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I assume it's being made for itself, as no one makes it; it comes and goes of its own volition, and nothing can make or break its reality but the mind screwed away from its idea. Before anything, comes the idea. The idea gives birth to it. It's passing is the passing of the idea. All of it, from birth to death, is the idea. As one might call to it, it comes inside the mind that allows it. It lives for the grace of creating another idea, then another. As the ideas live and die, we live and die.
It's thinning out, spreading out, becoming less defined, as it moves outside its infancy known as the motion of the soul inside a body that can't decide what it is. Like itself, the body moves with it. Once, something, soon, nothing, as the body drifts out of focus. Like wildfire, it moves within the body at a frightening speed, consuming anything that dares to stand and watch for watching' sake. It cares nothing for who or what it envelops. It only cares for itself, the mechanisms of evolution. What holds it now, as it expands, dissolves. It lives for dissolution.
I find the tripping on the bizz suited to a fashionable training in a form of war that's never seen or touched, confined to an arena, where designs of survival come handily for the asking by condemned prisoners forced to fight, because they signed up for it many years earlier in a fog of sorts, when the words for cadging agreements were carefully drawn up to conceive a deception that would claim all who signed as contestants, fighters pitted against men who have no conscience, who can obliterate with glee, who have the power to cast you or kill you.
It spatters me, this hobnobbing shower; spun fingers, fet of rash electricals, bundle, back of the muscle of sky, wind to a key note on kettle drum bravos, then flex their dashing bodies, slather smooth the hot breaks of stone and cement. Such a cool under the long, dry day till we come together, freshened by the rafting gaze thru the roaring flows. I am released from a knot in the head I made so easy for keeping numb in the heart, that I might be wound so tight to a tense for nothing. This is the grace of rain.
I need a long stretch. This body, planted so heavily in the earth of coins, drearily cadged to its benefit by need, merely panders to the demands of trade, though trade may dissolve in the dust of an unseen negotiation between myself and myself. Having gripped the coil of responsibility when the dome of hubris, cracked, when the heart of ice fondling fire for chills, shattered, I am in the hand of a heart expanded, free, vulnerable, exposed. Yet, to be away awhile, clothed by sky and loam alone, and to shed the threads that have no beckoning or worth.
Fickle, say you, the under of you, while the over construes a subtle diversion, by means of your inner divide widening like the grand canyon in a flick of the eye, wide as imagination disallows it, you could try this, try that, make contrary decisions with such a pulse of desire you might lose sight of your goal, lose sight of your desire, lose sight of everything worth seeing, become a place of proud blindness, then everybody wins; no one goes home a loser. By lock and key we can keep our winnings, we can hold tight to our blight.
I'm not part of that crowd. It slithers in its slime, a profound blister on the body politic. But I'm not part of that crowd. I'm in the bending organ you can feel when the hunger becomes as vital as botulism is a party favor with all the donkeys and elephants at the swill pit sucking calmly to the tune of Onward Christian Soldiers. No one can feed the crowd as well as that. Like grass fed beef, you know they'll taste good on the grill. Could you drop a better line to the next party favor? Not a chance!
Would you vet the crowd gathering at the tomb waiting for you to make a decision about the rest of the story you won't finish for some reason, keeping them bound to mere imagination, what your slim body will look like stuffed with pimento and formaldehyde? It's nerve wracking, and without a good crafty, maddening. The crowd is getting restless. They want their sweets. You can give it to them. You can make them happy. So, decide already? Haven't you had enough? They've had enough, and the crew won't go home until they get this shot. It's up to you!
You want to eat it, don't you? It's waiting for you. There's something about it that says, "Eat me." Another something says, "Fuck off." A something to the side says, "A mortuary is a good place to eat, if you don't mind pickles with everything." I could rest assured with this seeming dilemma if I had the chance to postpone the decision, but that's not likely. It's staring me in the face, this regrettable stasis. I cannot go. I cannot stay, I cannot do anything. I must decide. There are digestive juices waiting for my decision. I like raw tripe.
We, like a grand puzzle, shelved, await fingers for delving into questions past asking by tongue or mind, or by the tripping of emotional levers; the script, being written, must adjourn to silent spelunking, drifting organs by facile severance of tissues, delicate and precise. What was reserved, is bedecked for reviewal, each pattern laid out for its design in a manner quite banal, though stretched into detectives' thrall, ticking for wonders to be tickled, secrets, the unknown to be revealed, while silence rules the one time animate being, now a grown child's erector set, a play time for fleshy machines.
It's the desire to do something good that brings up the river, dashes breaks, dissolves doubt, when in doubt the breakwaters rise, when the eye becomes dim in the violence of hesitation, and the pause, ground to a stillness while the sky falls, preserves the lack of motion, lack of action, keeping the vitality of the necessity of the river sharp, keeping the gesture possible, limbs nimble, mind focused on its mist to penetrate the mist, stretching wings into the blue skies expanding, that such a joy might dash equivocation, develop the metastasis of light, devour the cancer of doubt.
I move through the drift under death towing the earth, swallowing my vim to gobble a bite of light off your hands, that the sustenance derived may fill what muscles may be called to action when battle afronts, that I may do what's necessary to remain standing, keep upright, even as death pulls me down, even as the earth seems to gape, hungering for my death to complete the lie. I stay in view of your selfless smile, and my fear evaporates. I feel myself alive when I should be dead. I feel myself rise inside to the challenge afoot.
It pounds. Never stops. The grinding digs deeper. The foundation gives way to a new assumption, and the creation, once secure, now turns its head a new way, a different way, a way that defies all expectation. In the headroom, one discovers many souls hiding for their lives. You may ask them, why, and they can't tell you. There is no why. No wherefore. It just is. Many souls huddle in horrible fear. Days draw out to years, and nothing changes. The scope of this atrocity knows no boundary. It stretches out, looking for its beginning, looking for an end.
I don't understand how the moves don't reflect back on any intent, merely demonstrate themselves as abstract movements, nothing natural, as in producing anything but wonders? A mad congregation of gestures for their own sake? I feel the energy, though. I feel how it moves me from deep within. I feel the need, yet I cannot define the need. It is. I move accordingly, random motion, a beautiful chaos. It's puzzling why more people aren't enamored of this. They stand aloof and judge, yet their existences vindicate its viability in extremis. They live putting labels on bags of mixed nuts.
It's the blandness that overtakes, a sameness, an even tone to survive the music being played over loudspeakers, deafening and perpetual, in the places of a humiliation few can imagine, it's the dullness one needs, blandness, seeing ugly beyond ugly, being alive in the midst of an all pervasive death, pressed down under a choir of sonorous hate, where the air defines it, molds itself around the calumny to contain it, protect it, keep it safe while it does its dark magic, and the sameness drones on, faces are frozen, they are fixed while the slaughterhouses prepare their daily bread.
Night's falling, day is coming up to kiss it. The men in charge fall in line to serve this meeting. It's a grave one, a time of unique excitement, the kind of excitement no one can explain, all turn away from it, even from within themselves. A cloud is forming to conceal the consummation. It's a global cloud and a personal one. Under the gloom of a fashionable darkness eclipsing all night, one comes to a unique understanding, a unique place of recognition, a time of acceptance or denial. One or the other, and the consequences? One may never know.
I have to become this radical number before the time runs out, yet the time badgers me indifferently. It conveys its solemn, overarching denial of me and my right to obtain the number. It picks me up and drops in front of a screen with numbers I couldn't care less about. I am derived, as it were, from a solution of many diverse numbers, wherein I concocted the means, as best I could, when the time came for my arousal and ejection. There, in this world, I am confounded by this ardent desire to grasp the number that is me.
So the degree changes in the dark regard of what's convenient to us all. I have a regard for a means of survival that has long exhausted its worthiness, yet the music still plays, the bugle still sounds, clear and resonant in the morning chill. I rise from slumber, immediately attuned to the call, per usual, but I hesitate. A necessary reticence bars me from occupying the vestibule of action and fulfilling the call's demands. I am stuck. A clutch of moments derives a petrie wherein a decision becomes vital. My movement through the day depends upon it. My life.
I move though the density, as it conjures faces. Faces generate, fade, rise, drip tones, utter silences in various forms as the alarum to move. I remain rooted. The face I need hasn't appeared. I am patient. I have learned to be patient through many diverse and harsh densities. It's a life of spelunking. I know it well. I embrace it. It is mine. I do not like it, yet it feeds me. Liking it isn't necessary. Liking it may even be detrimental to its usefulness. I am riveted to the spot. My spot is mine. Waiting for my face.
It doesn't stop. The pattern never shifts away from shifting its way to shift as it will, as it does for its own generation of shifts, all plates moving as one and against each other, each plate a pattern of humanity, an infinite sphere of plates moving within each other, that the music may continue, that its song may be learned by the children of the eons, that its nature may infuse the germ of humanity, that we may never die to its music, for in the ages we are combined and live for its melody, come what come may.
The evidence of our creation is extant in our eyes seeing it before it lives, before it emanates from our minds' eye construing it, as we will in our darkest and brightest dreams. We are alive in its muscle before flesh exudes its pressure to combine muscle, air and metal, that the world is created in a shadow of our devising, we are made to be in this shadow, we are derived from its issue, there is no limit to our creating, there is no boundary to our shadow, there is only our eyes turned inward to seed us outward.
I feel the emanation through my feet, that the cooking might proscribe due course by the evidence of my legs. They keep time to the desire inherent in the muscle of the heated meat. I am in flux with material possession, that the substances I create will flow as need be their function. I am in honor of this function. I will master its induction. The coil, by which the electrical fuel inducts the mind, will be in my hand as the wand I direct to ignite the fire, to lift the spark from imagination and incite the proper feast.
We kind of lift it up, no matter how grave, no matter how vile, no matter how it stirs the darkness to a gibbering life that will not die for its own accord to kill in vain interest of its life, that the life it lives seeks to take all the lives it touches. This consumptive cycle drips a music of pure malevolence to a height and depth we cannot touch while it touches us, while it commands us, our rest and revival, while it directs us to leave our hope at the door and enter, we cannot keep time.
I awoke quite suddenly, and there you were in the patterns of my feet unseen beneath a red blanket of expectation without doubt or recourse inevitable in rank delusion, you were there, I felt you in the breathing wallpaper, in the rising thirst for a touch exceeding the bright bubble of caffeine or the rounding of passion expended in a lone grope and the fondling muse of mere fantasy, you were there, are there, pulsing through my soul's labyrinth, where the angels of my desires float in a beautiful soup stirring smiles no machination of worldly suppression could ever dull.
No point in talking about it, it talks about itself. It cannot help talking. That's what it does, regardless of how you don't hear it or see it, it lives on its own, because you gave birth to it by indiscretion and reckless magic of a calloused cock, the crucible of your thrall, derived in rigorous deployment of darkness with a QED tacked to its dripping flesh. Now it jabbers. It squawks. It trills to a tune without end. Its music has become you, and you have become it, while you glibly shake your head, saturated with an ironclad no.
The word is out. It hid in a mouth. You can't get it back. It'll grow. The mouth will provide. It will not speak to you. It speaks to no one. In the darkness the word, your word will feed the mouth as many words from many people do. We are oblivious. We have been bought, duped, paraded around, made to feel like Barney Fife. It's this parade that bugs me. It takes away pride. It places chemicals in its place. It works dark magic on the young ones. It has taken control of your TV. It's name is Mitch.
The blade exhorts its voice, a tumbledown of blood laced giggles, the rafters of laughter exhaled jubilantly in celebration of higher values constituent to the brokers of dent light, a crush of darkness infused rays of hope bought cheap; in the blitz, the conveyance of truth obliterates zealots of truth, malingerers in their evanescent triumph over reason. We lay ourselves down to this daily. It has no semblance of logic. All substances of rigorous reasoning may just as well devolve to a circus of shooting galleries, all for one, one for none, and this be the sum of nothing's grace.
The hoards pour in. They salute their numb god in a frenzy of love, they say, stupefaction of ecstasy in the presence of the most high, they say; they give themselves up to a trick of the finger, flick of a metal tongue to issue bellows of fire and blood, a tornado of shattered bones for the grace of the most high, who is most low, who is the purveyor of lies most high, tricks most devious, a scam of all scams where nothing wins as the something sought to praise, as the song singing "God is Great...killing all."
A turbulence was felt. It occurred in the basement. All was not cold in the basement. There are things we have forgotten in our basements. We believe they're superannuated and dull, left to the imagination of rats and wayward meter readers with ski-masks and dreams after hours in the daunting glare of something unholy, unseen, not wholly understood. In the basement we have left too much to its own unique rot, where death begets lives we could never anticipate. This is the consequence of too many game shows, too many soap operas, too many times taking Spirit for granted.
I found this pebble. It grew to the size of my idea of it. I encapsulated the idea in my memory and revered it without equal through my coming and going scripted by the evolution of the pebble. I gave it no breadth, no width, no semblance of anything transmutable by thought or keepsake of preservation, which we hold to be of such great value, we deny ourselves the right to create it, hold it or proclaim it. For if we do, derision will follow, and the adept of the pebble will fall in their own arrogance of being capable.
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