keeps happening. There's a disquiet you keep tucked away from your loved one's view. If they knew what it was, they might leave you, mock and deride you, unfriend you on Facebook, be adverse when discussing the right executer for the right death, when the time comes to play at death as though it were a tragedy, when it's really a boon. The children finally get their popsicles in the right order for the funeral procession. You're stuck again. This is going to take time to sort out. Phooey.
I see the parks crawl through each other's solemnity. Its exhaustion feeds the imbalance. No structure can withstand that for long. My brace of calm flows with the caprice you feel inside before the bridge collapses. You can see it. No one else feels the earth of the earth deform. You hardly know what to say. There's nothing to say. You play the rhythms in the usual fashion. Trees are blurring, bleeding into another form you barely recognize. Looking away barely helps. It merely staves off the inevitability. The river flows. Change is perpetual. Tomorrow you'll see a different face.
When it comes for you, smile. Sit back and relax. The last breath taken will open a panorama of sensation multiplexed across the communal flesh. In the eye behind the eye that sees through all vistas on the plain where humans claim their right to be human, to sing the praises of reflections upon reflections upon the source of all light, back when the darkness possessed a unique personality, in that place, you'll find yourself. You'll find the appropriate mirror and dance for yourself a special dance; in the last refrain, look up and out and during the shredding, smile.
There could be a glitch. What would that tell you? Is there something outside of yourself reading into the situation as a reflection of you, a doppelganger? Are you up to the challenge of diving inside yourself to find that entity that calls to you from outside yourself? Do you know the in? Do you know the out? Do you know the in between? I can pretend that I know it all, but I would be lying. What I know is a series of clues, at best. I feel my way. The out and the in are roundabouts. Pretty gloves.
They speak to you, and you feel you must answer. In a thrall of voices, a whirlwind of sensation, you come to an understanding that defies reason. There is no logic in this confluence of entities. Each with a face. Each with a purpose. You're at the center. A dance ensues. You're too polite to refuse. Lights go up. The room seems to revolve. It's not the room; it's you. She takes your eyes from you. You're glad. They served no purpose but for lies. In this place, in this way, there are no more lies. You have been found.
The water is like glass. The boat hardly moves. A high moon plunges its light. You take it in with a draft of air, slicing your mind clean. You feel the nerve of the moon. It talks to you through this nerve. You thought you could get away. In a sense you have, but there's still a thread tying you to the land. It has a necessity you can never really deny. A sparkle of thoughts carouse your skull. There is an escape. You reach out. It takes you by the hand. In a moment the sky will be yours.
It's how they come at you. They are the ones you can't see. You're sequestered comfortably at home around the dinner table. Everyone's there, but they're missing their faces. They misplaced them in the exchange before they left the womb. The room is breathing. You can feel it. It soothes you. With a flurry of excuses the table is abandoned. A voice says you need to attend to the matter in the mother reactor. You allowed yourself the luxury of seeking camaraderie with family and friends. Despite being illusions, you felt comforted by them. It's what life has left you.
It's vivid. Tooth and claw. The enterprise was at its end. In a spiral toward sometime bonding, the gab and grab of a breath shared, human to beast of the land, not entirely wasted, was ultimately spent in a flash of fang and hunger. The brief catch of sameness was effusive. It blew out of its core the inevitability instinct. Tooth and claw. Though the eye was blind. the ear was pitched clearly to the profound consummation of desire. Not so loving but intimate. As close as one might not hope for as a restoration, but as a climax, elegiac.
It snapped. The electricals had a presence. Something was said, but not in so many words. A face manifested. Sky opened and had its say. Okay. Big deal, you say. It is a bid deal, bro. You saw it yourself. There's no way of denying it. Why not? I'm tired of this shit. Same old same old. Various habits come and go. You pick and choose. The goodies aren't what you expected. Big deal. Again. It snaps. It's getting later. You can see how the stars have shifted their positions. You're waiting for the handout? It ain't comin, bro. Dig?
It's taking too long. We gotta go. Nothing's going to happen here. Why can't you see that? It's stooping down. It thinks you'll just come running, like a fucking lapdog for its biscuit. Fuck the biscuit, man. I give up. You do what you want to do. I'm just gonna hang out. No way. The men drove up. They got out of their vehicles. They handed over the goods. We say it. I saw it. It came. It fucking came. No one had a biscuit. That wasn't the point, though. I felt ashamed when they took him away. The exchange.
The Tip Jar