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To cadge in delight the rudiments of life found as unmade gestures in a dark space pleading for light is to consider the very reason for life itself, the bead by which evolution created the germ of mind in a flash of light and gust of air, once here, then gone then here again, rising from the slurry, the source of who-we-are as who-we-were, being who-we- will-be, the gyres, the gyres, revolving the doorways of creation, asking why, where, what, who, when will it be found, this reason for wondering who we really are.
Is this the place we divide from ourselves to become another, then again another, and once again the very thing we were that we didn't want to be, never satisfied, only satisfied by being dissatisfied, always sifting the raw, rude ingredients like flour over the bowls of ocean, sifting out the impurities for ideas to give gusto for living, for the vim to ply the sheets from our daily death-shrouds and walk into storms of voices not ours, not for assignations for remaining like corpses, but as means to fix our images on the canvas designated our daily obituary.
Pleading off the entry into the vastness ascribed our rooms within rooms within that portico we call the eyes, but not merely eyes, the eyes of our eyes, those baubles by which sight without light grants seeing before and after the fall that tumbles its daily way into our bodily animations, our cartoon selves who play the Elmer Fudd dramas with and without the wabbit; this, being our comedy and drama, goes without its pages into the annals of life, each line a voice and each voice a reason for the lines, scripted, forced, plied away from any true inspiration.
Running in stillness, the looking back is looking forward, all around the seeing is a blindness that obscures till effort subsides, till the need to see is overcome with letting go of trying to see, and all that was unseen before blazes across vision, blasting fortresses of obscurity to the hell dressed as heaven needing a god to mend excuses for the flawed world sinking in the mire of mind duped into thinking a god was needed, for god is us, and all of us frame a soul, a mind of us encompassing all of that which is nothing, everything.
One must slurry into night as sun bongles daylight, sprinkling fury out to sea, dwindling the conquest of day as dreams rise, assaulting the serious fadeout in the forties flick at 2am, like ash off tips of fags bent in alleyway shadow plays where the eyes plot their escape plans from every prison but their own. The disease you feel is the disease you keep as one might keep a diamond or keepsake of a long lost lover, holding onto the fading memories, a dog eared photo, a ragtag book with the book-mark in a place no one understands.
It is time again, the clock face betrays no sense of its own betrayal, as nothing can betray nothing, the cycles grind their inconsequential pattering to nil, as all the stars rupture as time's flotsum and jetsum; nnone exist, but the river of lights, distant glimmers of something that was once real that you might hold. This something, where nothing sticks but flutters into nothing. Eyes dim. They fall to the darkness; above, all is rapture of the unreal, place of dead letters hung in space calling out for their senders, like a killer calling out to his dead mother.
Into the river you fall. You cannot help yourself. It is the calling that beckons the fall. You feel your body give into the need to fall. Behind your closed eyes you see your own body tumble. In the stillness of your room, the earth opens, digests the fall, gobbles the fear, that which holds off from revelation. Your ears bray, "Yes," and the howling rises like a thunderous bellow, as if from thousands cheering gladiators on to the kill... "Kill, kill, drive the blade down." You follow that blade. Its glint sparkles the dented evening threaded by soft exhalations.
It comes to that moment, that priceless moment where time seems to stop, rewind and revisit the moment of decision, place of inception, the beginning of the river, the mouth, that start of the song, hymn, choral work you dedicated your life to creating. You recall how it started by a soft, hesitant voice, a fearful voice, one that trembled its tiny flame in the musty dark of a tiny room behind a locked door and a howling woman called mother. You recall how you spent years looking for a way to escalate, to give that flicker its proper conflagration.
Sordid movements of sound drum the wracked back of a mind; they rise in a silence so deep you feel its bellow might break harm from its chains, release your bound tongue from the rock in your heart. You look for the key that doesn't exist. You see yourself looking, and you laugh. It is all a grand joke by the metronome cluster of faux light in a bonded chamber where girls of no substance are told to dance, by limbs construed in thoughts rushing from a skull that only dreams, the reality shapes its forms while a marionette giggles.
It laughs. Its sound refreshes. A stream meanders the wooded path toward the house behind the dense woods. You can feel this laugh. It penetrates you like an arrow. The pain cues mind to flash its need to calculate; one number follows another. It is the necessary path of derivation where the writer cannot know the outcome, cannot preform the QED, cannot shape the exact and rigorous proof, yet there it is, where it's always been, where it always will be, in this hallowed crux between concrete thoughts, therein, the fibers of a new tempest are beginning to take shape.
Can I know this face? It is hovering in front of me, as if it expects my acknowledgement, my respect, my devotion. This face shimmers, it smiles, it gloats, it frowns, it hangs placid, as if dead. It starts from its methodical stasis and flaunts my ineptitude, my ignorance, and I fall into a stilly rage, a rage I cannot act upon. It is a rage that lives in a calm before and beyond calumny. It lives, as if waiting upon death like life waits upon hope. This, being the residue regard wherein I followed my life, I surrender completely.
All true. All false. The matters within the bony attic jiggle with electrical fancy and delight. How all the time dims and drags for all who bend to its lure, buy tickets and wait for the concert to begin. They sit in dusty chairs. They sit poised on the edge in a blank eye. They hold hands to clap, but the curtain never rises, it never moves. No voice calls out a cancellation. The hands never clap. They cannot clap. They mustn't clap. All true. All false. All's a descending arc, a spiral into the bead actors call their god.
O, tis the moment I've been waiting for, the moment so sacred no mind of mine or other in my ken and retrieval may contain its emptiness. The rise and fall that drives the secret into revelations where the secret must live, as if its known, but no one knows, no one has ever known. It exists where it truly lives, in the fibers of those who believe its need, and by this need it provides, it grants its disciples its truth, and by all manners craved in this moment, it rises to a crescendo, a hand falls out. Silence.
It creates as it destroys, recreates, reforms, redefines, reassembles that which exists as one form and an infinite number of forms. It divides itself to become whole, such that divisions might refine what cannot be refined. It reflects itself and reflects all that is and is not; in its eye resides the first and the last, the first flash, the last flash. In between brooks of light, those who follow, lead, and those who lead, follow. The mobius is all, and all is the mobius. Definition is defied, that all might be allowed. There is no rule but all rules.
I dive to your light, the summation of a word felled by a breath to the instrument of speaking in silence, when the matters are no longer contained in substances relegated as trash to the bins in the back of mind for fear of being discovered in the complexes arrayed from thought to thought, a matrix of particles latched by electrical cleverness, the wit, being the method to connect heart to mind to soul, as such, feeds the faith beneath as the foundation, feeds the myth created to fabricate pride, that when I find your light, I die to live.
It touches my fingers. I feel their fire. They reach inside themselves. Then a burn rises. A extension finds the reason there is no reason. It merely is. Has to be. A fist dissolves when flames recede. A tapping ensues. A rhythm begets itself, over and over, layer upon layer, from the simplest to the most complex. No unraveling. No deciphering. A cryptographer's nightmare. Lover's delight. Lover's knowledge. This knowing that no one knows, though lives by flame without flame, the burn that disintegrates fear, that the cliff no longer matters. The abyss becomes friendly. Fingers stretch wide. They kiss.
What wonders collect in the silence back of the mind, while thoughts like hawks reel about the secret castles where desire couples dreams, where all that lives in wishing is grown; their eyes, beads of focused hunger, rivet on the sky's options, bending back so far the first touches the last, till all the endings are beginnings, and the maelstrom, held in the heart where love grapples its inability to recreate, to rewind, fondles the opposites vying for themselves, while believing nothing but what the other needs, and so the merry-go-round jangles its tunes, delights the fair deceased.
It sears. The wound opens; it gapes like a lover inviting heat after burns in the nest of disavowal. It reveals its own disgust. That which is feared becomes that which is desired over all that fashions gloss as the ministration of the magical hands of delight, that tantalize, diverting attention from pain, from heartache, from all that seems to live in the mud of apathy, so that all that winds overhead as energies waiting for death, are merely watchers waiting for the battle to end, that the repast may commence, that the feast of all and all may begin.
I ogle it. Its form attracts. The connection is never made, though desire demands it. What exists between is the ether of wishing. How one may reach another. How this may touch that. The chasm that lives between is the place of wondering. It's always there. Nothing may displace it. What I want is kept at bey. I feel the distance. It's an infinity between here and there, though my hand might cover space, move as if to touch, be at the place of touching, though nothing is touched, for nothing can be touched. As a dream. We are made.
So this is it. We are here. In the center exists that which is sought, has been sought, will ever be sought. We move toward it, though we cannot. We imagine moving. It's better that way. From the movement of the room comes the energy seeking consolidation, seeking a focus. There is a focus in mind, but it eludes capture. It eludes definition. There is nothing there, but all that is, is there. We are transfixed by the dilemma. It always comes to this. If wishes were horses. As they move from wishes to horses, there is only comforting denial.
Gravitas shudders in the basement. What was captured, logged in memory, filed away under nasty, sits up suddenly as if to say something. You begrudgingly bend an inner ear toward this which moves to speak, but nothing is uttered. There is only silence, but in that silence there is everything. No one hears. No one can hear. No one really wants to hear. It's too risky. Best to leave it in the basement, back behind the old shelves, now too heavy to move, too weighed down by age and the infinite files stuffed so rudely in its rotted, silent boards.
Off top, around the cragged corners, into a spin off design for advantages into a new space, an unexpected space, off grid, from the two-sided faces glowing in their humors, dividing the means from their tooling, to the edges they drive themselves, goading themselves on, as if the pied piper were driving them. Off the edges thoughts spill, tumble to the brine, though bodies remain aloft, sacrosanct, indisputably void of the sense of up or down, right or wrong, being the emblem of their own demise, off top, around the crags they go, disowning their cyclical logic, faking life.
I soiled myself to feel the need to clean myself. Into a vast disarray the comedy played itself out like a hymn for no one's listening. They'd all gone home. There was no one around to play the judge, so I ployed the advantage found and exceeded my own disgust. I ployed my knowledge of darkness, wrapped myself tightly in my skin that stank of pride, slick with faux honor, and I peeled myself away from the skin beneath. I revealed myself to my god. I looked up. I felt the sky. I saw the light. I made contact. Me.
Yes, I said, yes, there came a rush, I felt it approach. My eyes betrayed themselves. There was nothing to see, yet all I could feel was the imminent connection. I felt drawn to it, as it was drawn to me. I wanted to see, but I could not, so I plucked my eyes of their pride, blinked back a false modesty and saw what it was to be seen. No telling. There was no diver to record, or tell. I bore the weight of that myself. I had no choice. The choice was made for me. I said yes.
I can easily borrow myself, taken by an impulse to deliver the unspoken word, the unknown letter, that bit of logos, when I've taken myself, taken completely aside myself, when I lose myself, allow myself to be taken, all is becomes its infancy and dissolution, all that begs of inception collides with its final decay, a picture is illuminated; all that exists within the panorama, the vortex of creation and destruction, is made clear only when the eyes are shut, when the ears are closed, when the skin of the skin peels off, when this shadow peels off the answers.
Mistakes to the end fall continually into forgetfulness, and the shredded envelope bearing intent flies off from hand to hand as flotsum, rubble off the head, once delivery has passed for its logos; where and how it was made is better lost by heading off reason to meet unfettered instinct. You might say it's cleaner that way, better that way, that no one can see it, read it, mistake it for anything worth trashing, better in the end for the beginning. It was written before writing, before the thought intruded the idea with the trouble of writing in perfect silence.
Climbing down, forever down while climbing up, stuck in the contrariness, feeling the pull, grabbed by a virulent stasis with the indisputable conveyance of now with no there but here and everywhere bearing new windows, through which all that gravitates forward is proceeding backward, up and down and all around on the astonishing panorama of being. Such a confusion, linearity on the vertical descent; non-linearity serving senses cued. "It's gotta be madness. He's gotta be on drugs, gotta be crazy." Under their servile leers, judgments, their own machines churn and chug, about to break, holding the colors back, gagging.
Tugging the gag off the chemical rain, bewitching vibrations keep stir and calm. In the vat the elements swirl, spark, clutch at spectral gears in creation, destruction, destruction, creation, all nothing is everything. On its silvered surface, a face peers. Mine and not mine. The need for a new conjuration spins. No frustration can meet satisfaction. The time is not yet for decision. This will come after it's come and gone. Then you will know. It will be too late. Always the case. Never not. Best laid...best laid...plans...of dissected mice and men. We know. We lost conjurers.
A long chord stretches, whips air, keeps the hands from holding. Nothing may hold. Holding is the need. Around the core, an intent to hold divides attention from the means to hold. Inside the core a secret lives. Outside, the secret gives sway to its machinations; however small, however large, they drive the engines off their course. That's what it does. In a maelstrom, what's found, like gold dust in a pan, is hoarded as a matter of life or death. Its significance, a matter of belief, as the cord whips, snaps, cracks back on itself, keeps time.
It works itself in my worst way out to the extremity where the idea pooled in a nod for the need to rise above the ennui. I am the body of that idea. I was made in its image. That's what it told me; I believed it. The followers gathered like parched lemmings at a porno. I saw the ulterior motives. They drove up. They stopped. I had nothing to say. I still don't. There's nothing to say. What voice might master time's demands, it's pointless to even try. It's obscured. I'm still on my knees, looking for the idea.
What does your canvas erupt like a burning vagina in more colors than god? What manner of disease can your body eat when blood no longer recognizes its function, rather flows in a backward direction toward the emancipation of stupidity, granting degrees like golden rod fucks a midwestern field in july to neanderthal olympiads? Can you see the distinction better if I cross out you to replace your expensive ability at obfuscation to procreate with steve jobs' resume? How may the values decrease just to increase your income while your output cannot even be used as effective fertilizer? I'm stumped.
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