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Can you try this one? It'll go fast. There are sides, and crowds are gathering on both. Eyes are on you. You have your target. It's clear and bright. It wavers in the heavy heat and sun. Across the desert plain it seems closer than it really is. You accept this illusion, like all the others. There will be no going back. The stakes are high. You put them there. You've worked hard to get to this point. Nerves are gone. You are soft, riding on a viscous cloud of determination. Nothing will deter you now. You can do it.
You can feed the fluids feeding you to the melting streets. You go broke on the downlow, swiped for a raging river you can't see but sing in gasps and groans, like a lover descending from grace in the aftershock. On the ride you deride the quality. Got sheet metal fleets of diamonds exploding in your eyes. Got the music going in your body decay. Go around the bend, back over the backseat, regurgitate the meat. Find the need to grab a spike and jam it in the jar. Joke, son, it's all on you, and no one is listening.
Matters of facts leave the echoes of truth behind the mind. We huddle in the shadows of the mind. We dissect our fears for fodder in the fires of discontent and pride ourselves as victors of the ever burgeoning war against mediocrity, but really we feed those wars. We dive to the depths and proclaim our mastery of belief only to succumb inevitably to nothing but stale reruns of bad sitcoms. This is our wellspring, a succubus of dead ambition led by the cheers of a chorus of eviscerated cheerleaders. Into the dust we go. The shadows keep us safe.
It climbs thru your vanishing face. Gleeful enterprise. A function suitable for passing thru the webbing, into the viable cage you donate your choice. Rescinded by the advocacy in a fitful moment, you grab quickly for the future painted with meticulous precision on the back of your mind. You've lost your mirror. Arms and hands and legs are lopped off memory. From what you might glean from a fogged view, far off the core, there's only way way to go. That's the way you came. You always go back the same way. No matter the choice, it's always the same.
I could sit with you for hours. We looked similar to each other. We recognized things about each other that others couldn't see or wouldn't see. I touched you in an aqueous place visited by many, but no one ever saw me touch you. You touched me as well. You took my limbs apart in your careful surgeries. I kept count. The death of many states of mind were our doing. There was never any undoing them, just a cataloguing. The undoing was relegated to time and its scalpel, and I looked away. The seeing, though, could not be erased.
Facing our destinies ushers no quiet island, but a quiet whirlwind inside an expanding, private diamond we've wrought thru blood and time, such is the diaspora we divine, such is the glory host we keep clapped to our visitations that keep the honor of the light, the strength of darkness, and the power of both conjoined in a furious wedding of our own devising. This is the destiny we create. It is none other than ours, and ours to sacrifice, as it must be sacrificed to keep the sacrament of our willful domain secure and powerful. Do what thou wilt.
I once boasted to have a story, but you stole it, quickly as I was being born, the tied knots still bleeding in their folds of hospital blood. I can still feel your eyes that denied me. I can still feel the earth of your unwillingness to be my host, as I was your parasite. This diabolical scheme made itself known in the wee hours as I grew unseen, unwanted, spied upon in secret trysts that you always fashioned in dreams and so conveniently denied. Iím still there. I can feel you still watching me way past your death.
It comes to me suddenly. The face rises from a dim belief of dreams fashioning reality, the active dream we dream about in the quiet roar of reading words that possess fire for the eyes that can truly see. We are daunted only by doubt that lives with mud creatures who draw smiles with sabers on vulnerable hearts. They are the dead. They walk amongst the living, searching for the ones to kill. I am resolute in keeping my fires to myself. I round them in a dome of light wherein I swim for life, wherein I cook my heart.
This is what I tried to find and never found till the need to find was exhausted and I lost the desire, the lust, the hope for the un-found, and then it appeared. Should I hold it up? This I cannot do. It is not something to be held up. Itís not a thing. It is what it is. I chase my head to find the reason in a welter of riddles that have no end, no connection, a random, nameless assemblage. I am in this nameless thing. I live to navigate out but I'm always and ever in.
To the end and beginning. The old game. It never lets go. It is not a thing to let go. You let go, and only at the very end where the path leads to the billion, billion questions suddenly and fiercely answered. To be filed under resigned. So you place the record on. You watch it go round. The stylus is lowered. The valleys trod will reveal. Skipping the vinyl is the hop gap of sound made by the dredging needle. You can dance to this dredging. It's fashionable and cheap when it dons its lies, being the perfect jester.
Thereupon, at my end, I'm seen. Tick tock. My flesh is prepared by nimble machines. Humans have fled the scene. What eye does the seeing is a mystery never to be solved. Itís clapped shut in the box marked toxic residue, bio-hazard, keep out! You'll get it if you try! Of course, it doesn't want anyone to look. That would spoil the magic; no magician ever gives away their trade secrets. Such a thing would entail an unforgivable betrayal, resulting in a most terrible fate.....to be forced to listen to the Cat poems by Eliot for eternity. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
The days pass. I measure them out by the punchman punching my ticket on the trains. I eat the time. Candy. I'm a glutton for the decaying elements deigned the architects of our clocks. I can go around to no one in particular and ask the time. They will lie. They always lie. They haven't a choice. The lie is part of the ritual we've accepted as our sentence. Getting out will shed the time, shed the clock, shed the decay, nothing left to decay. But what channel will it be on? Whoís got the right catalogue? You know who.
I do not fear the fire inside. It feeds my soul. It is the fire without that misunderstands, misconstrues, divides off the holy will from the path, creating confusion where there was clarity. I fear this fire. It is shaped by those who do not understand its danger. They only see its light, and in that light, a clarity that is unreal. I hold the fire within to keep myself sanctified. I am what I am, my will speaks for me. There is no other voice but the voice of my will. Every man and every woman is a star.
Their voices are shrill, incisive, banding about their ideology of death. Shall we listen, observant, mute, without hands? Or shall we listen with hands ready, bodies ready, wills ready to insinuate, violate, attack and destroy the Nazi disease rising like a mushroom cloud above a limp-wristed city, desolate & deaf country, emaciated spirit. The peacemongers say, "Live and let live; let them speak. They have freedom of speech." But the speech goes deeper. It energizes souls, invigorates bodies. It lends credence to a burgeoning monster. Cut the speech off at its root. Destroy its ability to speak. Bury the monster.
The furious asides we keep under ice blows our hot blood to another place for another mind and another soul best pushed away from ourselves, so judgment can pass us when the time comes for blood of another kind. All these passages we claim for naught that can be held up as our creations, but never are, keep us devalued, bled of light and dark, hidden securely from ourselves. The hunger we have for slipping out of sight so others see us as we never are but in our darkest shadows is vital to the life we lost by design.
The word uncovered on a day under the face of repression presses the due removal of items crucial to sanity, the undivided heart of the body electric. One continues to feed off the juice thru its conduit brains stitched together on the web. We all consort to belong to this web while denying it. Whether we like it or not, we're on the web. We have been connected thusly. We communicate accordingly. The devices by which we love are the devices by which we hate ineluctably bereft of the one thing we need, a life to claim as our own.
Could I say something? Can I speak? You said I could speak. I have something to say. Something. You said. I have to say something. Something needs to be said. You said I could say. There is a letter that's hiding under the floor boards. It has a curious message. I said what I needed to say. It's there. In the letter. Something. I said it. Itís out. You could spin me around, place a mask on my skull. I'll still say what I need to say. If you hide. I'll find you. I'll make you read the letter.
We speak many languages. Our animal tongues grab at sounds to enunciate the driving force behind humanity sitting at the root where humanity emanates from the source of who we are as humans. The animal sits waiting for the time it's called to action. We need this animal, have always needed it. Language grows from our unspoken lives living in a mess of vowels and verbs and objects, a tumble down of possibilities in a deep well without light but the hope of light. One never knows how they'll assemble, but the die do; then we speak as we must.
Learning about courage? In the books you'll find a slew of tropes to guide you into battle with your favorite phantasm. It's the delight of the hour and the pittance scoop of the day that you should derive the excessive ecstasy from its counterpoint and be deceived. That's the key. You need to realize how this key functions, so you can turn the whole thing around and proceed in the intended direction. You can't learn what you need to learn in this vacuum. It suits the hybrid dreamer buried under shadows of books. Yet, there just might be a way.
Fleeing the sound of the sorcerer that wants me down, hissing whispers in the echo dome of head, my heart follows suit with the drumming beat of blood within blood to bode my fury trample the demon witch, igniting blood rushes of mind and soul, incandescent rivers of light, a veritable rainbow of thoughts spiraling in and out. These are the rapids I ride. These are the conduits I embrace. From an aged wicker chair on a porch at dusk thru a gentle breeze I see the earth within me about to give birth to a new kind of fire.
The extremist's mind. In the section column we stockpile our incendiary thoughts. Sacrosanct and secure we'll find our waiting worth it. The others don't heed any warnings. They believe us delusional, at best. Under the guise of keeping house for them, the critical wires are being placed, little by little; each day we progress a little further. One day it'll be complete. Our work will shine brilliantly savage. Just a tiny nudge, a curl of a finger pricked at the end of a single thought will complete our mission. Much will be said about this. Our place in history, sealed.
The day is dark with scattered thunderstorms. A few people walked their dogs. The street in front of my building was resurfaced this morning. Humidity hangs like a rotted corpse from a scaffolding. The air stinks of highway residues, belching trucks, cars with no catalytic converters. Occasionally, the sun peeks thru, but the shine doesn't refresh; it reveals the day covered in soot and grime. Someone was shot to death a mile away robbing a bodega. Several people were put to death this week in various states. The cruel comedy in Washington plays to standing only crowds. On and on.
In the moment, searching the moment. It spreads out. A tangle. Every which way, you have a choice. In a storm with holes for eyes, the collapsing times, past and future. Yours for the living or not. The moment gapes, a great maw filled with hunger. You contain it. You release it. In the midst you're devoured. You devour it. Soft eating machines in a frantic bind. Wrestling for eternity. Looking inward, you see without, the other. A terrible dilemma. One cannot resolve lest one devolve into nothing. The bind must continue. Therefore, you will continue. You and the other.
We walk thru it. Life sweats. Blood of the sweat feeds the earth that gave us life, feeds us life. The cycle parades. We dance. We sweat. We bleed. Along the way, an eye catches the rivers we've become, on the byways threaded thru this landscape called life, islands of questions we barely touch, there comes that one eye,† a hand, arms, legs, the flexing muscles on a fond conjunction confronting the questions becoming the questions for another colliding on an island, near and far, we come together. We sweat. We bleed. We live life. Two lives that now belong.
Hard to maintain, pressed thru the maelstrom of beatings, a mind drifts to collect the rationale to press on. Logic is trashed. Nothing makes everything the same as nothing. Body floats, removed. Voices land on the mind spewing shattered logos, scittering like insects over its pockmarked landscape, driving toward an end, not knowing what that end might mean, incomplete, incoherent. It is necessary to reach it. How are we to combine? An expanding web of eyes, the silent implacable witness, keeps tab, records the travesty. We know why. No need to ask. The answer has already become obsolete. Trick question.
Drive the edge thru, hold the body intact, the voice ready to sing, mouth expanded on the variable excesses most glorious, sing, sing, erupt, divulge the crawling night reveal its cowl from within the sealed mind, crack its egg. You can feel it rising, earth, body, mind, soul, all the ingredients rushing into play, the mad delight, orgy of light, come into me, find me as weak as I am strong, find me solid, dissolve me in your kiss, heave me from your questions, destroy the answers utterly, be at one as you all and none, do what thou wilt...
Drive it down the dust, burn the earth, growl heaven in the grit of noise. You succumb easily. Fits of eyes carouse a space suddenly unfurled. Sky belches sun, an inky sludge. You can feel it coursing through your hungry veins. You need it like a junky needs scag. Harmony is dispensed for the blasted brains, rivers roaring a gibber of noisy eyes. Rooms are full now. Gurneys nod. A kind of perplexity pervades. Cadavers are free to do what they want. Having sex in the icy cold of dead veins missions the heart slavishly to another kind of desire.
It's not the least of it I could free from my mind to keep me afloat. The hardest and the deepest keeps me attuned to the edge whereon the brightest seems dim. What seems a straightforward down-rush into light becomes the bleakest journey. Should I look to something above me? Should that something bind me to the lies that soothe for compliance in a world that offers no choice for those who bend their minds to a different kind of rhythm. All the mess swirls about the down turned eye. In the mess is the secret to escaping.
What seemed inevitably bleak took a rare turn. On my table I watched a very private thing unfold. From several rooms came the ingredients. They came simply without pretense. They came to offer themselves. Humbled by this show of generosity, I yielded to their bidding. They asked nothing of me but to watch, listen and learn. As a child I learned this lesson well. When a superior spoke, I listened. The floor felt somewhat tilted. I noticed the sun seemed different as it came thru the window. The air tasted brittle. What I was to learn, changed me forever.
Much as I might decry the outer fringes of this private reality, I need it. Much as I should jettison the works of the Great Work I am employed by them to reveal them and to conceal them. Much as I should shred the beliefs that call out my missionary zeal to overwhelm the swell that rises, ever rises inside and without, to couple oblivion, Iím embraced by it. This, my world, within and without, I adore and despise. On the outer reaches and at the inner most point of origin, Iím there; so are you. So are we all.
You can feel that special momentum when it approaches. It'll be there for you alone. Most often, people avoid thinking about it. It'll come when it comes, right. Mostly, though, it comes for other people. Those kind of things are story book things, articles of fantasy, fiction, horror, things that make you jump, but that's all. They're not real. Now. The reality is upon you. The stations are broadcasting only a few things that you recognize. The programming seems to be off. Yeah. You can say that. Very off. What kind of off it is will cheer someone, not you.
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