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Clear as a bell. The well gaped. Music poured. Its lips waggled. I found a rhythm in a unique way. My loss became my gain. I hardly realized it until I slipped through the rat hulled streets to my bed with its long ear awaiting my story. I told it stories every night. That way I found some rest and its gracious silence. I had to earn that silence. Ferocious as it could be, it became very soothing when I told the nightly tale. I was told there would come a time when it would ask of me a favor.
The favor was adorned with misshapen secrets that belied its true nature; what dribbled from the mouths of those who gave themselves to the job of being the spokesmen for the office at the top, were the wearing glosses of nothing provocative or useful but slavishly deceitful and distracting. These were the elements one had to encounter on the journey toward something no one could describe but as something wonderfully altering, challenging and tasty. It gave people an interest in going forth and pitting themselves against this colossal mischief. Should the favor be put out of mind, that's another thing.
So the nights tore away the days and had a way of wrapping them all in a confusing but enticing fashion, much like having drunk driver with a straight jacket afixed careering down a narrow mountain pass with numerous blind children strapped to the seats begging for new batteries, as their x-boxes had died. The delight was gone. Light had fled. It's better to accept this weird ordeal than to deride the ones who prattle on that we've lost something to our brave new world of technology. Who cares? If we can get new batteries, all will be well.
God damn! I've had some weird dreams, but this one took the cake and cooked it sideways. I'm baffled. I don't often become baffled. Someone walked up to me in an empty room with one window overlooking a sewage reclamation plant. They offered me a taste. I asked, of what? Of our new wine, they said. What wine? Can't you see it brewing? I saw many midgets fiddling with what looked like entrails of a moose, squeezing out excrement into the teeming canals of colorful sewage. It's a new vintage. Prime. You should be proud. You're getting the first taste.
You reach down, you're in control. The depth is charged like a 65 thousand dollar question hanging on a thread in full obfuscation, a cloaked temptation like none other. You reach down. It reaches up. There's quaint symmetry like a math problem you solved many years ago. It wavers in view. You see it, then you don't, but it sees you, clear as a bullseye on the shooting range. The opening of the primary gesture is up to you. Throngs of unspoken screams flow up your stiff torso, making light of the heavy in store. Could it be? Just wait.
Do you see it, or do you think you see it? Is seeing it a thought or not? If the thought comes before the seeing, what difference does it make what you see? In the seeing is the mystery. The mystery is what you're seeing or not. I can see inside the archives of this man's life a vast vault of sights not seen but held in mind as seen. The life extends outward from thoughts back into thoughts. The mind contains its own. The world of sight not seen is bound inside the holy bible of this man's head.
Beat this thing? You hear all the grist down at the gobble table where mouths of upper repute give thanks before devouring the prayer. You haven't anything to keep yourself from being taken. It's the going trend to be taken while you're at the chopshop. No. You can't beat this thing. This thing is where its at. It's in the blood. You flow along as the music trails off. It's always trailing off. What can be surmised is the ever growing excitement you feel as the inevitability sinks in, and you know where the flow is going. Gonna be great!
Excuse me, business calls, the call is business, business is the mission of business if you decide to accept it. In the vestibule where I concoct my actions I dip toward the voice on the end to the beginning again and to the value of its linkage. All praise to the god of the invisible wires. What can I tap into you? What says the voice as it dribbles down the invisible wires to collude with a fractious consciousness? The loop varies only slightly. The vistas change by appointment. Do I have to point out how much their workers charge?
Heavy are the whispers to convey the message, it's in the middle of rising, not that it will or won't settle in a place of being at the highest or lowest, but in the ultimate way it becomes a reason to hold itself, it'll defy any expectations. I'm in the thrust of doing what I must, not to infect myself with anything contrary to my desire, of being in the middle as I always am, but at the edge of a decision rivaling any other to reach this inexplicable place or rising. How it'll end, no one knows but one.
Servile to the minister of codes who cannot remember his own name or the place in which he exists, for he exists outside of any realm accessible to the meter readers, the minions are falling in. They have that way about them, to fall in. It's a convenient place to be; the instruments of the ruling class won't fit in the very locks they were created for. No matter. It was to be expected. Nothing construed for the present will exist past the present. It lives in the future this thing you seek. It is there you will be welcomed.
You say you can handle it, but your color vies for retelling of the convenient truth that bids on lies for a ramification of nowheresville. In the dispute you carry a load that's unattractive even for the most hardened sewer worker. Can it be thrust out of view? Will the monkeys settle down or will we have to call an exterminator? No one can handle it. Come on, you like telling these fibs for attention, don't you! When the incinerator heats up and your body is ready for the show, those fibs may come back as a very mean grandmother.
A springing luck lopping for a spritely show, then a going grab at the uppermost. For the right of the savage to begin the lip of language, can the mind leap out of the purely muscular to defeat ignorance in its stance as the primal urge of those who wish to survive, or is it the darkest desires that can upend the stagnation of creative thought? We, as the race that has risen from the oceans in the days when sun and moon had no interruption by a feeble mouth that had nothing to say but talked way too much.
The vision isn't complete. What revolves today may be spinning tomorrow. What's heliocentric today, might be flat tomorrow. We subscribe how we go, and to the plenty of mindlessness we hobble, careening on the narrow pass from insanity to insanity; it gets more narrow as we go. The pictures become more colorful. They create their holding caverns of delusion and call them palaces. Of all the dreams we could have we've fashioned a zoo of many cages without number, without sense. The design follows from the minds being boiled in their own vacuums. Such are the new days without sun.
Sluicing thru the bongling day, catching a river roaring joke machine in the belly waddle, such a fierce cowivvel in the tight bunches I got with a fisting at the cage of edible smiles. This and that, kindly dawdling for no one's passion flower, I can see how they bloom when no one's looking. It's a hibble-hobbling trick that no one questions, but I'm here now with a switch of certain sables. Gonna catch me a cadging con who takes time to mold the master blot. Rolling it out on the table, it's no wonder, the animals get confused.
You see how you nodded off the electric place mat, it's amazing the doctor didn't assign you to a hotel room immediately, the bigger and swankier the better. In a lost fashion the ones who didn't make it to the other side were the ones who made the grade and were executed at once. How the mainframe managed to exclude those lucky folk is beyond me. Time to value the understated and less privileged. They have the right to make a stand and state their grievances. It's no wonder so many nod off before anything is accomplished. What a riot.
Dessert is my favorite place for executions. It elevates my sweet tooth to excruciating levels of horror and delight. What may come of it only the gallows man knows for sure. All the better to make it sweeter, but how can one do that? Is the assemblage of the guilty a shameful thing if they don't bring their own floss? I should say, that would give anyone the shivers. I overheard the folk on deck make some snide remarks about the choice of execution weapons. I for one thought the choice was admirable and brave, lemon pies at fifty paces.
There is only this. There is only that. They form sides and yell their creeds. Those in the middle receive with diffidence and decry the situation. That which calls the shots sits far back from the playing fields. They dissemble how they go from the least to the greatest. Up, down, all around, the middle players are rats in a maze of head that defies all heads. Can you identify. The rats are incomplete without your input. Such is the game. Such is the fate. We are obligated to play. No is not an option. Itís good enough for TV.
We were told to wait in the room. The ones in charge would deliver the goods. We all waited anxiously but attentively. They said it would come suddenly with a messenger who wouldn't say very much if anything and would leave immediately upon delivery. I knew why I was there. No one else knew me. How we all gathered there at the same time was a mystery. But. The connections are very solid. We hear what we need to hear, but I don't like it, being in the position where I can only know what they want me to know.
How soon will the fish come out? You laid the bait so long ago. It should've happened by now. The sky is saying its hungry. I'm hungry. We're all hungry. What is placed on high as the emblem we covet as the key to all joy in the depths of despair, there isn't a place for sorrow or pity or even compassion. There's only the task and fulfilling a need that's insatiable. We've all been there, at the edge, looking fondly at the colorful abyss. We hear the siren's song. It's tempting. You know you want it. So go. Now.
Leading us to the edge is your greatest joy, a talent that's been long in the crucible rising, widening, being the seed from which all seeds will come. Dreams begin in the seed, but which seed? Yes, which one is it? Is it the one that leads to humiliation and the perpetual unrest that comes with failure? So go, don't belabor this ridiculous idea that Valhala is around the next indulgence. Of course, I could be wrong. I could be fooling myself, but I doubt it. The machine is too big. It's been around too long. It's all we know.
Such a light! No one expected it. The darkness does have a way of seducing the very sky to bleed light. Again, I thought it would fade quickly, but it didn't. It filled the eye with the vision I craved. After all these years it's still there. It hadn't left me. Would it be there always? I hope so. There's solace in that. No matter how void it is of solid reality, it's my inner reality that no one can touch or soil or influence. It is utterly mine, and I won't give it up. I will keep it forever.
Cold, cold, cold it is, and the mirror is bending. I can see how I've distorted the plan I began so many years ago. I like the cold. It's always liked me. But now the seeing must change. It's changing whether I want it to or not. I'm a fool to think I have any control over it. What's more, when I think about it, I don't want to control it. I want to give in to it. It's so cold, but that's its habitat. My seeing is changing. The mirror is cracking. Good. I will hide inside those cracks.
It feels good. Peering out, I can see them. I wonder if they can see me. It doesn't matter if they do or not. I will stay put. No use in expending energy uselessly. If they want me, they'll come for me. I'll feel that before I see it. It's cold in here but safe. The cold feels like home, but it's not home yet, completely. A few things have to occur first. I have to think. What must I do next? A puzzlement. Should I stay or should I go? An old song, sappy song, but so fucking true.
Cut in half. Again and again. A multiplexing division. Upon the half comes another, smaller yet larger, halved to the point of a point but no point; always an infinity between. Does a final cut exist? Only two? Where a dream unfolds the place of final solace, final respite, where you are you and only you, where nothing but you exists? Shall we place this ideal as the endpoint? What exists beyond? We play and play, while the value of playing exceeds itself and rides its liquid form to any form desired. Who is desiring? No one will ever know.
You drive thru that place. The faces are on the walls. They seem to see you, but you know they can't, but something sees you thru the idea of them seeing you. You see yourself, but not as yourself, as they see you or how you'd like them to see you. Such a confluence of lies we gather to patch a reality on a sky that won't stay up. The sky is always falling, chicken little, and it'll always fall on your trust. You placed your trust in such a house of dried leaves. Cozy. Fall like. An autumn tomb.
Like the day is slow glowing on ice under a black moon full of faces that know us too well, firm forms, being in back of the future holding us up on a tower of air waiting for the clipped sound of night cracking into day. We do this dance over and over, and we never ask why, we just accept. It's what we've created out of the chaos inside. It forms the choreography, and we slip into the roles so effortlessly. Since birth we made a pact. The pact dissolves when the going is enuf, but what is enuf?
The question rises. Why? Lodged between a scream of silence and a silent scream it vies to be released, but in its stead becomes a fixture not to be missed by the ones who ask. Those who fear it are the ones who keep it locked away from breath and the bend of mind it demands to exhale it. Such as it is, the word itself hangs like a dark cloud blotting out sun. A billion answers yet never the correct one. Some may call it beautiful, a dappling of unrequited curiosity. Nothing goes forward. Nothing goes back. But why?
Without fault they dig. You fall into it. It's customary to be there when you fall. No stop gap will ease the flow. You're into it. It has you. Long ago you made up your mind. You made the decision. It was you; no one else. Now you're complaining. You didn't read the fine print evidently. Typical. You were brought t the place you yourself signed up for. It's between the lines where the constituents make their deals. All you saw was a smiley faced thumbs up, and that's all it took apparently. Are you there? Good. Get set. Fall.
One builds the tower around themselves with all eyes lasered on the rising form. All mechanicals, all cerebrals, all functions focus on the climb, on the heart and soul of the one climbing. It is nothing but everything bound into that plastic form surging light inward, bending light outward, being the light totality. You reach for the unreachable. You can reach it. You are told you will reach it. There is no other voice but that which pounds the words, victory, victory, victory, as if nothing else matters, and nothing else does matter, then the win, when what? Void. Silence.
Comes the last. Again. It always comes. You can count on it. The vestiges from all else fade, shrivel in a back brain sewer, flows, and the ocean eats. It's not particular. Lost you are in the portrait sketched so hastily on the run. Here you are on the brink, the edge. Will you play the edge like one who doesn't see the edge but as a ephemeral blip on the brain screen? It'll have you. Always does. Reliable like sun spots. In a gust it'll pass. Over the wide abyss you carry your load, your burden. Your idiosyncratic gift.
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