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Who the fuck are you? In the drain I smell the residues of bygone relatives who snorkled me like a radical fish on a worm out of water. They're gone. They died. They dried up and were smoked by all my neighbors whether they wanted to or not. Like I say, it's best to be gone below and aside the mainframe thoughts you've taken to hold as true; they are not true. Who the fuck are you? I'm being set upon by the armies of that which have no solidity but in the realms of faith and abstract belief systems.
Is this for real? I was told to wait here. The room's getting smaller. I can see the sky is darkening. Little mechanical bugs fly about the space. They look like nano-drones. Someone's watching. Isn't technology amazing? We haven't got the grit to fight back. Only choice is to go along, but go along with what? They won't tell you. I don't know which door to pick, Monty! Not surprising. There sren't any doors. We can hear the music. It guides us toward a parade, but how can we go to the parade if we're all stuck in here?
This tops it out. Ignorance holds no sway. One can delude themselves only so long, then the rabbit will out. It's face is fire. You can feel the rabbit burning in your brain. It's only a matter of the degenerated wit that comes with knowing too much, too well how the cycle goes. In the end it'll be seen, felt, heard, noted like a branding. One will carry that to their mausoleum and no one will pray for them. Why would they? The passing is one of relief. He was such a noisy sort, though quiet, his thoughts screamed murder.
Fishing in the dark. You baited the hook with a wish of skewed fire, one tongue a patter of kisses, the other a scourge of nails. On the diadem where you found your birth, at last, the operation becomes vivid. No one can ignore it anymore It's time, though. Granted, ignorance has its worth, but its time has passed. Onto the slab you take your place with pride, perhaps a bit of fear, as well. That's understandable. I'm well aware of the limitations we, as humans, possess. I'm proud of this. I've made it my duty to hold it solemnly.
The struggle went on for eons, it seemed. I thought the line would break, but it didn't, I held the rod fast; I played as I fought. It was a game. The catch was secure and so very important, I thought. How in the end such an enormous event would end up mattering so little I was oblivious. How could I know? Only reality would teach me the truth, something I was lacking for most of my life. Lies held sway. They give up their grist with difficulty, only after a long fight, hearing them bellow, "We are the Truth."
You search around as much as you can. You haven't the wherewithal to seek a new place of value. The old one's still good, you think; you just don't know it's gone. It was buried long ago. Only dog-eared photographs still exist, tacked on a wall in a place that no one visits. It waits upon a guest, like Prometheus might wait while chained to the rock, hoping. Life lives in the hoping. We can wrap our souls around that for all the good it'll do anyone. Under a long breath awaits the eternal ocean. One day we'll return.
To the end of it we'll play the game. Rules are up for grabs. The sky reaches down for the ground has no decency to cover itself under a hard rain for all to see. It wants the world to see. It has no decency purposefully. This side of paradise is looking for a new dad, one that'll teach it some manners, ha. Manners! What good are they? Do they keep our minds intact while bombarded by the raw influx of newness sans discrimination? No. Our place is rich in potential. You gotta just try; gotta just go for it.
For the good of it. We hold to our truths. Clutching the Holy Books we tip-toe into the future. Our past has withered in its gaze. It no longer sees us. It doesn't want to see us. The decay is rank. We aren't permitted in the sanctuary. We have to get the lessons in the mail. They don't want us to touch them, and for good reason. Well, it's only proper. The gods need a clean space to live. We made them gods. We gave them our beliefs. It's only proper to keep their mausoleum as clean as possible.
In the park we go for peace of mind. It opens itself up for us. Inside its leafy green skin we wrap ourselves tight to feel the love lacking in every other man-made place. Our skin is too thin for the man-made earth. We can't keep it free of disease. The scale is tipped against us. There's no point in trying to hide the fact or make it go away. The best of us can make these ugly tings go way. It takes money. I turn my head away from money. I look to the park for richness.
Club time, a secret crash society bash, no eclectic vibration rendering but the simplest of chords sprung on the cord lashed to the knobs you hold in deep as the opposites of convenience. I'm watching the critical area where they'll come or not. In some old time after the long goodbyes you'll see the feeling come alive as a crass newness no one could've expected or desired. Not to be petulant, but the only other outcome is too awful to consider. We're waiting, all of us. It's only a matter of time before those two knobs become one or none.
Should I care that I don't care, though I do, but not in the way they want me to care? Is it my summation in some as a plague to health to be an advocate of eating what I want, when I want to eat it, without a care to my overall health but with a nod perhaps when I veer too closely to garbage? I sink to my knees in reverence to celebration of anything! Feeling it fully, diving to the extremes with joy, keeping in step with being out of step with those who are ever so right.
I find myself in a kind of cage, a delightful cage full of the emanations of imagination, the pebbles of dreams to be tossed hither and thither by the flux of intent to serve the mind and heart as they orbit each other, feed each other, find each other out as ally or enemy, both. We are swept to the core and out to the infinite. My cage is my home. My home is my star that dies and is born again many times each day. I cannot describe but merely note the event, as I nod to the infinite.
I can go that far. It's been calling me. The others stand aloof, watching, waiting for me to fail. I see the loophole. They slide sideways in view of the backside by the worst scenario played out on a loop. The fancy is in the desire for devastation. In the bridle catch of the rush, one sees only the end. The tunnel narrows to a pinpoint. Contrary to all who stand, I go ahead without thinking on the contrary muse. We are infected by this disquieting muse on every front. I see the smoke rise, the blood flow. I plunge.
We calibrate our lips by the cockles of the muscular fish, but where can they be found when the TV is busted and no one has a wi-fi connection, when the car is in the middle of a desert, when all you have to eat is jello, when the children are no longer sitting still, when the winter has failed to lend a spring and the summer is an afterthought, all this combined with the fear of never reaching your goal, that's when the lips loom larger than desire itself and you have no recourse but to start again.
All gone. Soon. Cinders and ash, plumes of smoke to be quickly forgotten. The ecclesiastical emblem is crumbling. Some may really care. Most don't. It's a stop on the tour for most. An alter, begotten of antiquity, one that represents a god, is eating earth. Ironic. Ashes to ashes. Big deal. We've seen this before. Why is it such a surprise? Can we not understand, everything dies? Assimilate it. Be at peace with the demise. You put so much importance on one thing. It is just that, a thing, an old thing, a grand thing indeed, but still a thing.
So much time lands inside me, forming questions that can never be answered, bleeding its own brand of fears. Should time be aware of its own passing? Should it be aware of its mutability and ultimate demise? One day it will all collapse, disperse into a frenzied cloud of quarks; all will be quiet once again. As in the beginning, there will only exist an unspoken question, a different one. There have been innumerable questions; none of them have been answered. They float about the cosmos as a kind of identifying banner, saying, we're here now for the time being.
Times' children keep their timepieces intact, hidden and carefully tended. They are Lords of the Moment. They are among us. They see us. We see them, but we don't know who they are. I may be one of them, but I don't know. They are not to be known. None of them know who they are or even why they are. That would disturb the cosmology. They exist to keep the balance; being unaware, they fill the needs of the universe to remain secret. How might I know if I'm one of them? I need to die, to be exiled.
If one sees, one becomes ill. That's the nature of seeing. It is not a thing that enhances life. One can be aware of life; one should be aware of life, but if we see it, we'll know it for what it is. The secret will be known, the secret of why. That's forbidden knowledge. The question of what it is floats about our minds perpetually, an invisible hoard of bees buzzing ceaselessly. Our health demands it to be around us, even as life is around us and inside us, making us who we are. Seeing it is another thing.
The open question looms. I catch glimpses of it thru the fogs I create to obfuscate, to create the game of fumbling thru the fogs to reach home. It's a grand board game, better than Monopoly. There's no money involved. The pieces of the game are unknown until they're needed. One plays in a very dark room. What light we create is extinguished at once for the fears created alongside it. Darkness is where we feel the most at home. For lack of light we fashion a painting that gives off its own light, and we configure ourselves within, comfortably.
So yes, so no, so why, so how, so here, so who? A gaggle of confusions that bakes a mean stew. I gobble that stew daily. Helps build my body to keep my mind free of it. Shall I tell you how it's so wonderful to live in this kitchen? I have to say, it's a great pass-time. That would be cheating; besides, I don't know how. That's part of the dilemma, and we all know it. Best to go to the store online and buy our ingredients. No one need know. No one ever knows. Solitude is us.
They look at me; they decide who I am. They tell me what's good for me. I'm supposed to listen. The clock is on the wall. It's running, and we better keep trying to catch up. They say it's good for me. You don't want to be alone, do you? Why run this race alone. That would be, what? Lonely. In a circle of grand design, we gather to praise our knowingness. We look to one another and say, yes, we belong. To what? That's not a fair question. In this fit of togetherness, we could never be more lonely.
Running down the hill. It's fun. Liberating. Eyes fondle my descent. In their seeing, they judge my running. I am fitted to the proper place by their judgments. It's the way of the world, and we better know it too. We better get in line and march accordingly. At the head of the march is a slogan. It's so far in the distance now we can't make it out, but it keeps us organized. It keeps us in line. All the better to know it, right? Wrong. Obeying is everything. We can't see it, but the slogan is inside us.
Round the edge we go. Tick tock. The bees are buzzing. The season is ready for its seeding. Tick tock. Around the edge we go, flinging our seeds to the high definition space we call home. In a dark room without windows except for one, we sit and we beget our growing grounds. We are liked or not. We glean the unseen friends. We pile our resources. At the moment of signing off we know or not how well we're connected. Bed will breed the telling dreams, and we'll feel it. Tick tock. All is well. All is sown together.
This was a quick job. They called us and we sprang into action. The duty was clear. Cleaning the messes is our task. We are called day or night or in between. There is noting but waiting for the next call. That's our life. Our eyes rivet to the clock. It hangs high above us. It's no use. You can't touch it. It touches us with its designs. I'm glad I don't have to think for myself. What's the good of that? It only breeds trouble. The destruction of individuality is a beautiful thing. In it's decay we are alive.
There's a stillness you can't bargain on being the openness it seems to possess. You decline the option to reverse when the choice has been made to become this stillness. It has a price. You will pay that price. It begs deference. It wants you to embrace it. You are beholden to make the choice without full knowledge of the consequences of that choice. You're in a bright limbo; it demands your utter immersion. In your descent there may come an elevation, a kind of apotheosis. In your mind a smile will expand. Despite all that smile will become you.
I make myself available. My garments fall away. My skin peels. The bright shadows within unravel. They fly furiously from the core. Birds of fire. In their eyes my heart is revealed. It lights the space by who I am, the space where I die to live. In the expanse I know the depth to which I will rise. I know the price well. For decades I abjured that price. I only fondled the idea of becoming truly naked. Waiting no longer makes sense. I am utterly complete in this transformation, though nothing will appear to have changed. I'll know.
It comes for you softly with a Kool Aid signature of relief in the dim blue skies after saying hello for the final time. It's a clean departure from the typical rerun of the old time TV shows where everyone gets along, and no one as sex with anything but the dog in the backyard after wrap. We've established a long legacy, and it's been a hellavu run; it just about evens out when the numbers are tallied. I could say I didn't enjoy some of it, but that would be a clever lie. I needed to build this tomb.
Taking the anvil down to the cellar to do the laundry coins a clean number for a washing. We seek the house wherein we can hide and be invisible. The cleaning is necessary. No one likes to clean. It's a nasty business. Things get turned around and upside down. You lose sight of your head; your wits go tumbling into confusion. Taking hold of the anvil you can divest yourself of care and just let go. It meets the requirements for dissolution. You need commitment, though, above and beyond the usual. You'll be in a constant state of near disaster.
You don't even know it. It tumbles down, and you can't fuckin see it. No one sees it. No one wants to see it. There's a big price that comes with seeing it. Can you dig this shit, man? You helped design it. It twirls about your wits with catchy rhetoric, splashy and stylish verbiage. It dresses itself really cool. You want to be seen at a party with it, and you always are seen, but it doesn't really go the way you'd like, does it? It has a haphazard way of digging deep into your mind with diabolical traps.
Fit to be served in this whirlwind realm created daily by dreams bent on the excoriation of mind that's unseen, unfelt, unknown but in the caverns of desire gone sideways. We could reinvent this realm, as we need, to be alive in a way that's comfortable for others. They need to be comforted. Comfort comes too slowly for the inhabitants of this world bound by their wide screens bundled in dark servers buried by reason of absolute need. Everything we need is buried. Our needs have evolved beyond need. You could say that's totally nuts, and yeah, you'd be right.
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