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We build ourselves up, then break ourselves down. We step back and ruminate the mess. Can something be created out of this? I've been in this mindset many times, and I'm not done with it. My place is small, has always been small, but when I close my eyes, the imagination explodes the walls, and I'm out, out, out into any space or physical realm I choose. A balance is drawn between imagination and hard reality. I've been lost in the imagination; so much so, I couldn't conceive or manipulate reality. This balance is always a challenge. I like challenges.
It swears by itself to undercut the confusion rising in its wake, as interlopers grab at threads to ride along, and the dissembling muses laugh uproariously in defense of the masters lack of tact in this particular instance. I would rather he go back to his nest. He's wanted there more than here for sure. The goings on are spreading exponentially in every direction, like a rash breeding of atomic roaches who haven't got the sense to stay in the walls. No, they have to wrest their pustules, glob out of the sticky matte of invisibility and makes themselves known.
Impervious to the wit wound wrong in a haggled spirit, the core of the sore keeps time with its need to remain invisible, but the need to push it out is greater. Crust bulges. You feel the impending blast. Nothing must come or go from the materials swimming inside this deep crucible. You might wrest it from its base in your head by a lateral swipe against its nuclear sun, but ultimately, you must yield, as we all must. Time keeps regular the volumes of our mishaps, so brightly lodged in our private vaults, keeping us close to this detonation.
Rumbling in deep. It's coming awake. Can you feel it? Can you smell it? It's rising like a hot dough. The day sits adamantly as its nest. It won't relent. It stays, even as it stays. It stays with you, within you, making itself about you. Riling snorts from a tempestuous source, you might try your best to place it on a pretty shelf far away from the gaming tables, but you know it's all for naught. It'll come for its feed, as it always does. You've made the landscape its divining place, a nice place to raise its family.
Much as the sacristy of the atom, pristine and undefiled, lurks a trillion times the hour in each glance of an eye backwards forward, a power that lives within a majesty of place and time in respect of all that which is false, the linear bastardization of reality, as it is under laughs of darkness seeing whatís under all, over all, within the reach of anyone daring, but that which guards, warns the absolute is the ultimate and the demise of anyone who dares, keep away! Who could resist? Who would keep away? It is a tease. A luring.
He who says knows. He who says shall see. And he who goes will be met. Into the eye of this cornucopia of wealth, this palace of light hidden within all that you see, he who deems it necessary, goes; let it be released. So, as it was, in adoration of the Holy Trinity, the light was born on that day in 1945, a light that will never go out, a light we all follow. Inside that light we see. It is like this within human consciousness, those forces are kept locked. They are held at bey, but for what?
It waits inside with infinite patience. Few know; most would laugh or jeer anyone who says itís there. Those who know also have patience, or is it reticence, or fear? Of looking stupid? Idiotic? What will dispel resistances to unlock these forces? What holds the hands? What forbids us? No one. Nothing. Is it an illusion that forbids. A unique hand guides you. A unique hand leads you. This hand will show you how to work it, how to unshape that which has no shape, that which is inside all shapes. A hand that is your hand. Go. Now.
Does it go somewhere? What is it that goes? What is the somewhere it goes to? In a vast living void one feels its life as a throbbing from within. It asks nothing but everything; everything is it. Everything is outside and within it. You are not apart from it. You may want independence. You may desire to be the lone wolf. There is no such thing as a lone wolf. That sort of thing lives in fables and bad dreams. You go where it goes. Where it goes is no one's business. All of it is a living question.
She stretched her mind, found mine, inculcated the alchemy we know so intimately well in our dark yet blazing crucible of eyes wherein we drown each day. Finding me in the clutch of these burning eyes, a hand grew from the teeming mass, reached out, gestured its idiosyncratic flux. The crying out of light divined. Snap. Each line a vibrating connection. Snap. A fury of coming together, coming apart, interweaving the fluid connections, a trillion snaps, and there, a becoming not unseemly, a becoming I hadn't thought possible. Now, in the flux, one can see how I am seen inside.
Burning thru a device I can't see inside the machine called me, the protoplasmic derivation of a trillion years gone into the cellular well, stirs this teeming vat of unopened eyes, yet nothing replies, nothing speaks out. Gestures are unnamed. Arms have no meaning. Limbs are without a cross reference. The books needed haven't been written in a language that hasn't been created. You are the amalgam of all that's gone before, and still you refuse to acknowledge the placement of the electrical rivers within, still you refuse to feel the rivers without you. You go one, but without purpose.
So it resides in the need to provoke a word, a phrase, an utterance from the center of it all. They all point there. Those who greet the sun with arms outstretched toward a deity that may not even be there, call out for a word. They listen so intently on hearing. Some say they hear. Most hear nothing. Yet all are swept up in the conflagration of that thing called faith, and they press on with words to this deity, songs, books, poetry, dances, all to this deity that says nothing, does nothing, yet praised without ceasing. Epic fable.
We feed this thing. Us. We are this thing. It worked its way around us until it found us. That took time. We were always on our way to us, but the truth was hidden. A curious circumambulation of who we are sees how we came to be, sees the inception of the spiral in. How can one not see this as the monumental alchemy? Some might say it's fiction, fantasy born of decades of frustration, being swept out of the circle others pride themselves as having. This thing is not the circle. This thing is more than any word.
Coming alive. It looks at you. You know it can see you. It's been watching you all along. It seems dead for the most part, incapable of any interaction, but not so. The tiniest of impulses grant reality a roundabout massage. Its trillion little fingers caress and smooth, wrinkle and crease at its will. In the crucible the plastic form awaited its touch. Surging softly within the form a consciousness with infinite patience watched in a way you knew in the before time, before the cycles infolded on themselves, sparked a new light on the universe that became you.
I knew my place once. It spilled into an unknown well, the voice of which declaimed the enterprise I treasured above all else. Bellowing freely, a fountain of discordant song serenaded me thru the transformation I most feared yet coveted beyond reason. A paradox greeted my falling. I held it out, like a twin star preserved in a crystal ball. Mesmerizing. An answer was forming. I felt its heat, yet I had no clue how to know it. No matter. It knew me. In time I'd come to embrace it, long after it embraced me. This was the new game.
I'm so tired. It explodes me inside. I can't see enough to know how or where the pieces will fall, they just will. I explode inside. A smile belies the blasting. I can rest aside the calm while a cacophony keeps time with entropy's muse. She's a mighty fine dancer. She can fight too. Don't think you can put one past her, 'cause she'll take you out of the races and slam you in the room where you never wanted to be. You see, it's that room that scares people the most. Good place to be, though, when you're tired.
The passion stays in a quiet fire, leaves no one's mind as something to heed, yet it burns in me. Driving the fears from the core, it takes nothing for its own but gives until I howl. My eyes spring tentacles, as if they might entwine the very sky, and we embrace like mad lovers, and she is there; she is always there, my muse, the flint of my fires. We wrestle the wind. How alluring can it be, how seductive, when the heart of the fire digs deep, scarfs out the dead sludge, manifests everything what appeared as nothing.
It takes you thru the tunnel. There's no map. You have to trust that it'll get you where you want to get, but the trick is adapting to what the tunnel wants, because it's never what you want; it might be close, but that's it. The going is the true fun, journeying to a place you have in your head. There are many tunnels in your head. Quite aside from the tangle, you're fabricating yourself as the cell of the river. That is all you are in this journey. You have to go where it goes. Ain't that a treat!
It sweeps up to grab me, this ethereal whirlwind, winds me into a typhoon of ecstasy, how you meshed my soul, lit the fires that dance. I can see by these fires. I can find my way. Into the core I fall; we are flying about a room. We shape the room by our flying. A mystery is us, yet I know by this mystery what I never knew. I won't tell. There are no words to tell. Words of silence. Breath caves the heart. It bursts. Nothing to fear. Fear is eaten by the fires. A bonfire is us.
You enter. This happens suddenly. You could be sleeping, eating, cooking, anything. You enter. The mind has a way of blocking it out, smoothing it over, making it seems like nothing's happened at all, but deep down you know; you realize everything just changed. There's no earmark, no scar, nothing suddenly askew in view. Inside, though, the flowing has changed. All of you that flows within is different. This isn't a bad thing. Life demands changes sometimes that live outside your purview. Reality has a way of maintaining itself. You're on a ride thru reality. When it calls, you go.
We are on the path as it winds and unwinds like a mad python in the desert heat. We are its children. We are its students. The sun is its master. Around the swelling landscape we are fixed to the wonder and horror of it. Beauty and ugliness is its morphing face, Shiva of our reality. However we go it goes, however we become it becomes. Ah, listen to this! Such silly nonsense this is, philosophizing, as if I knew. I don't. I play with words as if they are the pigments of its nature. They are nothing. Toys. Baubles.
It's quite apart. Distributed like supernova. The flames are eyes that see inside themselves, see the core, the burst, the ignition of that which fuels my sourdough and scarlet sunsets on the last day before the next, then again another last day. You can rise in the darkness, be at peace knowing it's coming to an end. Everything dies. Everything is born. A tangled knot ensues, but that's cool. The ride invites the entanglement, says, "Come and play." We who know, we who have ridden all of our lives to the tune of these invitations, will bow and say, "Thankyou."
Brain fry. You're all invited to the brain fry. In the round by the fires we dip our heads on sticks to the crux of inspiration. Smell that oily crust, hear it crackle. What we got is a kick bleeding mediocrity from the base nut before it was cracked to confuse us in the before time. To serve the unmuddied realms, the pristine place of being conceived, is what we seek. Let's hear it for the brain fry! We stick our heads to the blue map, chew on sun for a thrill, and that gets us hot as is necessary.
You lose a bit of yourself to the street. It gobbles it greedily. Human is on the menu now, you, that is, the human you are. See how fast it gobbled that tiny bit of you. It's aching for the rest of you. Listen to its hunger. It has no shame. You're on its list. No way around that. So what are you gonna do? Give in or fight? You'd rather fight, right? So how do you fight? Np sweat. The street will instruct you. Lessons are free. "Come and play with us!" You hear that? so, go boy, go!
What? Words? Look at them. Look very carefully. Lines, rounded edges, jagged edges, stops, gaps, cross strokes, up and down strokes, pictures on a parchment, scribblings. Look away from the head. Depart the rational cause. Tranquilize the source brain. See the parts as they are. Funny things. Can you build something with them? What am I doing? I'm not paying attention to my own request. Wooordz, Weeerddds, weredddz. Whatken it phhhheeels, leika trbbbbulattttionz and sorz..u findaaseer. iftheeseeeeddea, outtsat ottttta, some gap tribulations sorda sukkkking in a phiisshing up...kannn I'm noottta finsihing, finishing, I have to get outta here!
Okay at the get go, at the starting gate, the rush inside before ignition, before the limbs round out intent, looking down the colored, cool lane, being at the prick of the drop of sweat lingering on the chin, feeling its weight, waiting for its departure. You can reaffirm it. It's alright. Nothing wrong in saying farewell to something so personal. Time slows. Counting ceases. You've lost the meaning of numbers, linkages of time after time before time. Time hasn't got a clue. You gotta make something of it. Otherwise the lie will get out. You don't want that. Go!
Come with me in the airburst, eat the wind as it thrashes my mind, scattering it for a fall of exploding eyes, each piece a locket of soul, each shard a scintillating wash of missiles thrust through the banal reality as burning toys, spinning baubles to watch like meteorites blasting the chaff all away, scattering drab facades for kindling in another reality. I call upon this fall, this escapade to name its core. Who? What? This might only soften the idea we had no clue but for the need to break on through to see, just that, to clearly see.
Foot in my mouth. Crabtree nuclear foot. In the mouth of easy fire. Canít put it out. Canít swallow it. Gotta make it work For a bridge to another place. Foot in the mouth. Tripping the ace key. Getting it moving when itís hot. Keeping nothing. Holding nothing back. Foot in the mouth. Grease key upwards Off an indigestible idea Trying to make it work. Foot in the mouth. Rubbing it wrong. Turning it hard In the heated brand A new place, Dangerous place. To unplace the face. Foot in the mouth. A questionable move. But necessary.
Flip side gears off A street looking sideways No oneís exempt It sees you You see it Respect it and† You go Respect it not Youíre gone In the old days† New days werenít† Remembered the way You think they were They were held as collateral† You paid up You made good Deals werenít thrown† To the blood thirsty dogs They had chaff to chew In the back room disciplines Thatís where it happened† Or not You could smell it coming† If it was for you† And then it was tea A toast for life
He had his day. Now itís gone.† A new day is for the† drawing board.† Thatís where you come in. You take the pencil, and you make it clear† how the present bleeds into the furnace, your special furnace, all your own. You know the gears, how they turn, how they grind and crank and crush the seeds of others you'd rather not water. † It will all burn† in the end. Snap and crackle. Thatís the way. The stove is steaming. Your face goes likewise.† The dogs need to be fed. Time to do some primal drawing.†
Itís beautiful in its guts unveiled. A formal disquiet as the mother interlaces the father by their usual web of deceit, they are diagramed in an entirety unseen by schoolmates who might never guess the truth fuming inside the walls. A facade keeps certain the core reveal never leaks. However the disquiet consumes the serenity, no matter how uneven the bars become while those who dance within mean nothing to those who wait in the gallery for the curtain to rise. Heavily laden with an indescribable lightness, those who control the ropes may get confused and happily hang themselves.
Now we see more. Blindness will not remain a certainty. Those who manage the blinders have become lazy. They thought themselves indomitable, untouchable, sacrosanct and secure. The blinders are slipping. Good for this who made the bed, who acted as servants to the masters. Time to wake up. Time to open the bedroom doors and reveal the torture tools. No longer are you protected by your glittering frocks. No longer are you hidden by the golden crucifix. We are coming to you now, but not to pray. We have buried your prayers under a funeral pyre that waits for ignition.
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