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It's a dark quiet. We sit in its unfolding. In our spirits a cloud widens over this realm we've adopted. Some might say it's a bad omen, but I know better. I know its worth, its reason and demands. Sold on nothing seen but held for currency in check, we take the day as a manifold of rivers, this way and that, flowing over our distempers, drowning our doubts, keeping our hopes afloat, lending the waters of life to our mind's thirst. It's up to us. Look within. Discharge the categories of blame. Own the moments parade. Keep it alive.
Into the messy web and out. A proclivity to assimilating scarfs the modality of self. Keeping a head on the rush through the grabbing voices challenges. One is assaulted as though one were being loved. The illusion is solid. Keeping time with nothing but the idea of passing through unadulterated leaves the mind exhausted, and it is exactly that point that opens the door. In goes the alien breath. Out goes a form of freedom. The exchange deals deftly from one manifestation to another. Not even a mirror will help. You let go. Your old skin feds the hungry homeless.
You watch with vague interest. The world's whirling no longer mesmerizes. You try to go deeper. You slither past the crusts, slip inside the wet folds, take careful glances. You know the dangers, but even they no longer scare you. Your skin is tough, temperament resilient. Like a Navy Seal, you're ready for battle. What's lost seems distant and insignificant. Going forward only vaguely excites. Sniffing about for the proper work takes longer every day. Moments held in a abeyance drive you to the unfashionable. In a way, that excites more than anything. What's unfashionable? Maybe that's the new challenge.
I'm looking at your face. It appears before me when I'm lost. Your smile navigates me back. It never fails. What you've given me is a map, upon which, I see an idea of me that's always new. It moves about the landscapes with greater ease. A mystery. I like dancing with your smile in my dark room. It brightens for me alone. I'm very quiet, never make a sound. No one suspects. This is very good. My time collects our magic. I don't have to do a thing; your gift asks nothing of me, so I give you everything.
A sip of coffee kicks light from the still bucket. Night folds back. The covers feel old. My body drips a brittle sleep. Nodding into small movements, I shake off the nightly bandages. Rising through a galaxy of transformations, I finally open my skin. It's brand new. At first, tentative, stretching my hand out, I'm careful not to place it in the sleeping lion's mouth. Though barely awake, I feel this ancient presence. It's been with me since I asked it to come inside and play. When was that? Can't recall. No matter. I keep the lion, just in case.
A simple sound, rounding the morning folds of grey, trickles the fibers made of touch, mind blended in a crucible of dreams, falling, as is necessary, falling to a place of rising, crumbling into a mouth too sealed with silence to release. I can touch this silence. I fondle it daily. My skins fissure for the seeing, none too bright for the feeling. I assume the poise, but cannot fill the form. In a fashion, I draw the sound out, like you, like us all in communions no one wants to admit. Yet keeping is a kind of death, denying.
It all went so fast, whoosh from the acting crab, clack clack, my darking log fell up and down. Sort of this and that, into a clammy boosh and out. The place of landing got messed for the rush, lady love crammed a kiss from a wilding duck, that flies so high, the much, and I took what I could for the rest of the settling heart after bursting. Such a claim could never undo the fullness I craved. This is who I fashioned in a small window of eye. No one, but the other might see me so whole.
Step by step we go. The mind unravels with a dance unlike any felt for its unworthiness. One steps into a form unseemly to become seen. Stepping outside the realm of blindness occupies one's spirit, challenging it to assimilate reality. How we all have our unique realities, how different. Yet, a subset exists, a tiny domain in which we all see one another, perhaps in a flash, a blinding flash. We collect our hands inside. The falling is the rising. Along the narrow path we assume the sky becomes our true road. No dilemma. It is how we find salvation.
Easy time, this mission we have, grounded on the designated soil, if nothing but its quantity as the function of its usefulness. In deference to the upshot we hold in view of a untenable future, the present disengages for the values we cannot sum, though they press around us like frantic lovers. We cannot help but fight. That's the purpose. Fighting keeps us trim and free of lazy days that see neither purpose or intent. We must make it happen. Ain't gonna happen for us. Getting in the face of the implacable agency demands device and determination beyond the pale.
So on we press to the goal that's vaguely visible, hardly touchable, though present in all of our actions. We know it's there. It calls to us in its unique way. In the quiet times we can almost feel it, almost hear it calling to us. The substance of its core resides for our focus, hard as it is to triangulate for a precise shot. It's a carnival game. Gotta love the carni, the whooping barkers, clangs of snappy guns and bright candies beckoning our attention. So, if we find it in our spirits to shoot, we shall shoot high.
No no no, it's the other one. Go for the other one! Can't you see it? It's right in front of your intent. Residing like a parasite for distractions' sake, it knows no traumatic reevaluations. It's there for its own sake, and if you don't rally to its call, you have to rear back, take stock of how you're going, if going has a true purpose. If not, and the going is for goings' sake alone, then you must know you're living on a floating island, lost in a cloud of head, storming on yourself, for nothing but soggy intent.
What needs grind our wits to the precipitates called values donned to administer life to life in its guise of a forward moving beingness we can touch, hear, feel, wear in its mobile largess? How do we designate desire to fill our subsets within this beast rousing itself to bright intention, while sleep fades but barely throughout our fear laden consciousnesses? Is it to the end we seek, the undiscovered country beckoning our daylong wrestling on our travel mats? So, to the gusting within we combine. Storms without our conveyances are no storms at all, hardly worth a weather report.
Tenderness is our grit in the woods we've abandoned for unworthiness within, lest it rear a voice, like a Grizzly bending towards its incipient hibernation, frantically hunting food to sustain the chilly months under blizzards we create to fuel the need for desperate actions. Given the heavy, we keep the light carefully concealed. It's our calling card if everything falls to be found under residues of a bygone world built of lies. Truth is too expensive. Everyone knows this, especially those who need this pricelessness to carry forth their own expensive lies. Let the Hubbards of the world give thanks!
Carry over to the righteousness indifference, find the reason not to go, settling under a mountain of justifiable disdain. The apathy boils on, gaining heads without eyes, minds without reason, a passive momentum driving inward, scarfing away the weeds as it decides are weeds, thoughts deriving nothing but empty questions. No one wants emptiness filled with questions. The abhorrence of vacuum knows only boundaries before its assumption of certainty and values derived thereon. We see its core. The core feels us, its extremities, its limbs waiting on the sidewalks for hire. The usefulness of waiting will earn its consequences.
Total ingress. An eye has a fullness within reaching light that has no shine. Thru the barriers it goes. Nothing to obstruct. Interference comes languidly. Who cares if it gets thru? What harm can it do? Plunging, as it does, a reorientation occurs by necessity. The classrooms won't be as full as usual during the reconstruction, but that's to be expected. The speakers are being modified. New books are to be read. You thought you were done with it, didn't you? Oh, no, the tech administration was wrong. You gotta start all over. Maybe next time you'll get it right.
There comes that moment. You can feel it lurching in, how emptiness leeches spirit from game and places it in the mouth of the unseen beast. It feeds on you, and you feed on it. It's a game with a big price at both ends; success or failure meet the same consequences in time. How the values vary is up to the reader of the meter. The readings are always different. The time is always different. Under the faces of all who watch, there is something working that steers everything. Inside that moment, you might know. Always a fun gamble.
The race has never ended. No one called it quits. It's going on even now but without hands or legs or minds or spirits. If you just put down your pride in silence and stuffy arrogance and open your ears you might hear it; no, not your ears, but the ears of your ears. How many times must you be told? Yeah, the price is high; when hasn't it been? Eager to be unfound, the energy living at the center of the race flows easily. If you relax you can tap into it. You'll see what's possible. You gotta try.
Back aside the dream you had, enjoying the darkness, where you embraced the idea of freedom, you finally realized freedom cannot be bought. Freedom's not given. Freedom's won. Few attain Freedom. It is the idea by which the eye of the mind trails along secret paths no one might ever register as real, but exist in the sanctums of soul. How one sketches soul, draws it out for something to grasp lives in the mysterious realm of art, where no one says no. It's all yes yes yes, you can; bring the decrepit house down. Let me eat its flame.
It applies to the energy of the moment, inside the moment, under its faces. Our masks delineate a disjunctive course, apt for carnivals, where the barkers gets eaten as a prize. I like my barkers medium rare and served with Hedge Fund eyes from the vaults of wall street infamy. Let's dance to the rhythms no one has a key to. The secret to the steps is not in trying but saying fuck it and go. Just go. Throw off your dancing shoes, slip on your flippers, and swim for the undertows you know are waiting to kiss you goodnight.
To wit, I take the nod misunderstood continually, where the boss comes undone without anyone doing anything. It's the dream of every stiff caged in typewriter toilets that leak a mixture of epinephrine and soy sauce into the water fountains before they changed the formula to frighten the dealers. If someone ever fixes the microwave, we can have poisonous rabbits for snacks. I'm going to make a stink if they force me to work overtime and I miss the next episode of 'Execution of the Week.' I live by that show. It's my mantra, my guide, my favorite cooking show.
What one needs is a space to suit the work, be it a garret for the lowdown scribbling of an aspiring hymn composer on their last gasp for the protoplasmic Jesus, or a tiny bathroom where the drive-in meanderings of a rollerskating matron of the medical arts that lives for the end of the 3-D movie, sings off-key and never gets the orders right. We are being adjusted to the present, and there ain't no reason to keep saying the same thing over and over. We get it. The time is done. Nothing will ever fix it.
This goes down. We go with it. A word follows. It gathers followers, digits on a stock. This place, manned by a determination beyond the self, beyond a reasonable doubt of understanding that it could emanate from such a mind as twisted as that, as the one sitting inside, barricaded from relief of reason and the one question, why, holding his beliefs to his chest, while the digits gazed longingly at the inevitable end generating just outside. It was arranged by him for this, this end, as it was written by him who believed, who needed this kind of end.
The song. It must've been playing through some of their heads. The End. Funny, how it resonated so clearly, even lovingly before the gestation of the fire. He said this fire would consume us before the real fire took us. He said the real fire of faith rendered the faithful invulnerable to any fire they could create, the beasts, the ones in charge of the wrong kind of fire, the wrong kind of belief, the belief of the beast. He rallied them all well. They took his word, his convoluted verses, his tongue of sex to quell all the questions.
Semblances of the residual ash can be seen in the faces behind the faces of those who still hold his sovereignty as true. The conflagration was necessary as an inevitable component of the one true revelation of the one true prophet. All lined up; if you get the light just right you might even see them, but not as others see them. You have to see it by the catch of his calling and the beacon by which his flock died, have always died, are dying now, believing in the light, the lie. How desperate to die by a lie.
I go down to these moments to seek out the word. Under a fashionable storm without excuse, a medley of misleading words rings loud, rounds about my head with a tune I can't hum. It lives in some other kind of sound without sound, penetrates a sacristy where I'm not allowed. Belief must precede the coming in. Why are so many expecting me to arrive? I don't know the password. I own a song that doesn't play for anyone. I'm becoming obsolete. Each pixel is fading, one by one. I'm leaving the landscape, but I still don't have the word.
There it is. I see it. It's giving off a welcome; I know it. If I could just get closer I might be able to touch it, even hold it. I'm dying to hold it. All my life I've sought it. Now, it's here. But I can't move. It's so clear. I can even make out its shape. I wasn't expecting it; it just appeared out of nowhere. What am I to do? How am I to reach it? If someone could just give me a clue, something to hold onto, I could leverage myself. No one believes. I'm alone.
Down, pulling it down. Feeling the inequitable entropy. A violence of intimacy drives the spiral. We are opulently correct. The dressing is fine. We are ready for the ball, always ready, a systematic convolution, what we're fretting is nothing. We have made nothing out of something, born death out of life, a reversal on the Shelley delight. Too much too soon, and the carousel goes round. The horses bray in silent joy. Strapped to their flanks we can see the approaching monolith. It has a dank nature, pulling down, down, down, we go. The fires are ready. Time is now.
So clear. Vicissitudes are made for the grabbing, new masks for the day of the dead. A celebration, likely to sweep the awards. No one is who they are and all are shouting for their lives, their ornamentation. Such is the day. Keeping it clasped in tight. Holding the moment like a bomb, being as bomb, stoking its belly of night. Shall we dance? We shall. The room is bustling with readiness. There goes the sudden burst. He dashes from his belly, and the light is glorious. All fall down! It's such a fun game, and everybody gets to lose.
Can we find it in ourselves to move. The pieces are laid out explicitly. Ignoring them isn't an option. "So move!" Being a bug in head, wandering from the core to delight a fancy of fond indiscretion, finding yourself in a curl of thoughts unbecoming of a human set about with deeds undone, laying about the way with a forced indolence, you mutter, "Let the others do it. I don't wanna. It's too much of a bother. It's gonna turn out in our favor anyway," and the fattening bug you're becoming, grins in a widening rally of like minded drones.
I sweep myself out, this way and that, to the extremes I can only fantasize about, being inside the idea of realizing this, creating the core of a new idea, blooming, as if I could inhabit the sky at night and be alive within countless stars, to become nothing but the focus of dreams, never be touched or molded but adored, the epitome of being alive as a cartoon, playing myself endlessly for eternity, a loop that nothing could stop. I fancy this my hell, if hell there be. Always on, always there, out there, a mere postcard, a stamp.
I don't have the patience to watch drama, being swept inside the drama of my eye, so clubbed with light of a different sort that I might see inside a black hole, how it satisfies the urges no word can express, nor supports the fastidiousness of a true believer, this is mine and how it takes the day to another place. This place is where I live. I cannot draw the end from any beginning you might cite. I close my eyes. I draw the shades. I let no one enter. My choice will be evident, and you will know.
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