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In the Moose Club with Paul Crawdad and the Leather Babies you know what's what. It gets you down. What's crawling down the mind shaft to the ends of a climactic song cycle without lubrication or the vestments of a priest who lost his tabula rasa in a backroom poker game with transsexual gangsters of another era, it's likely you'll never hear this kind of music again. By chance, you'll mistakenly end up one day in the raw club where all of this started, and you won't know how to behave or who to preserve or what drink to invent.
I have a whirlwind face, not decorated the way people want to invest in when Coca Cola stocks start going down and Betty Page dolls become illegal. It's inscrutable how my lineaments delineate nothing recognizable to the coffee house crowds. I suppose I should be thankful or grateful or motivated to shop for fresh fish on the docks where the stories are as thick as the sludge on the high water walls no one trusts, nor should, being designed by uneducated rich kids from Antartica. This is way the world will never end, as prescribed by dead Enron sales reps.
Keeping in tune with the digestible forms we inherit for managing cross-hatched winds on a landscape bereft of hospitable eyes, the ideas we spring are like rafts on an ocean that wants us dead, they keep us afloat, away from its clutches. Should we err, drift off the course with a loose glance in the brine, the outcome might bear a likeness to a meat packing plant where the rats have gone on a holiday circus festival; the teeth sink deep in mad brains suddenly being given a thought-soaked meal. So we are in this land of desperation.
On a turn-style the diabolical rings the cursed with the blessed as a subterranean game without pause or end or beginning, a funky round of cycles you gauge with no regard for consequences. You sum up the values logged by the measure of confusions you fish from the wells of heads, and there are quite a few of those, tagged for fouls at the local morgues. One could make a show of dead hands at the table for no meal to be had but a thrilling story for all good gamers at bedtime. The catch. There is no bedtime.
In the center it doesn't sit well. No matter the balance, it's always off. How exactly, no one can tell, but the center will tell when it's too late to do anything about it but watch as the dominoes fall. We're figures in this ancient game. We should know how to second guess the moves, but we never can. The players are attuned to tradition, how it gets in the way of some people who cannot tolerate change. These are the people who'll always bring the house down. They're so conspicuous, it's embarrassing, but that's just part of the game.
Moving through the secret design pulls the fear from its purse, lends it fiery wings, scorching the eyes of those who stood too close to an old idea of love, that the force of its fire might encourage inscrutable and selfless souls in search of the touch that would bring light to darkness, grant harmony to chaos, serve the mainframe as a guide through the mayhem to come. We are at the brink. The shadows are gathering. Those who abide by the secret design must know the chance they take now might grant children of the future a genuine life.
One expects expectations as a revolving dynamic, one upon the other, satisfying the need to expect the next expectation and so on, a fury of expectations feeding expectations binding an expectant I to the post of its mind that feeds off the thing. We feel the binding. We need the binding. It situates us. The I of us demands it, as the progression folds swiftly into the past toward a never-to-be-resolved folding off of what we see to what we saw a trillion times a trillion, driving us down to that infinitesimal point that doesn't even exist.
What is unpleasant that we can chew from our guts and spew to the galactic compost heap, that the steaming offal might spark a new kind of eye that sees through the chaos, under the decay and crowding arrogance sitting so proudly on the smoldering heap as our master of mind and soul. This is our bedrock, dissolved as it were by the acid of our cleverness. We divide and dissemble. We clamber the time. There's no dawdling, no picnic lunches on rest stops along the galactic highway. The only remaining franchise is the one clocking time in our guts.
After this climax of nothing, what's this something you feel in the dark that moves with a mind not yours, with a soul not yours, that you might come to it and feel its heart that is emptiness within a profound solace? There, in its engulfed cathedral, with a trillion voices intermingling soundlessly you can sing and be heard by no one and everyone. Where you are, if you come to this point, is everywhere and nowhere. if you say so, they will laugh at you, jeer and mock you. How dare you come to us with such disabling truth?
You think you know; you turn a bit away, and then you don't, a tiny bit of knowledge, a grain, a speck in the wind, and you ride that wind for all its worth. You should ride it. Blowing past you, all that you don't know, a swelling, raging river of eyes glaring, gleaming in the sun, teasing, taunting you. It's all you can do to see those streaming baubles race furiously away. In their wake they leave questions. You eat those questions. They fill you up with desire to know, know all that they plant in your starving consciousness.
You turn around. There it is. You saw it. You can't deny it, but you do. It's gone. You say it's gone, but it's never gone! It stays. Turn around again. There it is. Your mind spins. Brain sparks lightly the glossed over inspiration inside seeing. You turn around all the way. It should look the same, but it doesn't. It never looks the same. You turn around. Seamlessly, you spin the mind around the same way, but it's not the same way. A lie was dropped in the mix, and no one noticed. It's having its way. Turn around.
I cannot say why this is, what it is, how it goes to be what it isn't as I see it changing constantly. The center is off. Lines don't connect. The way through no longer makes any sense. I feel lost as I feel myself going from point to point falling ever further into a past for which I have no wherewithal. I feel good this way. That makes little sense, but so what? I'm glad to have the chance to feel myself being here and no where else. It took me a lifetime to say that, and that's okay.
Falling up to the lowest, you could throw yourself off your perch, be at ease with free fall, flying up to the bottom so to see the arch of reality. One follows this mobius path, in and out, flipping down and around, there, in the circumscription you feel the sense of it, the totality of reality; not so easy to pass from one to another. As if you could serve up reality on a platter, there it goes as you hand it off, upside down and there again and again, the mess of us. the scramble, going round and round.
On the slide to home, the picture blazes into focus, and you see what you thought you'd never see. It all comes into crystal clarity. Faces you thought had vanished. Homes thought demolished. Landscapes free of battle scars. Where you're alive again, truly alive, as it was in the before time, but isn't that a dupe! Come back to the last, right before you decided to slide. Rushing, with your eyes focused, mind funneled to a single point. What is it? Can you make it out? You had it formed in your head. Where is it now? Gone to dust.
Weak in the limbs of my limbs, extensions of their potential gestures limited by an elusive bauble of mind moving freely in the sacristy of head where anything might occur, I'm weak in my extensions. I can't say how far this weakness goes. I can walk. I can move. Yet I cannot understand how. There are no limits in truth, but that truth is kept locked away in a very private place. Weak in the means by which I'm cause, effects tumble down nerves. They tingle my raptures. How I value these sensations is a mystery. What isn't a mystery?
We, who struck a chord in signing our fates as promulgated through to their inevitability, came to the place of being dead just as we came to the place of being alive. We found they were both the same. Dressed the same. Same character. Same stretch of apprehension. All sameness aside, they had a different exit strategy. From one to the other they bore a face we couldn't accept. How we wore those faces came to define us as the cowards we are. How can we say we love the world when we denigrate the world upon which it exists?
We walk into the face of it. Can we see it? Do we want to see it? Is it true to us? Will we be absorbed and forgotten? Shall this enterprise be pushed under the rug? Must we pretend it doesn't exist? Are we so keen on erasing ourselves? The face of it is real. It is our legacy, our reality, our morphing truth on a wheel that turns despite our desires to stop it. There's no stopping it. The value is diminishing where we place value. Our value, unknown to us, stays comfortably situated between our truth and lies.
There's no settling down. Try as we might, knowing what we know, there's not a hope in hell of calming the storms. They roll and roar perpetually. We ride their currents. We've become so accustomed to them we accept them without question. Our lives are shaped by them. We are fed by them, sate out thirsts by the torrents running from the ruptured skies within. Inside our private domain we've created a universe all to its own, a glittering spectacle for ourselves, a place to revel in, wherein we are utterly alone. We have forgotten how not to be alone.
Okay. I fucking well don't like it. You have a problem with that, too bad. The right assemblage redirected itself in a backward way, okay, lopsided on the wrong angle of attack. In the extremes of feeling, you don't get a second chance. It sits right in front of you waiting, and you just missed it. You fucking missed it! Is that even possible, I mean, with a sane, human eye looking on with critical distinction? Should it be determined it had no merit, there would be a catastrophe outstripping any previous one to the box office with ruptured spleens.
Turning around to don a new mask is my way of the world that has no clear definition, no repeatable identity. I'm in its flux as the mutable persona, a laugh, a cry, a nod to nothing for its own good but a shadow to hide within. What good comes of the turning is a question that has no answer but the inevitability inherent in being where you are as you are. Grabbing ahold of the railing to steady one's trajectory is a common gesture, pretending at stasis. It all changes. Nothing stays. The flow of the I is perpetual.
Reminded all the time. "Don't forget! Don't leave without saying a few things. We need you to say a few things on our behalf. The roundness of our reality demands these inputs. You can see how they benefit you and us, don't you! I'm sure you can feel how things become easier once you've said a few words." People read them. They don't know you. You don't know them. It's all a random distribution. Someone may like the words. Someone may be indifferent, or maybe even hostile. You don't know. You do know that you said them. They are yours.
You bleed looking, eat the blood of looking, devour flows you haven't yet tasted, engorge yourself with the blood of looking. You survive on that blood. It sustains you. Come what may you survive. The others don't matter. They fall by the wayside. You don't care. You can't afford to care. The blood of looking flows. In a reflection you assess your actions, you assess yourself. Thinner and thinner you become. The more you feast on the blood the thiner you become. There's an irony inside this mission. The irony has come for you. The incredible shrinking warrior. Just feasting.
The trees are on fire. Everything's being pulled into the flow. I feel my skull slowly crumbling, my brain swelling to enjoy the dark blizzard. I can feel the tiniest vibrations growing ever larger by the millisecond. I haven't felt like this for a billion years. I was wondering when it would finally change. The place I've been is dissolving. All around me I see fire no one can see apparently. All of them are smiling. I don't understand the melodies being played. They're coming from another machine. I don't know that machine. Soon, though, I'm sure I will know.
Go by, go by time, go by, fast as you can, go by, be my jet to rouse space to split and let me pass, go by, go by time, round your bend, double back your faux seconds as substantial of nothing, be what you are and go by, go by time, flip the coin as always high in the air, drop it on the palm that's always waiting, always there, go by, go by time, be exactly what you aren't or ever were, such a substance to measure on clocks that have no mass, go by, go by time.
It must stay alive always. Nothing must kill it, extinguish its flame. All that lays in smoldering, stinking ruins must never eclipse it, bury it, or dim anyone's possession of it. Should it go, should it vanish from inner sight, inner mind, from the vaults we keep buried deep within our basest longings, should it disappear down the drains that gorge on the blood of genocides, should it become a distant memory that belonged to a life long forgotten as a life worth living, then beware. What remains exists only as a shadow wherein you will vanish utterly from sight.
All of five seconds it took to look when I made the gesture. The wonder. Into the crack, it split. Eyes gobbled the wonder. Space opened to another and to another; wider it split, the eyes fell in. The roundabout from that tiny split, spread. It had to happen. Many thought it could never happen. Making it happen was my life's intent in the moment of decision when it had to happen. I have found a new place to live. It's been here all of my life. I failed to see it. Now, where I am, it is. I'm there.
It moves. You watch it move. There's no stopping it. Degrees of tolerance stream the mind, a ticker-tape tornado. You can ride on through, smiling and waving. The consequences won't line up as you might want. There are many others minding other machines. They have their thoughts alined similarly. You're the one in the parade. You're the one affected. You don't really care much about the others. They made their choice. You made yours. It's about how you navigate the deal. The whole thing is moving. You're part of now now. You've made that choice. So, drive it then.
Taking the wheel feels like stealing your sister's soul. You shouldn't touch it, but you can't help it. The drive is too great. The Mythology must play itself out. That's its nature. You can feel it pushing you, urging you on, giving you hints. The wheel is yours now. So, go, go, go. Go as your heart demands. Go fast. It's waiting for you to do your bidding. Now. The pavement is your skin. Earth is your body. Organs surge your intent to surrender to a desire bubbling up. You hadn't considered this. Now, it's the only thing to do.
Off the line it makes a kind if sense. One might devolve the entire process where it not for the fact that their life depends upon it. Their life needs the flow, whether they understand it or not. It typically goes unseen. Fine. No one wants to see it. Even if someone points it out, it's forgotten about dutifully. Some say they had to forget to survive. Knowing costs. It makes perfect sense if you look at it in a different way. Near the end, when one knows it's the end, they can accept it. Funny how that always happens.
If it has to make sense the six sides of your burger won't be cooked properly. The shifting reality keeps us present, keeps us cued to the dimensions we possess in our minds and bodies, though they can universes apart. We see into our private realities. Some of us can see through them. Some of us can walk through them. Some of us can abandon ourselves utterly to any new reality. We who walk where we will, enter at will into any newly shaped cube, improvise with two plus two, know how to cook our burgers properly in any dimension.
I'm stretching myself out to meet myself, but the face of the day is infolding the mind of it, making it confusing for me to meet the ends slated by the sky and sea. I go to each for guidance. They feed me in their idiosyncratic ways. I'm sated, yet the following doesn't make sense to me. The more I eat, the hungrier I become. So the end can't justify the means to arrive at the beginning again. They get further apart continually. In such a stubborn fashion, I'm doing all that I can, stretching myself beyond the accepted dimensions.
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