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There's a profound and all pervasive depression spreading over the land, a deep malaise, a melancholy. It's palpable, and I think it's best to recognize it. The times are depressing, if one still places high hopes on the American Dream Machine holding forth. It's sinking. Sooner than later it will fade away, and something else will be in its place. There's no telling exactly what that 'something' will be. We are a political joke now, a clown act. The harder this administration tires to recover from itself, the worse it gets. A slip there. A trip here. Coming soon. Apocalypse.
It is happening again. The trees are calling. Wind is howling. You can feel the earth is aroused. Under your feet it crawls through itself. There are whispers in the winds. They pass quickly. If you're silent, you can feel them work through you. There's a connection that you cannot avoid. You can ignore it. You can think it won't matter if you don't acknowledge it. It acknowledges you. It drives you forward, though the impetus is hidden from view. All the energy working its way through you will give you something. You may not want it. It wants you.
I feel this thing coming. The ground below had a feeling all its own. It wanted to own mine, become mine. I fell at one point in my life. I drew sustenance from the fall. I lavished in falling. I looked down and saw the stars in my head. From the bottom I thought I saw the sky. It lied so magnificently. It took me for a ride, cause I allowed it. I asked for the ride without asking. I closed my eyes, standing at the edge and fell forward, feeling so brave, exultant. I was a master of dying.
Storms aplenty in this quiet space, this dark, silent space, cacophonous storms with clouds that smile, that reach out and beg a touch, a kiss, an embrace, storms that have the guise of placidity, a long, easy breath on a calm lake stretching from how to why to what to where has it gone? This place was here a second ago. It made it presence known. It knew me. I could feel how it knew me. Yes, it knew you. You gave yourself up. You surrendered. Is there anything more fearful than giving yourself up to nothing but a lie?
I could do this thing one more time, once more around the bend, around the sneaky corner, plying it as it squirms in its curl to hide the nefarious dog licking its toothed gullet for a coming of ages in the mouth when it can speak no more of ill, lest chew the devil out of darkness, convey a light to the licking? This might seem unseemly, unlikely in this period of time, this special niche of time we've woven out of dreams. I might invite you in for a chat, a meal, a look at your place of inauguration.
In and out, you know, the punctuation of a thought penetrates the membrane known as caution, pervades its own growth with calling its own after the infection to meet thought with action, plying the muscles of mind to the muscles of disease, and a human machine gets underway to ploy the matters of creation. Once penetrated, there's no stopping it. Infection breeds a metastisis that might elevate or denigrate. It heaves on the landscape of heart, spreads out a growing pool to eye the sky like a mirror for the sun, mirror for the moon, a glass to service desire.
People seek out people to serve many diseases spawned from a desire to serve themselves, hardly anything else. Should it serve others, it's almost an accident. We dive to our own well of desires to fish for a light to cut the confusion, push the darkness back, find a beacon for something we haven't created yet, something at the end of our fork, as a means, I suppose, to spur a thought, then another thought and another, and so on, to create a space to catch the thing to be caught, cooked and eaten. I never know what I'll catch.
It's here. I can't see it. I'm trying to see it, but it's elusive. First, I'm trying to believe it's there to be seen. I get confused. Sometimes I wander, looking for the wrong thing, or anything. I don't like being a loser. I don't like missing the fish that was there waiting for me to catch it. I wish I had been told. No one tells you anything. You've got to mind your own. This time that we have is asking far more of us than we're aware of. There is a great deal to be missed, and lost.
You have to let it go, or it'll stick to you, a lamprey, a barnacle, a parasite, something that feeds off you, a piece of the world that died and found an ongoing life attached to you; insinuated deep, like an inoperable cancer, it snakes through your psyche, becomes a conflagration in your soul, an inextinguishable furnace burning, burning, burning, that which has become you. By a simple choice made recklessly, desperately, your life has become absorbed. You could play as though you're unaffected, free, as though your life was still your own. Many make this choice. It's a clubhouse.
It's a plan that seems airtight. You've gone over all the particulars a thousand times. Nothing could go wrong, right? I see it before me, a masterful caper, laid out like a virgin for her husband's desire, the wedding night turned to gold, fire of desire forging a sepulcher of bottomless greed. How could that go wrong? I am in the process of the process. It's only a matter of going, of starting out, of being in the right place to do the right thing, activate the machine. You are the machine. There's no going back. The time is now.
We have an eye for the eye built between us, seeing what no one else can see, that drop of light, that firefall of starlight born in this secret place, feting the incubus, and a clasp of hands without hands and all hands together for the rapture, the freedom we needed, the freedom we found, no I, all I, and the songs rise, a joyous celebration erupts on the alter of us, this alchemy, this magic that nothing might obstruct or interfere. We are on this path. We see as we see. It is a special sight. It is ours.
You strive for completeness. You have a task, a mission. You've accepted it. All the parameters are in your grasp, or they're not. It's begun, or it hasn't. There is no way to assimilate. You keep this secret. You don't let on. Those watching believe. You want them to believe. Belief is necessary for you to accomplish the task. What task? This is the crux of dilemma, and in the right moment, as the trigger is pulled, the truth will be revealed. Your truth or theirs? Unknown, until it's known. That's what keep them under your thumb, under your control.
I think about you. There's a ceiling and floor, a broad expanse outside your window that's my window. We share views from time to time. I see a landscape and you're dancing. You speak clearly to me across the way. We get further from each other and closer. Our eyes have this unique way of ushering in new light for both of us. We've come to see differently. No one can know this. I stand on a green meadow. You rise from the ground. I take to your stance. We dance. No movement. Furious movement. A new sun was born.
I can reach further now. The pain has been extinguished. You entered my domain. I kept that private. No limo was called. We ordered out. The delivery man disappeared as he gave us the food with no name. He was never there. You brought this new food to me. I was excited, as any cook might be. Cooking it took time. It's still on the stove. No one knows exactly what it will look like or taste like. We know it'll be good. The hand that reached out found another hand. Both became part of a new gesture called us.
You spoke. A word plumed. I felt rain. It snowed in the street. Cars stopped. Children ran into the park. The word rose. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up. No one knew why they looked. They had to look. I found myself walking outside. I walked into the park. The children were laughing. Many of them were looking up. Snow was falling. I felt rain, though. It was warm. In the ballpark a game was underway. No one was watching. The players were happy. I heard your word. It fell over me. I put it on. You.
You made a face. It fell on the canvas. It split in two. You gave it a name but told no one. It whispered in your eye. You cried a bit, but that was okay. It felt right. You made another face. It stayed with you. You kept it away from the canvas, although you knew it would find its way there. There was no other choice. A conflict was being created, a divisive one. Storm clouds formed in your eye. You knew something was coming. There was no knowing what would happen. It had to do with the faces.
A mirage, a wavering image displaced from my soul; a time capsule was launched. I felt it go. The urge to chase it dimmed quickly. What was the point? Things come. Things go. I'm advancing in my time, feeling the time grow large in its portent. I cannot help bu ponder on the ministrations of this thing called time. It's such a befuddling thing sometimes. I wish I could hold you now. It's a small thing, I suppose, but it's really big too. I love you so. You're the most important thing in my life, and you're not a thing.
If the flint strikes a spark, there I am. In a furious calm I embrace it, as I become the flame following. In the fiery wake, I strike a manner of being unlike any other. I draw from my movement a kind of stillness captured, frame by frame. I become a film of my own conflagration within my mind. The flames are food. I eat them as they eat me. I can only feel them, as they feel me. So convoluted am I in this effort to describe this, much like dying, much like being born. Stuck in the middle.
So it goes and goes. In a smooth flow I see myself without thoughts of being seen by any other. It's unpleasant being seen. I move between people's glances. I bend from each click of the frame of their eyes, like a subliminal image dashed to the action, spliced in the movement, catching light just long enough to be missed. I like being missed, anonymous, kept to myself, alone. Never lonely, I wonder why this is true of me. In a quiet reverie, I am pleased by this thing called life. Such a puzzlement, the greatest mystery, just like death.
Weak spot, ink spot, expanding, on a tumbledown of words without words, pyroclastic flow off the eruption, head of my head blasted up from the root of mind where artisans of suppression work tirelessly to keep the lid on, keep an even strain, even flow, appearances like a banal pastorale fanning out, a hallmark card extravaganza, and the cloud forming, a hood under which all games of misdirection may deploy their devices with impunity. I am in the depths of an inky spot of words I'm trying to cull from the bonds forged before time was an excuse for insouciance.
I'm feeling pulled apart in the middle of a strange sort of sadness I can't grasp. It's widening. The sky is an odd shade of purple. It feels like a song is going to be played. The clouds are gathering in a diffuse circle. The faces behind the clouds are talking. I can't make it out. They're plotting. I feel it. There's wonder at the root, but there's no word to define it. My limbs are being pulled. This feeling is strident, tacky like dirty bubblegum stuck to my brain. I wish I knew. I need a cup of smiles.
You could search and search all your life long and never come close to this thing in the middle that drives your moxy into mud, makes shrill whistles out of love songs, comes close to burying you under a mountain of fabricated dolls made to look like my confirmation teacher, whose cunt was robbed by a faux god looking for disciples. I'm in an icefishing hut. The freezing hole is filling with sharp questions like hooks. Like a fish my mouth is punctured. I'm being pulled in by this fake god, this giddy demiurge. I'm clearly in the wrong icehouse.
The broad plains that ride on the winds of wheat, barley and corn belie the tranquility of these flat, spiraling landscapes. In the core of the growing grounds, minds unseemly are spawned. They grow from their own brand of isolation and loneliness. How these minds must sow the soils of their hearts, where no humans trod, with seeds of idiosyncratic dark imaginations, along the gusts under the wide moon one can almost taste the breaths of these lonely souls as they search out their brands of love. They go as they go. They sow their ways, till their necessary crops.
The words come plentifully, meaninglessly. They bear their weight at the expense of my wit. I draw from a wellspring long forgotten, overgrown and buried. Who would imagine I might find the answer there? What is the question? It's been rolling around my mind perhaps even before my conception, rattling about the thoughts of pure spirit, flowing through the ether, looking for a body, then a mouth to utter it. I am at its mercy. My life lives by the strings of this grand plan to obscure, only to illuminate a mystery. I am bound to solve that mystery. Me.
It moves. That's what it does. I feel it inside. It moves me to feel its moving. I'm surrendering. Can't fight it anymore. What's the point? I have squandered my time for the pursuit of pandering to superannuated answers posing as questions vital to the mix wherein we are stirred. I'm so tired. That's what they said, the point they'd made, that I'd reach a point where a choice had to be made. I'm staring at the target board now. It's poised far away, very still. I see only it. I can only imagine. I raise me hand. I throw.
Funny little demons. They make me laugh. I followed this guy to the diner. He had a quirky way about him. It caught me. The bag was opening. I didn't see it. I didn't need to see it. We sat at a table looking out on a busy highway. He talked about this and that. Ever so slowly, I became aware of something happening. There was no naming it. Funny, weird things happen all the time. I took it in stride. My stomach began to hurt. I watched this guy as he spoke. His words faded into a burgeoning fear.
My eyes began to water. I rubbed them. He talked. I only half listened. My stomach was really hurting by this time. My eyes stung. His face became indistinct. I put that down to my inexplicable illness, which I tried to ignore. I excused myself. He kept talking, but I had no idea what he was saying anymore. It struck me as funny. I walked slowly to the men's. I could still hear him talking. I looked in the mirror. I jumped back. I didn't recognize the reflection. It was me but not me. Stupid thing to say, I know.
I smelled something bad, like rotting vegetables. Felt like I was about to throw up. I stumbled over to a stall, opened the door, knelt down. I closed my eyes and heaved. He laughed so hard. Startled, I looked. He stared at me from across the table at the booth with a quizzical look. "What's up, man?" I paused to answer, but I had no idea what to say. "You checked out there for a bit." I nodded. "You want to get out of here?" I got up quickly and left by myself. I needed to get to my mirror.
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