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Coloring minds by unseen oils of indistinct weights in the hand of the magician, blackness carouses like a wind of a billion eyes, sands swept up by a fury of light, each jagged nut, an impossible breadth, with scopes of soul reaching eternity in a thumbnail, from the chair to the door, one step, two, never to reach the mouth, path split by two, ever two, halved by the consequence of one's sentence, bound to the path ascribing the beginning and end of all time, therein the colors drip on the journey, the skin, the blistered face of all mankind.
Funding the spectral idea that one might cave to their undoing but serve it willingly while spying, like a hem of a dream in back of the fray, a single light shining in spite of the chaos, its beam bending to the heavy core, blackhole of heart, spiraling bits of light flowing ever in, ever out; one toward the indescribable center, the other toward the outermost shell as the last idea one might exhale spending its worth in a futile circus where blind clowns are the professors that have no words, conduct no classes, sit in judgment of all.
There's a hollow of darkness wherein I burrow, I cuddle it's changeling flesh, in its core there is peace. I crave its song of silence. Apart from the madding crowd I feel its tangled rivers wind about me, rushing the rocks, smoothing edges, angles, the beachheads that fall ever further from their own ocean. Enisled, I'm fabricated by this design, none other, I am riven and shaken, becalmed and aroused by the clamor of the quiet that's continuous. I control what I can, then not; by surrender I'll follow whatever takes me by the hand, to my death, my life.
Into the mix of spiraling circles upon circles upon circles by the multiplexing machine stitching them to the edge of eternity and to the center of time, how the geometric shape morphs its own fecundity to the means by which it creates and destroys, we find the image of our faces pushing out the membrane, becoming ever more distinct, ever more indistinct, false then true, then false again, and nothing changes but that which goes unseen, by a single thrust, a single photon, a single mathematical point that does not exist, yet is the beginning and ending of our paths.
Crediting the inauspicious triumph that forgets itself in the wake of survival is to undress oneself from the garb of pride that weights one down in the festive currents, to plunge wholeheartedly in the wash of the unseen, unknown, untrod landscapes that mean to eat you whole, take you to the limits of your unguarded flesh, scarf away the dead skin, reveal the naked self, the untouched self that seeks to be touched, that holds itself, at times, as the last vestige of the known, the recognized sanity, that place of dulled familiarity, wherein one dies for want of life.
Rag tags, swim in my body, loose ends, frayed, sparking, feelers from a source grind reaching out a mind looking for its physical constituents; a seat of pain knocks again without warning, licking up the serenity, like a lion licking up torn organs strewed from its kill, a mosaic of blood, flesh and bone disarrayed, or a badly shuffled deck at a table with blind players, a drunk dealer on his phone making jokes to his dead bookie while the clock ticks, the game's on, no one touches a thing, there's a disquiet unnerving the scene, a dead baboon's fart.
I'm in the crush of a shadow fearing for its life without light, hunting the room for escape before the day dissolves its supremacy; a royal glare slithers the gown of dreams, its hem falling up the starscape melting as a dream of a theme song bending off its melody for a stupid of commercials to bite the eye, burn the brain, fiddle the stakes for the pocketbook's mirage, in the dent of a new day I can fiddle the scene as a newborn if I want, plunge what I will for what I want when coffee calls for me.
It's a flipped up diagram of the day on deck with the elusive I situated in the center of a planned maze for the garden of head being watered by star-fall once nova expresses her wonder blast, shedding eyes of nuclear instability piercing the regimented schedule frustrating the anals, while the gypsies dance, make whoopie in the bush with their dancer's delectable curves inlaying the rivers that run from the mouths of desire sucking like mad cobras for a taste of the feast bounding up its ladder to the roofs where the nimble thieves scamper ably with ample booty.
Still, with life breathing out the window scarfing its crystalline dawn leering down the roofline, spying the bed unmade, stalker that must find its roost or fade for death, its duty breaking free but slowly by the chisel of the rising day, its once flaccid gristle, tumescent and bright like the lion's fang hunting down the mouth of lust running ever so ably toward the consummation and the dance around the well, the game that's laid by due course for the loss and gain, its temper broken by immediacy, its lean muscle stretching beyond itself to feed accordingly or die.
How the world works in reverse of its devices to inhabit itself and proclaim itself free of itself, to be elevated while being subsumed, excised for being insinuated to the wheels of the world turning upon themselves, one upon the other, the core being the outer ring, all energies curling back on themselves. One peers into the vastness only to find the back of one's head, a great apple riding on the nature of its creation and destruction, what seems infinite is plausible as the catch of a thumbnail on the edge of a table, a universe within the clipping.
The ramifications we divide upon, multiplying in reverse of their attractiveness, slices of life as a pie is divided a billion times a billion in response to the needs we have as a culture to be fed while being starved as a society spiraling inexorably into a collapsed circle where dogs of many colors, bred for the pits, bare their jaws for the kill that will end all killing, leaving lust of life in the dust for distant, star-catching cultures to find, bare remnants, where once a paradise warned..."beware the beast man, for he is the devil's pawn..."
Can you frame the words, their reason, inspiration, calculation, their descending within the well of mind where thoughts derive actions, feelings, momentum of soul that pierces its outcome as it breeds the outcome, as it forms the matters within the belly of the beast and divines the means by which the beast is turned, as the worm is turned, and the manifestation of construction combines the manifestation of destruction, with the realization they're the same thing, a mere reflection of the helix, sense, antisense bargaining for supremacy, climbing the hill to take the hill, raise the flag, signal the ships.
A cup of you in my eye, dram of love dripping up, licking its mind like fire consuming dry tinder for warmth on a bitter winter's dream of heat leaving home on a voyage past creation, where destruction is the end game of beginning again, the kiss, flame, arms convulsing by habit from loss as gain demands the obsessive clasp, two hands, arms, legs bound in a dance through the ether, laughter exhaling the reviled dust off barren plains, becoming wild, like horses mocking the sun, beating the desert red from its gray endowments, then shall we find each other,
The electric eye finds generative decrease in the wide swelling pall of that which descends in the mind to free the opposite of free, that viable concourse of flesh eating photons, sucking might from the ether's gown, hem of nuclear fondness for extractions, never to be found without utter annihilation rupturing the amorphous bubble of lies, the unseen zoo of unruly animals who cannot know their own entrapment, fondling the core fingers massaging their muscles, saying, "Relax, all is well in the house of our escape, all is keenly kept, secure and bonded," then shall the darkness be finally all.
Terror, complete as the wedding cake is alluring, as vows seem to say what cannot be said by vows turned backward, as the false face uplifts the thudding calm where smiles flow as lava from volcanoes eating the security thought final, erupts in silence, as the dance rounds the festive deception, floating minds snap to the circle where brainwashing elicits the fretted heart and seals it to the landscape that spreads beneath feet walking a land of need that belies itself, even as it secures itself to a mind totally clapped as the driver of the train to inevitable death.
This tiny laugh swells a scene that might be sold to the buyer of least resorts, where hunger like a viper's mad need in the aftermath of drought slithers to sate as any might in desperate hunger, the laughter escalates, higher and higher toward an unknown penthouse undulating on the covers of high end realtors' smut-bags of dented light, their prisms extracting only that which paints their desires to see all that is free as a mural of seductive entrapment, therein the lies have their swimming pool, and the owners beckon the elitist sense of humor for necropheliac joy.
Enter this, the deepest and the highest, enter, value nothing before the worthiest that may stoke its claim on the budding, enter and take its fund, the widening system of the world as seen in quiet stemmed eyes, stunted for magic in the gloss worn over fear, a mask to hide the terror budding blood as sweat while climbing the hill with crosses born for backpacks, for the devices shilled in private armor, sealed in the domiciles of the wealthy and blinded by schemes folded over and buried in dying minds, once bold, now dulled and impatient for their coffees.
In honor of the least where honor takes its name from a bygone age that speaks eloquently through museum ears and bulges the belly like a fetus of dreams in a mad lady crouching in madhouse squirming for her familiar squealing as a beast stuck in a trap long forgotten by the dead hunter hiding under skins of alien buffalo, the thoughts stream on, and the carry-over desists like the plague in the pages of a history book worn and tattered, marked by the studious as a means to get the grade, become credited and valued by the dead.
There in some quiet corner a voice is speaking your litany of the living coil nestled somewhere within the body that's beginning to come alive heating as though acting out of impulse over deserts strewn with blind bird watchers struggling to make contact with the concept of light leading them nowhere as everywhere, descending as it's ascending as it's leveling out in a commotion without resolution, then comes this quiet voice pleading ever so softly yet insistently, that the means to become what you dreamt is only a step away from the means to die, as the means to live.
Slipped hard on the byline described with finesse in the obit requiring not less than a billion words to confabulate the streams of thought into which the spirit must flow without banks to guide or control, neither an end or beginning but a molding that forms by necessity as it deforms by necessity, coming in and going out, a thatchwork maze by the hands of an ageless elder tending to the labors with dutiful love, knowing, like Sisyphus, only the labor matters, the rock may tumble, the mountain may shake and crumble, the labor will live on, finding infinite means.
The crossing crashes as an afterthought, or it slips unseen into the back of the eye, it folds itself over one as a blanket on a cold night, it feathers toes, tickles the odds against themselves, it frees itself as a wave of wind or water or dream or a flock of birds assailing the sky at dawn, it tumbles the dimming blue as a hawk, it rises like a majestic mountain after fog, piercing the unknown, nestling its grist and gobble and gold on its palm and hands it to you like a lover caressing their beloved's cheek.
I made a strange barking sound in my head somewhere between this or that and the room changed; its feeling about itself became warped, and now I feel sad and glad, a heaviness gave way to a kind of lightness I was afraid would crush me, but it only gave me the impulse to fix some tea, and the cookies I set aside fell away from view. They became little tables on the floor for mice to sit around and have treats. I'm glad of this, that I can't put it around my head and call the hat an ending.
There is a widening I have come to expect to be an ocean, but it's just a slippery patch on the floor that I avoid. I must be more careful when I wipe myself after a bowel movement, otherwise I won't ever be invited to the White House, although I would be surprised if a call came to defend my rights. I'd rather visit a funeral home or a tax collector's birthday party. I'm having the flat sort of cake they make when a high cake is too embarrassing to be seen while conservative drunks mill about the maternity ward.
It's very peculiar how they all gather at the same time expecting to be fed with such meager provisions that are rotting anyway, as there was insufficient refrigeration or organization or even a stable muffin sale at church when the organist feel asleep on the bench and was hauled away by church mice who never liked his playing and had been planning on a kidnapping for eons, ever since the pyramids became no less of an attraction to our grandparents than a well mowed front lawn that all the neighbors might approve of with pics gone crazy on porno calendars.
You do your job, informing the need to do it, informing the reason for informing on the informant, yourself, dutiful to keeping the value of the job that keeps rising, keeps sinking, keeps its own as its need to survive being the key stroke before all and after all; what is sublime enriches the source mind, that which derives the momentum forward, surfaces only occasionally in its true form in isolation and silence, beyond all threats of suspicion of complicity, beyond the servitude it feels toward the job, enduring fevers and chills, enduring all just for survival's sake, just beyond.
Entering the game place in its special solitude, this wondering place, wandering place, being here, there, then all over and nowhere, this place where we sit in tribal tribute to our legacy, knowing why and wherefore the legacy shapes itself to the forms we manipulate as living's instruments for the future of our future, this thing we have in the back of our heads saying how this or that must go, hardly realizing till its almost always too late that it's a lie, and when the lie bears its blade and presses it to our throats, than helplessly, we convert.
In the metal of dreams I score the edges of your face, I pound soft rivets through metronome thoughts spinning like sprites by hallelujahs spilling the caverns of imagination. The body is building, its fabric, the mutable skin of my house, where no one enters but by the salutations, I accord when the form expands as it expands as it demands, even as I demand it become the vessel of my drowning. Speeding off the edges glinting while the machinery of my mind creates industrial postcards, the busy throng of enterprise becomes my savior, even as it becomes my executioner.
A sound mind, diving through its most secret habitat of desire, sacrosanct for fear of the eye of God descending with unsound questions, succor prayers to the core materials, otherwise wrapped and clapped in dusty boxes under curling leaves of discarded kills. When the night becomes confused and day labors to reinvent itself, by the substances secreted from the invisible glands that have supremacy in the dim dawn to reanimate the flesh lost to compulsions, as the head occupies the skull of electrical delights, as the sun rises to meet the necessary adjudications, he makes assay by buttering burnt toast.
The purple slithers day-breaking oils on canvasses stretched over landscapes divined in the dark unseen by the guards of consistency who demand change be locked to its unsound necessities in a dungeon whereby control guides eyes above on streets traveled for the pride of unchanging solidity, eyes that cannot see, that must not see what is beneath their allowances, eyes that are led by dogs who dare nothing but that which is deemed appropriate by the gods of control sitting secure on their precipices, ever watchful over hoards being sent to their churning, creating butter for the obese gods.
In the ministry of lies we pray to the hard-core God in deference to mainlining worshipful commands from the scrubbed heart bleeding on deck with mouths springing guns for ripe raspberries bursting red flavors in the enemy's eyes, caterwauling on the walls leaving their spittle like rivers running red with toys afloat amid guts of children begging their deaths for reassurance that never comes but by the truckload...tricks and treats for the millions spun on the ends of command decree that we shall prevail in the name of the hard-core God who just loves big red valentines.
The smell rises. It's a unique smell. It brings hope to the hearts of vultures. Turning and turning in the spiraling air, choking off conscience for nuts from Oaks spilled helter-skelter over the airs floating for hungers' spite, humans, attuned to rapid delights that know not what they beckon, as the earth spins beside their blank gaze, become lions befitting the Crown hovering over smoking plains, sought to be donned as the Royal Sign sought by eyes wandering the pitted earth, that hope might spring eternal, that such a rank smell should rise to tantalize, the flower of death.
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