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This is about generating a mirror, not about being popular, not about winning some prize, not about getting in the news. It's about me, learning about me. My words teach me what I cannot consciously teach myself. Fine if anyone thinks that's bullshit. I don't care. I need to care, to listen, to be able to put myself on the dais to excoriate the dark passages, to light the inner realms that no one sees, least of all myself, until I do see. The channels of life seed the lightless caverns. One may go an entire life and never learn.
I celebrate the ones who die to themselves to live, who open the vaults hidden in their respective swamps. To stride the landscape of the eons, to ride the horse that is yours in the mythology you create by being you is the exultant moment of realization. Let no one interfere. Your Will transcends the lies. Exhume the lies, burn them, let their ash seed the earth that is yours. No deity, no hell, no heaven, but here. Looking beyond for answers? No. Look here among the living. Prayers? No. They are lies. They seduce you for a plastic god.
It lurks that way inside whether you glance askance for need of relief. There's no relief, just the same old reruns. Stare ahead. Why not? Toughens you up. Gives you the pluck to out-string the bandit eye; it has loops upon loops for reason of necessary confusions. Loops to leap thru; how like a trained circus lion you become, until the moment splits when you turn on the trainers and they reveal their true faces. They had such a nice smile, nice demeanor, nice intentions. It's a joy to rip those masks off. What big teeth you have, grandma!
Vital, you say. Yes. Indisputably divided on itself but still retaining its shape. Yes. Quite surprisingly, the value has increased with its silence. With its recent outpouring of language there will be a change. Not many have gone this far. Yes. It has the essence. Pure. Within its form exists the dilemma, the paradox that won't go away no matter how many preachers you stuff inside a telephone booth on Mars. It's quite real, and it's not going to vanish. You have to live with this. Yes. After years of denying it, continuing to do so would enrage even Gandhi.
You find where you are, and you're still missing. It demands a closer look. Nowhere. Everywhere. A dilemma not to be undone by an unspoken truth. You look at me, and you see yourself. Such an undone displacement. I rally to find the source of this confusion. It should be so simple, but it defies every methodology I've employed. I wish I could find the rest of my reasoning. It split in the middle while I was sorting through this problem. I'm finding less and less. I can see where I am, but I'm not there. Was I ever there?
On your way. Thru the seemingly infinite maze, a dream can be divided, it's hard to follow, but you have to follow, or fall; no map may allow, this echo in your head, going, "I see, I see, I see, I see..." But You don't see. The road's ahead. You know that much. It has to be. Sinewy paths leading hither thither frighten and entice. Each turn breaks the breath, heaves the mind to anticipation of satisfaction. "Do you see, do you?" The clamor keeps time with the stertorous breath. They match the key note. Here it is. Then gone.
I keep myself aligned with the twinkles under the canopy of shadows I keep close to my heart. The sky is bursting, eyes looking for a heart of glass to fill, that the moon would sip for the goddess huddled inside its cold, smirking face. No time to look down, time to look high, to become what's feared the most, crossing that threshold. In a bluster I'm in a whirl, and it's all looking to me for answers. I have none. I've never had any. The day is drawing close. I can almost make it out. An answer is coming.
Thru the scorch of the daily muscle ridden into night where answers beg for release, I grab at a fleeting light, a shard of you blown from a dream. I hold you close to my breath. You dissolve. My hands exhale my kisses held like radium bursting in your eye, and all of reality explodes. Figurines shatter at our feet. They hold no worth but a polite distraction. This and that we find sometime. It is our time. There's no other time but that time existing between us when we seal our eyes under the cowl of reality we choose.
We try the best we can. The house goes up in flames. What a magnificent failure. My tailor doesn't know how to fit me to a suit. I bet on armor. The next Armageddon is just a click away. You never know how the latest biblical verse may saddle the boat in my bath tub. The lugs are loose. I've tried tightening them, but to no avail. Ouch. I've got a bug in my motor. One turn of the crank and I'm off. I try. My mirror came today. I put it together, but all I could see was me.
I'm extending myself for the unknown regions to get a better look. Multiplexing thru a variety of conduits fastened to my waning ego, there's a drive inside to meet the correct gate. I can't point to it. There's nothing that I know about it. When I connect, I'll know it's the right one. I've been waiting a long time for that; time pulls down the limitations. The curtain is wobbling. A dwarf stage hand with no eyes can see how things are going. He's hiding. Why do the people that can tell me what's what always manage to become scarce?
It moves backwards as you unfold. The design left you out. The tinkerings in the dark fumbled. Some lug or nut was left out. Of course. You know. You can see it in the eyes floating around in the sea. Hunger parades your senses like a mad piranha you're not. You wish you were. It would make so much more sense. The otherness keeps you cold when it's warm, hot when it's cold. There's no sense. Antisense. This is your sea. Who are they? All of them. They are them. You have to figure a way. What slice is yours?
It goes, you know, and you watch it go. It begins from a dim eye thronged on a value dropped out of sleep, dream dripped, like slow coffee bubbling the morning air with rank anticipation of the sun. You know, it takes its time, and that's good. You want it to take time. You want to feel its skin coming alive inside before the cutting boards, before the waters you never wanted wash the ideals to the dead rabbits in the ditches. You know how they got there. You know what they said. It's your job. Deal with it, babe.
Simple songs, songs that reach inside, lyrics that cut to the calcified core, cutting the animal out, or so they say, cutting the demons out, so they sing, cutting the devil out, so they shriek, cutting out all the bad for the good to come riding in on a donkey. Into the veldt it rides, setting itself beside your wishes, soothing your mind, your angst, tranquilizing your fears, scarfing out all the residues, replacing them quietly, installing the new programs calmly, incisively, definitively. You know it's all changing. The you of you striding in the wind is now happily gone.
One swallows the needs in a fermenting frenzy. The smell of one rises to an excruciating pitch, a fever only quelled by a special insinuation. What can one offer a person who wants the secret? Is there a unique methodology? No. Just be there, like a pot of flour that's fed water. Over time it's felt, it's seen, it's smelled. One becomes very present, not altogether liked, though. In a fashion holding no worth to the masses, one moves to a place sacrosanct, secure, inviolate, unique to the molding as the insinuation begins. This is in one's hands like breath.
It is seen. Bubbles rise to the surface. Something's alive, hiding beneath. Revelations comes to those who wait, and wait, and wait. Patience becomes a comedy; thrashing about in the mire of creation, one feels a surge that's personal. You go with it or you don't. A choice is offered. Can one take this as a ticket to another place on another kind of map that no one can hold? Yes. Just go. You don't need anything. You already have everything. In time you'll realize this. The bubbles keep rising, an ancient brew, feeding the head and heart and will.
Reaching out with those strange liquid eyes, made for grooming an invisible network, a web of protection unlike anything anyone has seen. Yours. You earned it and then some. The swamps still look inviting. The surface belies the menace. Of course, no one can see this; no one heeds it. It's there, in case. Just that. In case. Quality hubs the lugs, their greasy nature, turns the engine to your favor, but only if you yield to the eyes, those strange liquid eyes. They see everything you don't, and you don't see anything. It's becoming to you, a real fad.
I come to you humbly, my light, my muse. In this circus of darkness swirling our icy fantasia, I draw myself carefully out to connect, sparking cables on the arms of my eyes reaching out reaching in, a fiery chaos incinerating those flimsy articles of head that have no worth but necessary excretions. I come to you with no demand. I come to you for this grace you offered without demand. I'm humbled. This grace insinuates, cuts to the core, a surgery, for which I've waited my whole life. This gift I reciprocate with a love I thought was dead.
It speaks. You listen. Walls are torn down. Something opens beneath. A window forms. Gulls fly thru. Sky rains. No water. You listen hard. There are words; none of them make any sense, yet you know they make all the sense in the world. If only you could let go. You know damn well you can't let go. You gotta keep up appearances. Neighbors demand it. Scales are tipping. Something's not right. The carousel has a horse that's not obeying. One might go to the head of the class and ask why, but what class? What head? Kill that horse!
It's a funny ride. You know all the spots along the way. You've stopped at all of them. They still look the same. The same smiles, same waves, colors brimming the sidewalks. Roses blooming like blood flowing from a neck cut lovingly. You sip the colors. They tantalize. You wave back. There's a movement rising inside the typically lethargic mob. Those colors taste so luscious. You could eat them for the rest of your life. The meaning of life is in your mouth, your new found appetite. Not a single soul can move you, not a million souls, only you!
The menu is still open. Chef hasn't decided yet. You feel that chef, his reticence, and you know something's gotta be done or nothing will be done. They are on their way, expecting a feast. Oh, you'll give me a feast alright. Now the time has come. You sharpen your instrument. Chef will obey. You've done this before. All that grandstanding. He's going to get a wild surprise. Chef moves inside. So, give him birth, okay! You know what to do. Breathe, heave, heave and thrust. The saving is in the losing. Quite a reward. Wine flows red. Scarlet ecstasy.
They dance something to no tunes but a repeating signal that isn't very interesting. You couldn't hum it. The best thing seemed to be the ritual at the root of it. The repeating pattern was telling; it led the mind to a source. Bodies did the walking but no mind was cued appropriately. The dance went on and on. The signal continued. It was frustrating they couldn't connect the dots, the dance and the signal. All speculation made it achingly clear that there was a connection. I'm still searching. I know the people dancing have given up. Too damned tired.
Feverishly insidious, the design melted into the necessary reality. How is it that such a mysterious reality can become a fiction in a flash? That which we deem impossible becomes nothing of the sort as the night carves thin the flesh to reveal the mind, the sheer power of its coined illusions. We, who don this skinless skin, leaping like panther to the loftier world, "I am I," said the everyman. He who is the liquid missionary bears the river of its soul, giving it up continuously. On to the mythic ocean, it sees its end as just another beginning.
Keep moving. They may say stop, but ignore them. Keep moving. You know your belief. You know your passion, nestled in a deep chasm untainted by meddling minds who know nothing but say they know everything. Those who really know, say next to nothing. Those who know nothing, make a lot of shit up. Keep moving. Drop the key you hold in a back pocket locked inside the welter blast that's creativity. It builds you up to tear you down. Construction. Destruction. A twin star couplet. Get used to it. You're conscripted. No other choice, unless you want to die.
It drives you. The summation is beyond. Inside the welcoming rears, becomes like Icarus, dives to a glad death. Such a passion. Living. Dying. Interior machinations gear the mess. You go. You have to go. There is nothing but going. Stock still, the rivers wind about. You move as they move you. You go. Listening to the cue keeps you riveted to a private silence in the midst of cacophony. Little by little, the rage abates for a moment; in that moment there is the cue. A flower blooms in the center of all of you, in all of reality.
It's about the word, how you try it. Doesn't fit. Residues claim the nonsense of its enunciation, so you bat the decay around. You try again, and again. The mastery is in the trying. Failure is the punctuation of valiance as it penetrates that dim dome of ego rasping a dried litany to the stars that don't give a shit. Most of them are dead anyway. You pray to dead light, motherfucker. Be here. Earthbound. Try again. Eat dust. Try until you bleed, and exhalation, and you can smell it, even taste it. That's what I call a just reward.
It lays low for a time. One hardly knows it's alive, but it is. Waiting. Feeding on the residues left behind when the soldiers dissolved in the dream machine. Eyes find nothing but apathy in disguise of a life. Time will have its feast, as the mind decays sufficiently to allow a death to be joyful. One must gear themselves in reverse of the shadow to see the necessity. How often people languish, taking this and that from their coffers of experiences slowly fading from memory. The landscape stretches wide. Its mouth is even wider. One cannot avoid slipping in.
Spreading slowly out from the edge you know the time is almost come. Making your goodbyes will be difficult. These will be the last goodbyes. You thought there was nothing to be gotten, but there is. They lose their vitality, them that guard their fortresses of nefarious intents. After a time their grips becomes weak. They age. They decay. Then comes your time to open your fist, plunge your fingers into the rotted mess, and pull out the answers you've longed to hold. Having may not be a pleasant has wanting, but it's necessary. You feel this necessity, don't you!
Skipping diseases till they're off the range and into a new kind of TV series we can all appreciate, it starts to look almost attractive. The walking dead are here again, yeah, whippin' down the plain, ravaging everything in sight, but you knew the risks, the stakes, it's okay. I'd be thrilled to be the movie of the week, wouldn't you? It's in the sensibility of being exactly where you are, doing exactly what you intend and saying fuck the rest. Intentions get so jumbled up, don't they! Time to trap the genie in the bottle again, if you can.
You learn by going. You cannot learn by not going. Going is the key. The door won't open if you don't go. Go. Go. Learn to go. Go to learn how to go. Learn to not go, learn nothing, a spiraling influx of doubt collapsing in on the process. You find it funny. It's a joke. It's all a joke. I wish I could go back in time and face my confirmation teachers at that church filled with empty voices. I passed you all. You are dead, withered, forgotten, an echo of still dust falling. I'm still going. Are you?
Itís starting to form. The least of aggravations have subsided for the grand entrance. All the people have shielded their egos in the presence of this entity subsisting solely on aberrations in the center of wishing where they lodge for safe keeping. All that's roaring to life with this most recent development, I treasure the past like a postcard, good for starting fires, which is what we all want, right? Fire is good, deep in the guts of the decayed mother of lies, a scene is pictured, a beautiful scene of utter chaos. All hail the leader of losing.
It drove me hard. The sky called to me, but it was too small. I couldn't fit. Dogmas of the practical commands wove me tightly in their bonds. I became acclimated too quickly to the comfort of this torture. Nothing without. Nothing within. A thin membrane became my domain. I kept myself occupied with seeing what I could along my spherical plain. The distance always looked so attractive. It beckoned to me. I worked toward it, but no matter how hard I strove, it eluded me. This dream drove me. It drove me hard. Perhaps that's all I can have.
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