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Ever and always a keeper of the dawn where the sun doesn't rise. It's kept for another time inside the time. Time has come undone. The intricacies of time are no longer a concern of mine. I feel freed. I feel the essence of reality shifting in a way that can't be held up as a trophy. This round of reality called earth is slipping away. No one wants to admit it, not because they're stubborn; they simply don't know what's really happening. Slow but sure the night will keep us all; day will unveil a new kind of dawn.
It could occupy me by the means to drive me out of myself, but as the driver of my intellect, I can only fend off a minutia of its mechanism. I'm not privy to the whole picture. I own a scramble of puzzle pieces. They decorate the table inside my head that doubles as a ping pong table where the players just never go away, always interrupting my thought processes. The puzzle is never going to get done this way! I plead vainly. No one hears. Listening is to the rear of the room where the dead beats play bingo.
One doesn't know just how fast it all goes till it's almost over and the question looms, how will I go. The rim of the mind frays. Skull has no recourse but to implode. Mind drives itself out to go in. I'm drawn out like a flayed horse with no head. In the desert it keeps the issues of being alive and dead like a drawn out joke that goes on too long. Nothing's funny. It's a dream you keep telling yourself. All the versions you liked no longer make any sense. Go to the desert. You'll find the source.
Horses. It's a delightful dance. My eyes cave the vision. Inside the light lives a darkness that drives the source to an end that has no beginning. Life comes to the point that asks why, and you gotta know this is an absurdity. I can see nothing. Then you realize it's been in front of you all along. Horses. The secret reveals itself there is no secret. I'm glad you have the presence of mind to consider this terrible truth. All the houses of cards can longer stand. We've come to the end of the story. Time to die? Horses.
Skip it. You can feel the inverse approaching. The ditch comes undone, overdone, upside down. The red field stretches out. You follow your instinct. That's what counts. Instinct. On the voyage you know this'll be a new beginning, and it's so inevitable. Under the broad sun there's a question looming. You'll know how to articulate it soon enough. It'll make your mouth and become the self-same destruction we've seen a billion times in reruns. A raw speech. No one knows how to give it up. It just keeps being learned. Recited. The record is endless, but is it really?
Furtive under this quiet chaotic race is the spur upon which the race was born so long ago nothing can be grasped but the questions before and after logos bred the dream of creating community with hopes of untying the captive fears we clutch for after dinner mints that we'll never eat. We sit enthralled by colorful numbers pumping up the airwaves, unaware that forces like tidal waves have conscripted the end long before any human mind thought of waking up. We're asleep. Results will tally, and the winners will cheer, but what will they have but a deeper unconsciousness.
They're beside each other. The chosen sit silently aware of each other. A thread of communication exists. No one's privy to its content. A TV is on. It's turned away from the outside. Only the chosen on the inside can watch. Control is very strict. One learns to respect this control. The option is disconnection. That's a serious outcome. Everything about your property is suddenly up for grabs. The outside eyes who hunt are watching all the time. Hands connected to those eyes will satisfy their desire. In a large bed you can see how the chosen are rendered available.
Two bits means one can advance to the next position on the chart. Where's the chart? It was here a millennia ago. It's always being misplaced when it really matters. Oh well. The rally leading to advancement keeps generating interest. Gotta watch those past lifelines. Varicose. Unsightly. The period in which this unfortunate development has occurred is being clipped, edited out of the mainframe. Can't have those nasty bits. They mean business when the nasty bits are found. The others will hunt you down and make a spectacle in airports and massage parlors. It's their kind of entertainment, dutifully perverse.
Whole lot of mundane pigs riding the circuit to the slaughterhouse here. Well, that seems to be the norm. Presentable in carefully packaged cuts, one could ruminate at the meaty catalogue for days, months, lifetimes. This is the way I gotta go. Gotta rip the swollen necks, splay blood in the flow for extra verbs not gotten for the usual salable deal. If you split off the verb, gouge heart in the barn, you'll finally get the bloody words you've never seen, becoming real as real can be. Then the next stage is putting off critics, keeping them harmlessly high.
We go around, and the end stares numbly at the beginning; without fail, we miss it. The round slips through its slick begetting, driving the payload forward under our radar, letting all that flies in its wake flutter to a quiet grave. That which heads its thrust pierces the downbeat, elates the highs, comes full throttle into the heart of it and exposes its vast emptiness. We are complete when embracing the void we call solidity. We cannot see through its magic, but it sees us. By all the matrices, within their complexities, the trick plays out the great comedy.
Are we to be made sick when we follow our urges to correct a wrong, to be placed in self-made purgatory for nothing but a nod toward another slight of light where the unseen were suddenly seen in brilliant glares and all the values ascribed to an avouched belief that says yea and nay to all things conscripted should be discarded, relegated to a mere afterthought? How are we to go then? We take the holy books held as true, pronounce their demise and burn them in mind. We go on. We light the way. No god but us.
Do you feel that, how it goes back inside you, the words you ate, words you allowed to disappear, words that became you? It's a mystery. Combining the gross ether in its volubility, how it circumscribes the universe proclaimed as real, but what is real? Do any of us know? Lots of theories. All of them, from the time you didn't exist till now, reach back inside you, combine you to look for the one thing missing. In the empty space the missing piece is calling. It has no sound. No mouth. No organ of speech. It is drawing you.
Shall we lie to continue our road of truth, begetting tight-lipped, closed-ear attentions necessary to hear the truth? We are bearers of truth. We come to you begging a listen. You shall hear the truth and hold it within clapped heads fitted to a machine that loves you, loves you so, to the point of holding you close, holding you tightly to the bonds of truth and only to the truth. The world outside, the wogs, they don't get it. We get it. We have it, and those that want it can have a place in our corral.
The chambers will be connected. Vessels, once laboring on their own, will carry the sacred blood steeped in truth. You shall reap the power of this new blood. It will give your mind strength, your body power, your will the sustenance to give it up with love. You shall be the bearer of the grail in the blood you shall take. No one can take this away from you. You will be protected, shielded, held close to a sanctum only known by the chosen, the ones with the blood that's right. In this privileged sanctum you shall live the truth.
Finding the end is a real treat. It's waiting for you. Around the corner, always around the corner, it eludes but stays close. You can smell it like burnt toast, reviving the need to be hasty. It likes specificity. Between each move is another move. Between two points there's always two more and between them, barriers after barriers. Rushing forward and around, you tantalize it. There's no getting around the fact that it's going to get you before you get it. A beginning is considered, but ignored. Seems way too unlikely. Somewhere back there, it's hiding, waiting, like a Lamprey.
You freeze a moment. The memory demands it. There it is, like a photograph fixed on your brain. It lives to keep the moment alive. Inside the moment you feel a point, something without dimension, drawing you in. This imaginary singularity captivates and infuriates. It exists but doesn't exist. It resides in a place of no space and all space, in the realm of mind. Where does your end and another begin? You can feel others touching yours. Under all that there's a web of interlaced rivers. You can hear its roar if you listen carefully enough. One is All.
Triumph of the aeon, one speculates the division's complete, yet the residuals metastisize, spawn the outer edges becoming like infolding arms on the idea of a universe; inwardly grown, a mind that sees its origin sees nothing and everything, the center and circumambulation. Into the spiral of paradox we spin. Nor can we feel what we've felt. There's a boundary between who we were when all was nothing but expectations, and who we are, laden with masks, lies and deceptions telling us it's all okay, it's all good. We're taken care of, measured in the arms of the unseen ruler.
Flipped into gear, barreling ahead, sparking with beliefs on fire with the intent on reaching the goal before the goal reaches us, gerbels on gerbel-wheels, it's a funny thing to watch, a dog chasing its tail, hedge fund keepers chasing their own profit losses, ministers ministering to the dead, eyes riveted on the pulpit aching for the right word to be spoken. Something fundamental is hanging like an invisible ghost in the room. You can feel it, tangible as anything but utterly elusive. The whole thing's wrong. We're chasing the wrong thing, yet no one wants to know how.
You speak. You say the words. They speak back to you. They tell you you're right, but you're wrong. I speak the words. They say I'm right, but I'm wrong. Words fly about. Dogfights. Flaming. Bleeding. Failing. We must speak. We must never stop the words. They will be wrong, but they must never stop. It is their nature to be wrong. They touch but values of ideas with large gaps. Between the gaps slips the ineffable truth. It peers at you, beckoning you, cajoling you, goading you, speak, speak, write, write, come into the fall of words. Be.
You light yourself on fire to be made of ice. We go up when we go down. We look inside to look without. Always the mobius madness; it's funny. We cry but we should be laughing. Eternal irony. Never to be outdone or extinguished. Plunging for the catch, and we miss but we catch the catching. It is who we are to catch, if only the attempt to catch. It is not to be overturned. Another day. Another catch. Within the bulging net is an emptiness that gnaws. We eat emptiness. It pretends to sate. To make the day worthwhile.
Purposeful. Nothing to sway otherwise. In the end it's a means to be connected. You feel the energy. It trickles the synapses, blows out thoughts that beckon thoughts but not of the same; they are otherwise connected, inter-dimensionally, a value system that cannot be evaluated determines the matrix, frame after frame, an infinite regression. That which you are is what you were, those moments that were incomplete, insufficient, inadequate, they draw the pictures, images beyond touch to be touched. Dreams make you laugh. This does not. It is altogether otherwise. No words proffer value but only distraction, comedy, titillation.
Laid out to cook an archetype spread thick with mendacity, I gotta slick ruck of a table carved with bloody blades, holes punched to remove the fatty evidence. Slip sliding to the bellies bloated for slaughter, slashing, hacking the fodder, it's a gorno day galumphing toward the glad happy smirk in the pit of a toilet. Meantime, words be laid on shiny platters finding their offal wanting with faces extricating voices loud with greasy after bites. I am in a thrall. I recede. The house implodes. I'm soon to be gone. My mind, a grateful bat cave, wherein I spy.
Enuf, enuf, it stays me enuf. This thing inside my dream space. Curving stairwells with slippery handrails after severe doors slamming, long corridors with peepholes and laughing dust bunnies, it has a way of combining my need for rest with unrest. Swift disquiets flutter from my deepest fears, balloon to the edges, but never break, never pop. They form fit to the homes I dribble myself through to keep me enforced, as they will, by watching carefully all the armed rabbits along the walls. I've never heard a single shot fired, but I can feel the tension. It's always mounting.
From the kitchen where I plot dreams that demand a difficult style of cooking to the park where I exhale my rust, in between is the house I form daily concealed within the house I keep inside my head. In the center of this house is an eye that sees but nothing vital beyond the seeing eye I rely on for the stuff I hoard for no one's pleasure but mine in a secret way. There's a blank space, under which I mold those secrets to fit my whimsies. In extremis there might be someone who sees what I do.
They could act whenever. I realize this. A part of me is always watching for the move. I almost hope the move will be made soon. I'm tired of this waiting, tired of not knowing how the move will manifest, knowing the move will indeed manifest. It's just a matter of time and patience. Perhaps the move will be made after my passing. In a sense that could be what the move is waiting for. I'm an interloper here. I'm between walls that cannot be seen. One may think me mad, so I'll just be quiet and wait in stillness.
How much can one accomplish in absolute stillness? Between two gestures is another gesture that implies yet another, and so on and so forth. It's the deal we create to believe in how we accomplish what we do. There may be little done, little known, little kept for the keeping after the dust settles. One war to another, so much dust, and the stillness in between. The dead will bury the dead. This is a reliable truism that begs the question, how? If you lie very quietly behind the wreckage and watch patiently, you'll find an answer you don't want.
Keeping up with the fall, your eye looks good in my god; it divided itself for the benefit of my ultimate end, and I salute its coming forth to fall. You can see how worship has adapted to its necessity. A march has begun. There are many who are joining hands. It began before the idea of it took root. When it was seen, what was seen was not held in high esteem. The notion of solidarity has become obsolete. Definitions have been burnt at the stake for heresy implicit under the careful wording rendering it palatable to the people.
I know it's time. Many people know this. Doesn't mean anyone has to act. In fact, very few will act. They sit on knowing, knowing that's sufficient, that knowing will effect change. There's a group that needs money for the knowing of its adherents to climb a long bridge to putative freedom, but that only means the freedom to spend money that often doesn't exist on climbing toward a fantasy of being free. The world bites down when the billfold blows green, and one feels a kind of blood in the heart of it compress. Money spent to be mad.
It's furiously grinding to a start. The mass I assembled in the before time when mother looked east and I drew upon the ancients to cull my name before my name and began the assault against my better unseen nature, there was a moment I reflected, much to something's consternation, and that's when this other voice emerged from the ether and preached its word against the word I'd come to accept. Nothing was left out. Excoriated from the innermost core I saw myself displayed like a bug on a kid's 4 H project, and I didn't like what I saw.
Self righteous. That's what they said. I was the asshole in the woodwork, they said. I needed to be disciplined, needed a good talking to, needed to get my head right. They came in force and bid me do a variety of uncomfortable poses. I thought it was for someone's enjoyment, like a reenactment of that scene in Cool Hand Luke when he was made to dig all those holes. I spent my time regurgitating my foul sins and begged for forgiveness, begged for the little document with David's priceless signature. That is when I knew I was right again.
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