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It drew me out of the something I'd misnamed as something to say something that has no sound or shape redolent of speech or sound of speech, nothing really but everything, a collection of logos like erector set straps gleaming under a child's eye, glad to be seeing such a thing as could be seen, this wonderful array, so assembled to rise from mere imagination grabbing the sky for attention, sets up from the foundation called I for the collective called WE; in such a way the family was born and grew like weeds in the dimming starlight called man.
Pulls me this way and that, the way of that and this, a way not pulled is not the way but all ways pulled, from the center to the edge, where there are no more ways. It all is. This frenzy of electrical charges shooting muscles like otters in the greasy swamp, eyes set upon their targets at random. Everything is a target. Nothing is free of their gaze, their trained eye, and the bullets have the wildest magic, all of them. They take their targets as they take themselves. The whole body convulses with this war. Everything is expendable.
So complete in the form sitting poised on its unique cliff, where sky is the call of watching, where earth of all sorts, all forms, all shapes of machination, flesh and metal, plastic and blood, being but the field of play, exhibits its choicest parts, while, the eyes, on the soar, flung upward off the precipice, scan, carry out their function, spy, as spying becomes, the manner of the hunt, that the effort, being oiled, all muscles honed and practiced for the kill, assume their readiness, charged, all in all, expending precisely that which is needed to feed its hungers.
My head is fire, feet are ice, body navigates a vortex of nuclear ignitions barely felt, seen or heard, gears the plummeting, the diving, the languishing, for all's a gearing world to the unaware on the plateau falling up, wide as deep as its necessity bares no caveat. You are on your own, as you bade your own to be lost in the tempests, while the sky holds down its supremacy, surrounds the arena scratched out for survival, allows the one looking up the incipient fury, and that which rumbles from within paves its way through the world's faux calm.
There is no time to waste. We are at the walls. They are closing in. The sky has winked out. Earth has become an insecurity. Footing is uneasy in the hard winds blowing. We see the shrinking bulb wherein we feed off the waning lights. Voices call. They are asking for something. No one knows what that something is, yet everything knows what it is. They are certain. They stand stalwart. Brave eyes meet the rising darknesses. When asked, they fall to inner smiles clamped tight, remain on their arrogant poses, fending off questions billowing up the spindly certainties' bonfires.
I sing my lady yellow, like sun with lemon twisted in its eponymous smile. I sing my lady blue, her sky does crawl with moon patched with darting stars. I sing my lady green, she smooths my lawns, savory and wet, like after mowing after a summer shower. I sing my lady mauve, her swift but careful eye sweeping the dimming dusk for diamonds, uprooting them for trinkets in our conjoined pockets. I sing my lady red, her flashes of merriment roaring down the mountain on rapids of fire. I sing my lady gold, her eyes flowing life into mine.
It begins. The effort on the trigger was nimble, yet no trigger could be found, in a dead sound the latches fall into place and begin their grinding, one to another in the chain of events, all linkages are driven, bat wing flutters, a volcano erupts, a baby is born, the man licks an envelope tight, mails it and closes his door for his own brand of trigger, horses leap, pound the desert clay, heaving red tornadoes into the sun, the lizard unwinds the sunning rock, slithers into the hunger, takes its place among the players in the irreversible play.
Spinning squares into circles, round pegs in the head, springing a wellspring of doubt over certainty screaming out its necessities for naught in the base of heart beating hard, even harder and coming to the understanding that fitting anything to anything is futile, what fits is fitting and by its own on its own means to fit, the round goes inside the square as easily as air goes inside vacuum, then comes the rush with the understanding that nothing goes but by something else driving the need to fit, to belong, to be the square peg in the round hole.
You awaken me even as I sleep; deep inside my dreams you burn. As I walk awake you keep watch, your eye is ever in ever out, flowing from the ocean within to the rivers without, the cascades of light are continuous, feeding the vessels of the body stretching from a single point to infinity, from the single unseen grain toppling leviathan waves to the rippling crust of the expanding universe itself, all as one and none, yet all as the substance of the landscape wherein we name the beasts of our passion, even as we ride its currents continually.
Funneling the core, it spits like sprightly kisses of fire on the tinder piled helter skelter over our pyre packing lights of eyes sprung like split diamonds kicking up the red dust over the wake of time diving under, scooping us up as if sand to build a castle of dreams wherein we shall plunder the peace as fodder for the feast that is eternal. The old magic rises when summoned, for the masters who bore its plenty honored its power, even as they bore its edge in the battle of evermore, such as it is, the battle without end.
Some movement away is as good as movement toward, the inner becomes the outer, all faces turned inside out bear the opposite expressions of what might never happen otherwise. The ability to see within is the ability to see without. The surface between in and out is the question, and the answer, without doubt, becomes moot soon as the question is moot. They dance together, and the hope of resolution remains a pipe-dream fantasy, one that holds the secret to innermost yearnings fomenting the surface, the shape of the world, its face, its character, without which, you are lost.
Vitriol of hatred, hawk of fire, swoops the thirsty caverns of heart where the loss caved soul spits flame into dust spackling night, its beak shredding light's shadow into dirty ticker-tapes over arid desert highways. Vultures circle. Temptation goads. Nothing to eat. Everything's dying but never dead. Panic clouds the sky, blots the sun, penetrates cold for its onerous pleasure. Confusion reigns. Where certainty once wound its nature of logic in a tight woven weave, the needle goes awry, losing sense of continuity, plunging hither thither, losing hold of itself, creating insensibility, where a few can see but haltingly.
Off the end of the flesh stick, the uttered phrase, breath pulled in and out for enunciation, the latter end of a thought, breeding of an action, exhalation doubles on itself, broadens the space as it envelopes the object, the subject being the catapult, source pit, nuclear core, furnace of light, bulb of humanity, how it develops inside the miasma, vessels pumping, lungs heaving, throat exacting its cause and effect, all for the need of touching in a way that all other means lack function, a conduit between you and the other is built, then broken, exploded like bright orgasm.
One cannot tolerate themselves tolerating the idea of holding back on a thought that might topple the thought, how it might stay for silence better than speech might offend the nature of its ability to dismantle a habitat wherein lies hold sway, lend pluck to the deceitful, reinforce the functionality of lies that they might be seen as truths without precedent. This place, creating its own death, is abhorrent to most, yet nurtured silently, secretly within the most noble breast vociferously proclaiming yes to integrity, silently bearing malice to all that may threaten the sanctity of the house of absence.
When one gets whatever is to be gotten, one finds themselves in a position of getting something they never got before, and getting this is often something they didn't expect to have, nor do they like getting it, they want something else; when something else comes, they find themselves wanting what they had before, that which they didn't expect, so the getting gets good, as they get what they expected. It's always good for them to get what they expect, event though they don't want it. Its the game they've reconciled themselves to in lieu of getting what they want.
How wonderful it is, this bubble of silence heaving about me, undulating, pushing its membrane out, hefting my solitude into its clamor and calm. The residuals binding me to the past are severed from the hold, fall to the loam, digested for strength, feeding the brain without a brain where the inner eyes delight for the trail of new ideas strung like lights on the great lawn of soul pulsating, being the lighthouse by which I am seen by those who choose to see me, find me, couple me in capsules of creation, lest I dim my heart, I sing.
I know what I know, what I feel, the largess of trust is compacted. A small circle envelopes family, blood and otherwise. I fight to maintain closure. I work to extend it. Words fall in to inveigle. Some are eaten. Most are spat. Them who parade their guise, fiddle tunes to sway my gearing, tempt the hunger toward their vittles, commend me to my guard, fiddle me ready at a stance to defend. Those who stand with me I attest those whom I trust. All else fall to the side, are watched, scrutinized, pasteurized. They keep me strong by distrust.
Moving through what seems to be a blackout, the whites of the inner eyes span the fleshy eyes gnawed to their own explosions, optic tentacles flinging from the mind's octopus fielding its muscular appetite from the center of soul, skull dissolved in the plenty, brain like swamp gas burning blue and green for the background of the feasting on prey scittering from securities, hardly able to word a question before the answer devours the curiosity. All's a hunt in the morass of hunger divining how the means derive the ends, till the mouths fall into their own maws and vanish.
This name you utter crosses itself into many forms that have no voice, but are bidden to cross their own constructions with thoughts that ride on rivers of imagination criss-crossing in the center of mind that such a center might be found, isolated and removed, but no such organ throbs for the surgeon's scalpal, it moves within boundaries, morphing like dreams upon awakening, images scampering, lights flashing, dimming, darknesses barring their own entreaties with hard-line portents that merely amuse the takers lining up on the platform, willing to board anything that stops and invites them in, sheep.
Borrowing doesn't caper well with keeping in the interests of those who wish to offer selflessly, the viable greed underlying the cause corrupts the effect, and the proud person who initiated the event sinks slowly in a morass of confusion, such that their lineaments blur in the beautiful soup, wherein no spoon is dipped but a frenzy of mouths all looking for the same meat to devour, but no meat of a temperate kind may be found, only created momentarily in the oven of soul, like a new element braving its creation for a millionth of second by a kiss.
Could you? Would you? I have a palm full of answers without questions to absorb them, the nourishment goes lacking for a source that might be culled as a reason for its offing, then might whatever is sold as a property of value be reduced ultimately in a game of chance where everyone loses who tries to play, that the play is necessary for those who wish to die, being the end game that has no end, then comes the reason seeking the cause, where effect waggles in the bald air like a newborn deer, abandoned as a beatific runt.
Aging beyond our need to weep our tearducts dry the broad lands within stretche the broad lands without, coupling the needs from each to feed the hungers extant without name, without range, without boundaries, definitions or substantial rooms to suit the tables bared with space to dress the meats according to their covenants tacked to the outer doors, warning all who enter must surrender to the hosts' demands, that all who deem it necessary to be so prepared, create their own means to bid the world as they know it farewell. Such able sacrifices drive the will of the world.
What thoughts may stream from the hardened belly of mind after mountains of creativity have eroded into piles of silt, from whence the heart of creativity rises like a ghost to reclaim its might while sprites of deviant energies dance about the mound giddy with triumph in the din of hollow cries, for in the depths the voices still cry, they bellow with rage tied to boulders like so many Prometheus' arabesques on dim stages in front of empty houses desperate for anyone, anything that might offer a salutation, salute or even mockery that they might once again be heard.
The intemperate emotion, crumbling into its spiked constituents, rattles its cage, scores its bars, spits acid venom, takes toil to the mustering fumble of a back-sweeping gaze upon its need to be free, trying to rally its vim to the melody of order that might gather the frayed threads whipping like mad rattlers ravenous for its prey's blood, that all the fire and bluster comes to nothing as the spikes, once sharp, dull to ineffectual knobs, sinking in the mire where the battle assumed its proper place yet dips to the crumpled mess that all may laugh and jeer.
Dumb as dumb does, parading its fumbles as a master of marbles on the icy block with kids honed like gangsters in their youthful vigor, rounding out as soldiers of a cause that will take them out, even as it goads them on, what minds, as cold and free of questioning, may mount as the steeds of adventure and thrill, where the eye gleams through its narrowing tunnel to spy neighbors as knobs in a pinball machine firing lights and sounds while crumpling after gleaming eyes trigger their needs to pile points in a game that never ends until them.
Piles and piles of ambitions pour on the rising mounds of steaming potentials, cooking the entrails of dreams that move within like acidic shadows eating through means of enabling muscles of intent, till the gestures, once possible, fall limp, ineffectual; yet the voices contained within the means, within the rigorous machine of fiery creativity, keep shrill their songs to the tunes of will that cannot, will not die; the mythic fires must never be quenched, shall ever be at the beck of a master's wand to conjure light from a dim mind like a rock, flowing wild like molten lava.
Enterprising, the stuff of wit wound up and out, from the steamy source coiling, where matters of mind construe sparking streams thru a mess of circuits like mad Kells on lighning dashed plains where dinosaurs divided off metronome ages to fuel a grist for a few then gone to antiquity and the musty museum laires of profs and sophs and the tissues of learning by languishing on templates constructed for the ease of newbies looking for a way in, only finding a way out then gone, like the dinosaurs but with designer clotheslines stretched across highrise tenement science fair projects.
Into the darkness within a brain that has no substance but a tangled ball, a ratty mess of tissues wound about the knotted core that moves unseen when touch comes too close, when eyes focus too clearly on its bright emptiness calling out lies braying their tin battered emptiness, as if the universe was at its feet begging for a crumb, when in reality, this emptiness is the crumb, the tiniest, most insignificant crumb, a crumb that must be vaporized, forgotten and dismissed utterly for the sham that it has represented in your life as the glistening bauble of truth.
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