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Straightforward, it bursts, from the belly of my eye looking into the wormy brain comes a sickness, a bloom of a dark flower, buds of a poison, serpentine stems of needles pricking the vise of mind, slithering, idiomorphic snakes under the bone, hefting the disease like worker drones on their way to a home of a home not least of the many falling open, spreading their doors wide within me, like a lover in the spawning heat, this, my trapping, a greasy slurry beneath my mouth dangling in prayers to a porcelain edifice, mockup of the demon we all forgot.
It's a grey zone, without feeling. Flesh, like paste, mind thawed on an oily plain without shade, the eye travels, meanders like a drunken man, from abandoned house to abandoned house, its rhythm, a droning hum, like a dying bee that hisses its bleeding buzz after the offered prick, now hung in the flesh of the dying mud of man on his bed staring up at a widening ceiling, the rafters beyond, hoisting high a mansion of bound dreams, whetting the flux of ill that pressures the belly, aching to expunge its muscular ennui to seed the lifeless growing ground.
I followed. A heat bade me. Rising like a dough under the stones of a bristling oven, a golem took shape. Suddenly. With a gust of desire long begotten of the hateful hulk I was, wriggled out the raptures of a knowing, an old fire, but a flurry of dots mangled to the roadkill rhythms, calculated the imminent crossing. I followed, a stranger in the dimming park. The wanton flame prickled tips of my steely fingers clutching the memorized verbs. Without a hint the mask made mine, and a scene was written, an old tale, one I knew, blindfolded.
It is the place we go when we're off to going, then to the other where the place doesn't matter, where it vets the need to go however we needn't go; this is the other's place. It's the going that matters. The other needs nothing that we need. It is there for those who don't go, who rather wouldn't, who fail at going. The other takes care of that. It's the other's job. Those who go, go. They don't care about anything but going, and when they go, it's good. The going is good. Anything else is not for going.
I am toppled to the end where I see there is nothing to be seen, it is the end. I see it. No one may foresee the end. The end is for itself. Unique. Singular. Looking for nothing, for nothing lives beyond it. I can see this nothing, and this nothing sees me. Down at the foot of the stairs, I am looking back, looking up to the top where the decision was made. I reflect on the cusp, that moment before, the moment after. The point, by which that became this has a sacred feel, mythical feel of God.
Fire in my fingertips, you can know me in my fingers, they play you on the instrument you conceal in your fantasy mausoleum, the place of the magical rhythms only this instrument can master by the tips of your fingers, and by the music you can know me, and by knowing me, you can feel my fingers; they're fingering inside you after your knowing, and no knowing otherwise can untangle them. How can you unknow a knowing, anymore than you can take the word from its logos, the matter of its expression, the need to express, fire in my fingers?
Nothing into the sore of it could I value a place where bleeding might salve the wound, where a matrix catches ennui, when the deadened mind rises out its leaden flux, when I devalue pride, when arrogance stews my form, when the sinews are undone, when I finally can release the shackles for the pinioning under the mask holding down the questions, when the visage emerges to construe its wonder, then may I say my say, saying nothing to be held aloft as anything but the issue of the moment, to rest assured as the moment passes, its moment dies.
i've dissed my mind, soul like putty in lox cracked for its bitters, rubbed on the body blows too numerous in their vestibules of pain, some kind of horror i can't name or ferret out in the hunt like the fox for the starving dogs on the merry-go-round, that this is the sort of mobius dance I tried to avert. The swimming lessons started and I had to drown, over and over, drowning in the midst of laughing life-guards having sex in the showers without condoms, first runner up for the senate sucking down the baudry closet.
who is it you made for the cake? I've got a hankering for sweet treats in the sugary mud spread like diseased cum on the impolite rabbits back behind the outhouse. There, can you see, it's being done again, it's happening again, and no one cares, rabbits skinned for the holidays, mom and dad plucking each other's eyes out for God, and still they can't unsee the seeing, too many thing to unsee having seen it all down in the graveyard musical shows, up on the risers cheering the drunken football team on to certain calumny, quadruplegic cheerleaders vomiting volleyballs.
Talking it all out the blocked asshole squealing hymns you don't want to know. Organist's crumbling slow, fat pastor has an erection behind the crucifix on the alter bleeding for the offerings yet to be smelted for coins in the raffle games in the basement behind the furnace later this coming century, so it goes and goes, the swamp gas is making faces while the alligators eat the priests in their training jocks, gearing for the alter-boy festivals to see it all happen on the big screen by the time your grandparents are born all over again to death.
I feel there's an edge coming to bank my self toward the falling in and falling up, when the penetration due my temper, cracking for its hungers gone unsatisfied, lays fallow by any means for the doubting, and the harrow called ecstasy that leads one to knowing how something is, not how something works, keeps the working firm in its rhythm, keeps the form in the form of the fold, the foundation under all that exists, there, where the house is built, there, where we exist, there, bare naked under harsh weathers uncharted, unmeasured, keen and sharp, wearing us down.
Sitting, that we stand, standing, that we sit, laying to the form of rising in flight, this dream where all my skins unfurled their wings and sought the moon for the sun, kept the sheer wonder of it hovering in my eye that split, seeing all that could be seen, glowing, iridescent and clear, sharply defined over the shimmering ocean that is out mind, our soul, our truest self. This is how I sit, stand, lay prostrate, waiting for the holy chastisement that has no reason, no worth, no limit, as is the dumbing down we call our culture's clarity.
Excelsior. I see it vividly. It's rising toward its limits. I feel its need to claim its base appetites as the root desire flowing through us all, keeping us all in check, always hungry, always somewhat ill, always somehow weak, we are made to clamor after what can only become to serve the higher place promised after life. What life may be promised that will utterly quash our thirst, such that we may never thirst again? Excelsior. The mountain rises. A peak spikes sun, drives a blue dagger shaved off its icy summit into the heart of wonder. It is.
You could feel the heat coming off the chill, a frigid sense of keeping time honored patterns sharp, to keep the behavior sound, form complete, assuredly all fears held down for the fear of them, fearing for the fear of them, all our smiles laying claim to dungeons where we scream in silence to keep the forms sharp, on time, in time, right foot, left foot, halt, march, march, halt, right face, about face, driving the dance to drive its dots deep into the face of earth, carbuncular servant, behooving the best of us keep mum in the dark dumb.
A temperamental shift, dervish route to round the savage, pin the mind on the problem like a bug on a kid's 4H project, a dead moment in time priding itself like a living thing, faddish in tune, a zombie serenade, vampires in love, how we love to drink dust for blood in our daily prayers, keeping safe our icons, lest the problem show itself insoluble, this, our manifold, our sheltering artichoke, leaf by leaf, peeled by timely shifts secure, sliding prayer to prayer. The oracle nods ever so gently, that our keeping may hold our honors high till we die.
Somber collective. A feast of eyes looking for sight, a festive gathering, spinning their shrieks that call for silence battering down, and for all the momentary gripping, tight shadows closing in, the fall of night shutters day like an eye being plucked over and over; it cannot be done. The blacked out core rises up its new flame, its new eye, and creeps around the encampment while soldiers pace. Sleep has been slaughtered. There is no peace, there is no cacophony, there is no semblance of an end or beginning, as if nothing and everything have merged, reinventing the universe.
She dives without form inside the hollowed core, engulfed cathedral, hall of a deafening silence that stills echoes, buries sound, row after row of unmarked graves, mummified mouths sown shut, that no one may tell, reveal the plot that only widens. The keeper stands proud. It is his creation, this dead zone, grey zone of no beginning or end, this nexus waiting for a spark. It is where we began. It is where we shall end. It is the story that keeps telling itself, as if never told. What mind may possess its own that could break this symmetry?
I spread the carcass thick with the spiced slurry. I feel the skinned hulk suck the bitters in. I hear it squeal in silent pleasure for the imminent heat. I see how its flesh might curl, how the oils might drip, how the blood may brown and sputter for relief. In the mud of oily herbs I bury my hands, keep my fingers drowned in the mess, that the face of this beast may change wile I don my blade to divest its grin to make my own, to fashion this private alchemy to keep my wonders fed with brightness.
I feel a grave serenity flowing thru me. Your eyes on a raft keep watch over the fury that I might live the day to fete a calm, brook a silence in a hollow under a vast tree formed meticulously to the lakeshore that bore its trunk through the decades to reach this point of my reaching it, that you might be the navigator in my weakness, the heart in my hollow, the finger that might flint a flame to light the way, for I am blind. This tree holds me up. You keep the flowing sure, as I climb.
It's poppin! You might be the gland monkey in the burning napkin, an Irish moonfish. I gotta spammy for your black comedy, though all the glands be cramming for the final juice. It's carefully bound under the dog's bark in the barkyard kitty boxing ring. Next one's the winner, mate. Place all your bets now. No hands in the goldfish bowl either. I see it, I see it all too clearly now.... You've got a hand in the zoo-zoo whack. So down, down, you go down, down....whoop, whoop, till it gets you smack in the yellow underfish. Zounds!
Into the speaking place words flowed, a kind of blood through a form growing out of thoughts of a form, a new idea of a body without flesh or means of being solid, as a form to welcome the blood, the words, the speaking, the outpouring of something that wanted a name, that was looking for a name, looking for that mind that could name it as a thing with a definitive need to be. It is this that cried out. The need. A void was created to take the crying of the need, meeting the need with its own.
Could I speak it as something that could be spoken without a voice, without substance that might be vilified, cursed, maligned as perverse, could I say what I need to say as a saying heard for what it was truly, sans definition, sans judgment, sans anything that might rob it of its significance, that I might open my mind to open my mouth, vessel of a new speech, that I could place myself in the proper orientation, situating myself as the one who speaks, the one who must speak, seeker of speaking, the investigator into the realm of perfect silence.
So I sow the tended soils, prepared so graciously, so tenderly for the sowing. I knead the meat at my feet, spread as a lover inviting the eye into the mind, as a thought to penetrate the labyrinth called conscience dissembling matters of right and wrong. This soil must be tended, must be sown, as the seed was sown in preparation, insistently, lovingly in the mortuary of night, in the course of spiraling toward the center of that which goes into infinity; that to plant the seed into loam, pushing it far as a mind may evolve, arouses purest ecstasy.
No one ever thinks it's going to happen to them. It's always someone else, someone in the papers, in a book, in a movie, on the news, unreal, like an acid trip gone bad, like the whole string section is off key and oblivious. There's a million predators in the wings waiting, watching, listening for their next cue. The ones they choose will never know they've been chosen until they do; then it's time for the long sleep. It's on the face of reality when reality checks its clock and gives the time for the diver to make its move.
When the knowing gets too known, the predators walk away, and no one knows they walk away; they just do, to look for other prey elsewhere. No one is prey until they are. Wonders. Surprises. Epiphanies. Rite of passage from here to wherever there is beyond the veil. It'll never stop until it stops. When the stop occurs, it's too late to know it did. It just did for you. There's a million billion clock faces ticking for the tocks and the rocks. Who can say? No one. But the one who was chosen to know, to feel, to pass.
Wasn't anything to say and everything fell out, the canvas blew up in a fan of colorful verbs and nouns, swaths of mauve and purple, the blood of an avalanche of ideas screaming for mouths to round the value of keeping it silent in an mind threading itself into a library long forgotten for its volumes of truth and lies, all mangled together, called a culture. This, under tons of rusted metal, shattered glass, twisted steel, crumbled brick, the very substance of man, what man had to become to kill itself for perpetuity, claimed posterity for no one to read.
He said, she said...Tolstoy on the beach spreading his tome, while Faulkner raised his Southern fan. Mark Twain sparkled wit to a volume of Proust, that De Sade should commiserate with Dickinson so lightly without scuttling her mind like Burroughs might, keeping time with Ginsberg, while all metrical rhythms might gag like mad on the germ of Kant in mathematical precision to a butch cut trimming Hemingway shooting birds with Bunyon in a race with C.S.Lewis, measuring who could outrun Chesterton, binding the end to a soothing beginning, and you better not wake up Hegal, or else.
Lightly so, they oiled their minds to mouth the words that rose in their minds like lava, when the fire reached its peak, that sparks could fly to flint the tinders kept low in the disciplined heads in back of the class but for the teacher who bade them hang their eyes to the floor where light from their souls might rivet claims to humanity by a book long ago lost to wonders, still adhered to in the grappling for no purpose, binding the stealthy of wit and thoughts to kvetching for no reason but for the reason of necessary exhaustion.
I say what I mean; it's between the words that are spoken that's the viable substance, the edible mass, the celebratory feast. In silence it is et, and in silence the constituency formulates the secret of its intent, which lives in the throat behind the mouth that uttered its words. In search of form, the untouching, untouchable words fly about like starving ravens. Under the moon that never sets, there is a ritual that serves the joy and sadness of the words, looking to the creator, the mouth behind the mouth, and there is only the question, silence of ravens.
So I go to the mouth of the river looking for a drink to sate the death of me, to become the canvas on which the new painting may be done, and I seek the hand by which this painting will be done, and it's yours, it's always yours, it's always been yours, even before I knew it was yours, the oils and fabric stretched between the nails that bleed covets nothing but what it already has, what it's always had, and to the source of the mind to bring gesture to reality, this thing you own, creating me.
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