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I get to a point in the day when everything slows down. There's nothing bad about that. The desire to move outside myself reverses, and I stop. I watch the day slow down alongside me through the windows. Others find solace in socializing. That's not me. I find solace in myself. I'm not afraid of being with myself as I used to be. Peace comes to me like a slow moving river of shadows flowing down the wall. I eat them. They become part of me. I live in the shadows. They become me, and I become them. We belong.
The long haul drags thru the dimming day onto a river of black water. Oh black water keep on rollin...off a skimming gleam of moon from a vestage on a snap of day from a fond memory, like a smile in a pit of fury, the lapsing cue to fight a clout. So it goes to the end. You can be off the key, off the tune, but you know the lyric. Take her by the hand. Funky juice in a Honky Tonk. Gotta mama in the blues. You know it. Threads of a youth on a vinyl riff.
One must leave behind the sediments of the past lest they combine in a circle of alleged friends around a table where you serve their meals while they take what you give, always take; in the repository no one is exempt. Their hands are full of you. You occupy their intents. The device was set in motion eons ago. Nothing to be done but wait on the residues of the past to handle them thusly, but can you do that, sir? Can you use the volume of your unique momentum to fulfill this necessary duty? Your generation needs to eat.
A whiff is all it takes to plunge the hammer up, brain belted by a backwater sledge, tunes of the old god spewing out your vented skull starving for a bite of light. Brain flowers the optimum digestible through a cragged gateway lost to the eyes with eyes, but not for the eyes of the eyes. In true blindness there is true sight. In this most hallowed and private collision, you can smell the volume dimming down, as the core mind feeds frantically off the residuals. Mouths without faces scramble for a bite, thrashing their delights to the leering moon.
Yes, yes, I see, yes to all the wonders dug deep from the plenty of questions held high to gain a better view, a new sighting, a grand vista of reality's elopement on a scale that would stagger the gods of Olympus. It is finally out, released from its dim cave, after eons of hunkering down to scratch a wit to wind desires into something real enough to satiate their will to live yet another day for days upon years upon decades upon centuries upon Millennia upon eons that have no breadth nor depth nor end to its craving lust.
The patches are many. They cover the newest constructions well. Outside we see the oncoming confrontations where nothing will be resolved but set aside for another series of lies dressed as truth. it was built for the sake of being destroyed. Scandals have a way of infesting the better judgments of those who create the architecture. We take them at their word but only when the words are convoluted by way of divergent meanings jumbled together. It's vital that no one really understand their true intents, for if the truth were known, everything would fall apart. No one would succeed.
I am thinking about you. The outline of your spirit rides my heart like a wave rides a tsunami. All expectation has been dashed. I can see why people give up so easily. It's a hard thing to swallow when nothing makes sense anymore. At the same time it becomes quite soothing. A unique dilemma. Why try anymore? You loom large. There's a satisfaction in knowing how large your presence has become, and how unconcerned people are that I'm disappearing from my own view. I sink myself in you. I dispel all concerns. You have taken me. I am yours.
The power lives on its own, secretly. A private lodge of energy exists below a sense of reality, where a face looms as if to reassure with lies. We live with grand lies. They digest us. We are eaten, and we don't know it. In a great gullet, the vibrant life we yearn to create is but a drill on a simulator deck. find the mirror you own within. Dive inside. Ask the questions that are forbidden. Feel the energy of your simulation begin to fade. As it crumbles, hold what you can, but know, nothing will stay the same.
His bright eyes creep from their vestibule. I know them well. A friend lives behind them. On a screen deep within his puzzlement, a world flutters and skips, shimmers and dances, radiates a profound, private reality. I carry his smile in my heart, yet his life lives far away. Within this secretive domain he dabbles in a painting, a simulation of life wherein he sketches moments where I'm involved. I visit when I can. I listen. My heart is there. Perhaps one day he'll feel it too.
“Telling you to complete the route is being optimistic that you'll follow my suggestions.” The long table was set hurriedly. People arrived late. They were hungry, but the plane hadn't taken off yet. It was being refueled. Several passengers complained. No action was taken. The food was getting cold. All of it had been left in the kitchen. The plane taxied down the tarmac. Signals were sent and received. A few of the best dressed people had taken notice. They thought it was funny. Someone said, "I'm hungry," and the plane took off. Cross set vectors were set to connect.
Does somebody have the balls? Who has the gusto to clamp the nonsense down? In a vested interest, what goes for wisdom banks on stupidity to broach the bank, to feed the coffers. Grabbing at anything to hoist the lies, a smile fixates sun as its brother, makes a broad claim to know the sky and earth as himself, as a self proclaimed Poet-King, drawing inspiration from nothing for nothing, seeding minds with hope sans integrity. Who can rise to this most necessary occasion, lapping up grit on a swooping growl from that which wants to stay buried but can't?
What is right? What is wrong? In the vat a whorl. Can it be circumscribed by actions vetting its worth? Dogfights. You have a need to invest, but the investing's done. Long gone. You can't remember, can you! It's typical. The rhythm cast is the rhythm ground to a point that has no dimension. In the vital signs you can find nothing to stimulate hope. No matter. The whorl is all. You're there, though you say you aren't. You insist upon knowing where you are, how you are, who you are. The question still remains. Can you even remember that?
I see you on a chair in front of the window overlooking the vista. Only you can see it. It's there for you. It took decades to get where you are, to have the opportunity to see this vista. Few make it this far. Many fall into the ruin of acceptance. They live for the nod of the head, the wink of the eye, the acknowledgement of that which has no substance but is everywhere, controlling, controlling, controlling, and the hoards smile and nod and smile. They want you to join them, happy in their loss dressed as a jackpot.
I'm always going low, heading down, spiraling down from the place I want to be. It's perpetual. My eyes scan high. Sky feels like skin; it bubbles off on the downlow in the descent. Something is helping me out of the skin, the sky, the place I was. Could I be handed off to something else, please? I'm tired of being grabbed like this and shaken down as I'm about to get to the door. You see, that's what I want, to get to the door. Why is that so hard? It's all I want. Why can't I have it?
Somewhat harmonious, somewhat not. The dust hasn't settled. One cannot see the horizon. It may or may not be there. A decision was made. No one knows what it was, but the outcome will effect everything. The sky has an off color look, a purple tint. Several children spoke of it in class. The teacher rebuked them, saying such blasphemy would not be tolerated. The Star Spangled Banner was sung, then bled its colors. Faces were exchanged and lost. The room that once held voices, now holds charcoal etchings. No one need look for the horizon again. It's been exchanged.
We speak aside the truth. Distractions. Under the guise of the other we deny the other. The other is but a two dimensional figure that gave us a paper cut. We healed. Yes, we healed, didn't we? We become the design, the two dimensional convenience form. On a board we tack the form. Darts beget our anger pulse. Vying for the bullseye we miss and miss, though we hit it spot on. A phantasm bolts our keys to the prison door. We lost them. Time gave us the blackout. No matter. Fumbling for darts, we clamp a smile over howls.
Sometimes there's a vacuum between jobs where I float in a dull space, and this dull space defines my identity as a wanderer in a vital nexus where connections are being made and un-made simultaneously. I grope at these connections, these sparking cables, and sometimes I grasp one of them. A strong charge passes through me that I can't define, yet it defines me in a way that’s significant. Each definition is a piece of a grand puzzle that I need to solve. Once done, it'll solve me, but the puzzle grows larger with each piece. My struggle.
There's that vague disquiet again. It comes with a nudge, a whisper, something other than a call to action. Nothing that blatant. Come what may, we yield eventually. Our ears take the cue as a snug wind, a blunt gust, that's all. It's the ears of the ears that hear. They do the decoding. What falls inside our muscles is gleaned not from mind, usually, but from the essence of a forgotten passage long erased from view, a script of enormous import, yet nothing seen, nothing that can be touched, yet something that touches all, a vague disquiet, that's all.
We found each other in the soft silence. Gathering light from shards of darkness we succumbed to each other. Blinded eyes plucked from crass sabers of flesh crossed with a white violence in a shadow of a clamped past, have donned a new sight lifted from the stagnating dull. Revitalization grants this thumping vibrancy, a raving to a spirit's dance few can see, let alone hold. Our soft silence embraces our screams. There are no boundaries. What once were vacuous drills can now be known in a simple way. Old sheaths fall away. New skins are bright. Sky be kissed.
You found the soft loophole, grabbed in clutches of bloody cloth. It hung over the land like a nuclear winter, grinding stertorously, exhaling in secret the new drug, killing off the pains. In the gulf between your eye and its heart, you sat beside the sleeping form while the land digested your breathy detritus. The clustered silence unraveled its question, finding a rare answer. In its rising you felt a new sensation, resolved to its inevitability. The sly amendment squeezed thru the loophole, as you made it clear how important it was to hold your swart newborn like a gun.
It comes not near. Sleep is shunted. Wakefulness derives excess from a need to follow its place of humanity to a zoo where humans are degraded by design, the best place for dining and drinking, a place for the whole family, where one can relax, the lost and found of faces, where we can exchange them like baseball cards. I live inside the Mickey Mantle card. He owns my eyes. My soul is stitched on the frayed edges. My friends and I live in the pack together in a drawer of an abandoned house. We don't want to be found.
What I know, flies by, a dart. Skewed on its path, it finds its own reflection and becomes another kind of departure. Asked to be an acolyte, one feels pride then fear. You know what's going to happen. You've pinned all the others on your dartboard. Your day will come. On the alter you'll find peace, but not the peace you dream about. You dream of fairy tales, of plush pleasures poured from a celestial ghost to those who've followed the rules. Have you followed the rules. How many more lies must be killed before you can taste the truth?
Sometimes the sky blooms. I get to enter the chamber. In the descent I swell. As I fall In a volume I can barely hold in my head I become as large as a galaxy. Can you see the emptiness as it consumes the necessity? The reality of it is far more insidious and indescribable. Words have little value when facing this enormity. I wish I could give you what I truly mean. The effort falls on its own hubris and implodes. A small girl is blowing up a colorful balloon on the walkway. She is walking with her grandfather.
The little girl is walking with her grandfather. He doesn't see what's really happening. I feel this reality from behind the necessary scrim. Though I feel like crying out a warning, I know I would never be heard. The couple walk to the end of the pier. It's a bright day, cool with shifting breezes that belie the darkness in the imminent act. I am watching the sky now. I know it will bloom. I feel it. If I told anyone they would laugh. I even find this funny to consider, but the act is anything but funny. It’s necessary.
You fall in the stream. You rejoice. No death knell or suicide swim. It's a beginning. Always another beginning. It takes you over. You don't know where you will go. You don't care. No longer worried, the swells within the flows embrace you, and you drown. The joy is inexpressible. You drown to the necessity of reflections lauding your flight. This is for you. You drown for you. A new life lives in the flow, in the generation of logos on the flow. Driving thru the floods without care, creation erupts. You are dissolved. You hold nothing. The creation lives.
Again, the rising. Flows. Heat. In your hands you fumble raw logos in the heat. You hold it, but you cannot keep it. You feel what's inside. Always inside. Then it comes. You hold it, but you cannot hold it. You give it out, but you cannot give it out. It calls to you. The eyes of your eyes see it. Your body cranes its limited sinews to take it in. You reach within. There. And there. Heat. You see it? The flames whip mind. Frenzies. It's never right. It's never what you felt. Agonies. But again. The rising. Again...
It comes down to you, but only when you turn away. You can ask for it, beg for it, plead, but it will ignore you. When you least expect it, then it'll come. The lady wore a long dress. Her pearl necklace gleamed under the amber streetlight. The city corner was stark. No one was about. She stood staring at a fixed point across the street. There was nothing particularly notable. She stared hard. Quite suddenly she turned away. A meteorite streaked across the sky. A loud truck clanged. Someone jumped off. A gun went off. Bright pearls and blood.
I'm walking into the sunset with a growing sense of freedom. A cloud forms. The deepening blue sky compels my eye to the cloud. It’s clear but for that cloud. I want to watch the sunset; I do, but the cloud draws my eyes away as I walk. I try to ignore it. The cloud seems to be calling me. My head cranes back. I stop walking. There's a peculiar numbness in my legs. The cloud fills the sky. I want it. It wants me. The sky goes blank. My eyes go blank. Stillness. Only the mud and sky remain.
It's all open. Getting wider. The expanse drives one to its solace, its emptiness. Thru its eye the engulfing blackness dispels fear, eats light. It devours angst, the way of the beast in its privations. How delicious it feasts on the detritus of memory, on the ruins of coupling, now dashed to oblivion. Can one embrace this tempest of the invisible wind? Shall it go unheeded? No. All is within. All is consumed. Fending off what little is held, a summation divides one from their gibbering ego. How significant it felt, how important; now, how trivial, useless, a worn coin.
A beautiful thing. Waiting for you. Along the route, plains, mountains, glimmering lakes under full moons, gaping suns over yellow deserts spreading like frozen wildfire in your eyes, stretches of roads whose destinations mark no foreshadowing, only mysteries, their invisible hands reaching out, like the one thing is reaching out, getting ever closer. The sky doesn't seem so far away under the breadth of this imminence. Finding the gaping hole inside you and filling it with wonder, with explicit desire to know, to feel, to undo these old wounds, to let go utterly, so fine, so gorgeous, and another beginning.
Thru the oblique tunnel I see misalignment carousing with ideas of a fixture from beginning to end as the completeness sought by those who believe completeness is a possibility. Delusion has a funny way of working the psyche to its aberrant conclusions, eh? Such is the way of the world, devised by madmen in polite deliriums. We proffer no gust of rationale, lest it be ignored. At best, toyed with, like a toothpick in a dragon's brain. We sink ourselves delightfully into chaos. Thers's no choice. We all agree. It's best to fall inside the mess to become the mess.
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