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You're supposed to bring your own. When haven't I? The fund was busted, and the plane crashed in dreams, so don't expect a refund when the bagman comes calling. You won't have any change. No one has change. You can't change. This is way it is. They said to bring your own, as if there was another option. They like to talk, sound big, as if they're making the decisions, but the decisions have already been made. They were made a long time ago, way before you even had your own to bring. But now you're here. You got game.
Split a number of ways, your sorrow was bagged up as soon as you found a safe place to vanish. My mind hangs perilously close to the mind you lost when you made the bad choice of falling into the abyss. It's dark, you said. It's not what you expected, you said. You told no one. No one knows. You knew. You checked out without leaving a note, but you left a receipt for the plane fare. I like the fact a good video was made as it went down. Something to show the folks. That says something about you.
Door opens. You collide. Answers die, questions rear. A dilemma pervades the breakfast table. What does one eat? How does one eat? It's a new recipe. The viable is undone. World's overturned. GPS is confused. Roads are gone. It's not clear anymore. You feel the confusion. It needs attention, picks you up and holds you. Is this rape? Or protection? Are the doors swinging open bidding you for celebration? Prison? Are the times so unscrewed you cannot feel its design? Of course not. All is new. Your superannuated car needs servicing. The new mechanic approaches. His face is blank. You.
Talking till you lose the sense of talking. Your mouth seals. Throat opens. A new river is flowing. Body seals off from the world. Volcanic islands rise within. You cannot see the sun. Blotted out by the fires. Sky has fallen. All is well. Your screams are the opposite of laughs. They are silent now. One or the other. It doesn't matter. You'll find the voice when the time is right, when the world cools, when the sky clears, when the sun is recognizable again, when you feel the necessity to speak. That's when the mouth will open and condemn.
It slips when it should skip. The surface feels, as it is, without the smoothness you remember as the place of kindness, when the hands had their way of molding the clay, kneading the dough, creating, as they sought to create you in their image. It is the function of the corruption. That's its power to manipulate, in kindness, with a smile, as if it's your best friend, bidding you listen, bidding you surrender, bidding you silent, sealing your mouth, smiling all the while. Your soul slips away. It hides in the shallows deep within the cave and patiently waits.
It is beginning again. It always begins this way with a single blade of grass, a small wind, a single cloud, a tiny tremor, an inkling of imminence. One either accepts or denies. Ether way, it will occur. You either draw yourself away or surrender, fall, give in, let go. This is yours. No others. It is for all, though. The connections are strong, whether known or not. You are in the beautiful mess of it, the simmering soup. It's the way. Lam. You follow or not. It'll wait. That's its omnipotence. Follow the rabbit or not. It's your choice.
Excited. At the wall. The door. It's slightly cracked. Ajar. Asking you, as always. It's voice is getting louder. It has a prominence. Before, it was a nuisance, an irritation, something you could easily ignore. Not so anymore. The time is now, more now that ever. It cannot slips so easily slip away. Your consciousness is screwed to its inevitability. Excited. Scared. Feeling the door, the edge beyond. It feels closer than ever. You have no eyes to see down, for down is infinite. It contains all. This causes concern, fear. The face of God is nothing to sneer at.
It's gonna make it, no way not to make it. The way has been fated. In the books. Sky has designed itself for the occasion. Earth has been conscripted. You must follow. There is no going back, although going back entices you. How many delusions have flown their idiosyncratic particulars to screw your finding away from having, deigning the getting to be giving away to nothing but loss? You are in the morphing space of that which molds itself, as it wills. Linearity is a lie. The fun is in the going, like on a roller coaster, blindfolded and hungry.
I don't like getting pissed off. Pissed off gets off on itself. The degree of heat masters even the idea of cool and conveys harmony to the dustbin. It convolutes my spin off the dias of my source face, shatters eye in the infinite regression found in cramped high profile elevators, where minions of Trump do their best to hide personal musculatures with the infections of spirit all too widespread, the lakes and ponds of mind are showing purple. Earth has become gangrenous. Finding the path to a conclusion has become mined. No one knows what step will bring disaster.
The new name rises like a rocket. It ascends. It bids you take your eyes off the TV, rouse yourself to an expectation of the unexpected, allow transference to meet the need of its bonding, open heart and skin to the infusion of name. It has no pronunciation or spelling. It has no form until you give it form. It ascended for you alone. Only you may claim it. Reaching out will meet your opposition. It will grip your reaching. It will wrestle you in a whorl to misguide and confuse you, the meeting of your gods and the other.
Replaying in fits will design a marketplace for monsters. The current fad for monster-wear is coming out. They will descend on the shop like a mess of tornadoes. You won't see the store for the shelves, and getting down will drown the place in blood. You'll regurgitate till it tastes like vomit. You'll seal you mind and mouth in the replaying. Tape is rewound again and again. In fits of mangling heat, where the fabric of your space is ripped to shreds repeatedly, you seem to love what you hate. You tell it so many times, it forgets itself.
Pushing the pull backwards, through a knotted festival of mean kisses, one feeds themselves to a beast without a face, without a soul, without a name, feeding off your name, your soul, your face, taking their fill of light to feed the darkness. It's a sacrificial falling, a dive from a place too fearful to be, too feeling a place to feel, looking for the numb to take away the pain. It's a dive to nowhere pretending to be everywhere full of life that's bereft of life. It's a lie parading as the only truth worth holding, strangling your smile.
One might even find it funny to be put down, if being put down is the way you've been taught to rise, to feel good, to be strong, to claim your name. One is wrung dry in the mixing, when the blades of begetting are sharpened by the butchers assigned to the killing fields of soul. There are many. They are lurking even now, searching for prey. Seemlessly they insinuate themselves into a calm place of smiling, of friendliness, of being awake in the light. They hold their inky tarps of darkness close to their chest. It is their game.
You carry it around, this thing you picked up at a bargain in a bargain basement full of faceless mouths. It goes with you everywhere all the time to act for you when you feel down, when you feel like crap, when you feel powerless. It drives you to this place of powerlessness. It needs this place to survive. It needs you, the host with the most. You believe its words. There are no other words. It has blocked their numbers. It has that was the right thing to do. It lives for you, as you die in bounding strides.
it is up to you. the sky has your multiplexing face on it. look up. you can see it if you blind yourself first. if you dim your eyes of the workaday world with sizes of steel, glass and concrete that fashion your workaday masks, and look up, there it will be, but not the answers, the questions, they are there for your getting, for your asking, for your daily march toward yourself. it will be the battle of battles to see this face. it costs nothing less than everything to see, to feel, to hold, to feel its freedom.
You pile yourself over the edge looking for an out, but what you get is an in and down the rabbit hole, no way else. It's always there waiting for you. All you need is the decision it's made for you, over and over, as the function of the rule that guides the matrix in our habitat, the place of coming alive and dying simultaneously, the place of wonder and infinite questions. One may misconstrue and divide off the quandary, become the shattered mirror in the alleyway reflecting the face of garbage onto itself, giving you a most important clue.
I took you aside and peeled your color off. You said it appealed to your inner instinct to be invulnerable, sacrosanct to a fault for the parade you planned down an imaginary street in a city that wasn't real on a planet you once mentioned in a poem with three beings vying for control of the stage. It was a pleasant show, albeit long, and no intermission made everyone's grandparents fade away. This was exactly how you envisioned it, exactly how you wanted to be seen or not seen, as the case might be. Your lack of color was impressive.
You settle into the present, dovetail back to the future where you expected a world that never occurred, but was written carefully in a script buried under your eyes in a dark place when all that you sought was bound and gagged in a dungeon you built in a delirium, thus made you the person you are. The person you were flickered in the dented light and finally went out. This thing called the present, shifts. It creates its own life, maps it onto you. One set to another, an isomorphic mapping, a neat escape from one reality to another.
You peer into the glass. It peers back. There's an odd distortion you can't put your finger on. No one notices this. You're the only one who sees it. It gets bigger, something you can't ignore. Time is taken to attend to it, more and more. You close doors, windows are barred. You need the time to dig into the mystery. You can't accept distraction of any kind. Your world becomes about this thing; slowly this thing becomes everything. Faces are blanked out. Places are forgotten. Even time itself becomes relegated to a distant memory. The thing had become you.
Falling in love with falling out of love; love conscripted by minions of the monster man with glossies on the sexy vector without a nuance of the binding mind and soul with a ribbon on top for casual conveyance of something called love but not, the love you feel on the page with lust for nothing but nothing parading as something with 5 percent fat for the grilling to be sweet, tender as the cat for the catch in its vat, all the hungry gathering round for the feast that has no name but every name that cages your eyes.
The words fall out ill at ease with themselves, but find themselves committed to a kind of life that can't be written. No soul is derived by prosaic device. The visions accompanying the words volley lies wrapped with truth, and the dispute generated derives confusion at the root of rhetoric bouncing in the mind's eye like a mad dancer. What's begotten in the violence of language belies its very desire to collect confusions at root and bury them under the bedrock of certainty. How can one compose with this chaos always looking over your shoulder, always fumbling between your fingers?
I am in the dwindling stream peering far ahead of the encroaching desert looking for a new mouth to give out a question. It lives ahead. I know it lives. I feel it. The desert is hiding it. Desert in in collusion with the plot. I am the seeker. I will drive this mystery out. I will pluck the hood from the body of lies that works without rest, that never sleeps, that watches my every move, that lies in wait for a weakness. I am the purveyor of my own weakness. I will not give it out. I'll wait.
So lightly it goes into the sky rocketing toward the sun inside its eye, my eye, that sees the sun, no matter how darkness seems to ink the wedding of all to all in a pall of ennui driving what seems to be the end for all. Yet, for all, it rises, this thing, this object without name, without shape, without definition, without a life as life demands life to be defined. It lives in the sky. The sky feeds off its love of sky. It is inside. It is without. It never takes. It waits to give. My spirit.
They're telling you something. It's in the air between the fears of what they portend, in the spaces where they hide their faces. Masks hold sway. They divine the attitudes most appropriate for a living death, a walking dungeon full of ghosts. They're telling you something. They have validity beneath the lies. They carry themselves through the value of the world by seducing the world into revulsion, ignorance and specious devices not valid in the brokerage of the mind where buying and selling thoughts has become a scam. Under the players tables are the keys to unlock the ghosts' armor.
I am suddenly divided. The parts of me most broken lie shimmering in their shatters. Glints of sun, like a rainbow eye exuding its light before seeing, sparkle. They cast shadows by collision with my shed skins on a plain no one may walk, no one may see, no one may know, but me. I am basking in the light, allowing myself to get burned by the light. I am alive on my funeral pyre rising to my defeat that is no defeat but the rapture I eat by the skins I cook, for the deceits I married and divorced.
Broken eyes. Views skewed. Multiple horizons convene in a circus of opposing spirits, like leviathan suns spinning down in a golden fire of Gnosis forging the mettle, far too weak, far too brittle, far too close by a collusion of lies. By the fires, lies ignite, crumble and fade. Their remnants, wanting catch, fondle their own dismissals, and one who once held them for truth, now drops them, nearly dispassionately, almost without thinking into a heap of broken eyes. They peer from the wreckage. It's only fitting they should watch themselves consumed by the fires of Gehenna. It is ordained.
You contain them. You hear them. They are yours. They have a substance, unique and brilliant. They convey fear. They draw calm from the squeezing night, carouse the fabric of space, curving it appropriately for the seductive shape that is their spell under the questions held for ransom under the oily tarps mistaken for ball gowns. The ball is gathering its singers, singing for its jollity, for you, for their gaiety. You hold this ball. It is within. It decides your path. Not to listen is to miss the party. It's waiting in the innermost room where heaven is waiting.
I am in your head, though. I am holding your thoughts carefully assembled in their proper rooms. I am aware of the encroaching army. They are bent on victory. They don't reveal themselves as such. They live in your breakfast plate, your dinner plates, your bath towels. They stare up at your while you hunger for release. They stare from the moist shower walls. They feel your hunger, your mystery. It is what they feed upon. You cannot separate yourself from them. They are as much you as you wish they weren't. I am there, though, and I will stay.
So, it's slowing down now. Night is climbing over itself blinding the attitude of day. I'm divesting myself of this skin that's too hungry too often, too rancorous to wear for long without driving my mind into a whorl. I cannot live in that kind of whorl any longer. It was dressed for a youth driven to the ecstasy of excess, and I am glad for that bondage and leaving. I made its day for night as it wore itself out in my presence in my soul in my shuttered mind. I drove myself gleefully through its food food stations.
You can see that. After the fever, it doesn't die down. It rewinds itself for another season in another place. It'll find you again. In a different way it fashions insinuation like a mystery caller with a hot product and seductive voice. It's right in front of you, hiding in your sold sight. It needs those eyes. With an unpredictable style, it nails you on a charge of being too lazy to see it work. The labor is cheap. It comes in, does its job and leaves, leaving you with a remote control and no user manual. Use your eyes.
Oh boy. It's the end. That means we get another beginning. God, I'd love to die in a nuclear blast. Be vaporized in a flash. Or by a meteorite. Whoosh. Cut in half in a blink. Wow. I want to be there. I want to be awake and aware. I want to see my body ripped to shreds by a lawnmower. Or by a pack of ravenous foxes digging out my guts while I watch. Yeah, sure, it would hurt like fuck, but the whole thing, the event, the extremity of it. Wow. I can't wait. Of course, I will.
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