REPORT A PROBLEM
While I feel myself going, I'm lost to the sensation of being inside myself. My skin dissolves. I'm opened. The rigorous advantage I gain by dropping out, is dropping in to a vast realm that has no boundaries but the ones I create in secret. In the raptures I'm whipped within, I make the fear into something delightful. I roll it up and smoke it like a joint. I'm made clear. I reach the self, the core unveils me, and I'm not what I thought I was. All the lies are made vivid. They are burnt with my former name.
It flexes nothing that might address the true issue hiding under smiles. That issue resides in a quiet, very secret realm that few are privileged to experience. One might keep to their solace with the spoils of their bulging nests of virtual wealth. So say the many who profit by this clever disguise, it is the best mask of all. I keep close to my core. I listen to its whispered utterances. They give me courage. They fill me up with the right kind of thoughts guiding me toward the right kind of end, which is no end at all.
We feel it through the emptiness no matter how crowded it is. The emptiness pushes us from sight, though we carry on as if we have the world on a string. The string is shaping itself into something else as we play its game, as we move through the dense emptiness we cannot see or feel or taste; Yet, it will taste us, feel us, see us, shape us to it in its time, as the string moves through loops on itself, forms the telltale hoop. It dangles from the rooftop, ceiling, narrow passageway of our dwindling soul, the noose.
If the hunger is there, the meat will follow. Chew divides the blood from chaff, the inedibles off the racks, discarded in the aisles with leftover programs no one reads or crumpled in their mouths with the ultra sweets and bad reviews. No matter. The hunger will lead you to the meat, fresh kills and the lively once-overs for the next revival meetings under the tarps with sweaty mamas crying for jesus and dr, pepper. You got the meat. You got the chew. You got the hunger in your bellies and minds and mouths for vowels crammed under verbs.
Up that river in the distance where the dream says you'll get to the place where reality crashes into the dented minds, scarring beliefs, rendering faith as the spice it is, stirred delicately into the mixtures. You can see the eyes swirling in the vats, mouths wagging tongues, ravenous and willing for any new taste sensation. There you can find what you've not been looking for in your pursuit of so-called success. Didn't you get the story right? Didn't anyone tell you how it comes out? Of course not. It ain't over, no matter who's yowling in the pulpits.
As if knowing what's true is not enuf, the quality you express is dubious. The heart of it, as you seem to see, divides off from the false and reveals the truth. For your truth, you go to the end but never find a beginning. That's the way it always seems to go, right. The beggars become leaders for a second or two, then when the time's up, all is thrown to a new kind of wind and it gets nasty. It gets right up to your privileged face. Doesn't smell so good. Doesn't smell like pussy anymore, does it?
Oh, the result is tiresome. And they said you'd be so good at your job! How could they be so wrong? What made it all go bad, hunh? It just slipped away from your crotch, didn't it. She just barely wriggled away, and that wasn't so bad, but the aftermath. Wow. That should've turned some heads, but they didn't turn. They didn't even blink. Where the hell did it all go? A good search of your ideals would reveal a mixture of lies and lies and more lies with a dash of lies. Yup. You're workin for the right people.
Take it to the extreme. Understand the need. A hand flutters into view. Butterfly intuition. Can this fend for feelings lost by the calamity of such a close connection? We don't vie for this kind of meeting. It's unseemly. Unsuitable. One caves at thoughts of completing the motion. It isn't right, you say. It isn't moral, you say. Yet the calling is real. The calling demands. Action. Keeping oneself sacrosanct above the need keeps the need lost in translation. It leaves the means to satisfy held at bey, grafted to the fear, and you think you know. You know nothing.
What do you know? A complex variety. Fashions yourself the architect, the grand designer. A line of clothing that's not clothing. I wear the mask I sell. It tells the onlooker what web I browse. Should I divulge the secrets? There are no secrets, except the ones you fancy to get you excited when nothing real accomplishes the task. Can you become what you wish? In dreams, you can do anything, like the mastery of becoming who who wish to be. Your knowing exceeds the boundaries. Time to go back to school. I am the pedagogue lion in the lamb.
You keep it cool to keep it hot. The value of the rhythm creates the value of the move. You sit inside the move. It has its way with you, as you wish, as you fulfill your true desires. The inner muscle of this, fashions the form that moves thru the thickness. I can see how the thickness manipulates itself to meet your move, and how it wraps around the obstacles to make them meatier. This might prove disastrous, or it might prove lucrative. It might put you in a position that no one has ever been in and lived.
Then comes the judge. It has no face, no gender, no feelings. It judges you according to your ability to move past the trivia of heart. It repudiates heart. It sees how you need heart and waits for you to call upon heart. It sits in a palace judging the world as it moves on the forms of humans who can hide their souls. It's best to put your soul down. No one wants soul. It gets in the way. It makes it hard. Feeling for yourself and others is a encumbrance that serves no one but the grave digger.
It has to be worth it. Into a whirlwind of possibilities one sees what they see, catch what they catch. In the hubbub, one grabs for what they think might save their ass. A crap shoot. So. It has to be worth it. It has to ignite their fevers. One needs to feel this fire if they’re going to take the leap. Why wouldn't anyone seal a deal that keeps their wit from dying in the cold? The cold is where one finds nothing is sold as something, because at this point no one even has a mind to sell.
It could be the one you're headed for right now. The sign is up ahead, obscured, but you know what it says. You've known it for years, right? So what is it? Lest someone take it from you, you kept it under warps. You knew people coveted it. In a tight woven nest inside a space no light may ever enter, you hid it away. It exists where you've always kept it, but now you need it; you need it more than ever. Can you produce it? You know it's there. All you need is the door. But. What door?
Filling the gap between my pen and paper, be it cyber-sized, pixelated, and reformed to meet the codes linking me to nothing I can touch, I vie for the uncertainty I feel with my thoughts scrambled into the matrix and dashed back again as a river of mental murals I barely recognize, I'm filled to the extreme. I become ecstasy itself, dissolving on the electrical rapids with gladness. Can I find the right words that are no words? Will I be found to be lost so deliciously that I might become my death for all the life it brings?
Blue thru green, my face crystallizes in the sharpening morning sky. Upwards of many thoughts plunging down, the mind lifts itself high for the grand design keeping rhythms rising. An ocean surges inside a secret dream. It feels the sun etching day slowly, inexorably flowing toward night, where secrets abound with impunity, where my heart screeches from the confines of an affable face to become the face of night, where the ocean eats the darkness like a sweet confection. I am untoward the keeping of this secret. I am brash, proudly exposing the honor of gods, threading blue into black.
I fleshed you out; you saw me. I served in your nerve. You served in mine. The community of electrical fires became our symbol of unity. In the digression that followed, I met the solace you gave me in silence, and I returned it under a blank moon awaiting its face that you would one day draw. That I should deliver the means to ignite more is my greatest wish. We will ride these flames. We shall be consumed by them. Life demands this. Many miss this invitation. A big mistake. It's an invitation to the greatest dance of all.
Meshed out on three levels throughout the provinces. A dog. A horse. A chatty atheist. We keep the gates front-lined for expediency. Routes for escape are often blocked by innuendo. The dog is kept in a simple nook. It has no eyes but sees perfectly, so everyone should watch their backs. Alive but seeking something other than, the quality is besmirched only by its necessity to be perfect. Shun perfection. It has nothing but answers, which are dead. Die a thousand times to become alive. The dog knows. It has always known. Open your eyes. Pluck them out. See.
There is a voice. It plunges me. My headstrong gusto is dissembled. Belly is blown. Head is flung to the inner suns going nova. She has this way with me. Her hand, conspiring with heart, colludes the suns' means to expand the eye, and I collect the whirling energies. I design, by the root of my desires, the collaborations I could only dream. She plunges this dream. It divides in a maelstrom, fearsome as the widening fist of a tornado. I listen. I’m not afraid. I walk into the center of the winds, and she feeds me. I feed her.
Why does that thought come to you? What brought it on? Should you feel guilty? No. The nemesis is not in wondering why but how. We all know why, though few choose to admit it. We stoop below our radar, disbelieving, vouching a peaceful mind. You'd never think that. But you do, and you did, just now. Coalescing into a clear image, you can see the action before the gesture. You've planned it out a million times. From years gone by in forgetfulness you've held the thought close. Now, it's time, don't you think, to call that thought into action.
I brace myself in a simple fashion, but it doesn't avert the inevitable collusion. I seek my way. The very road I ride winds about itself, unsure of me, unsure of my intent to follow it to the end where I'll find that elusive beginning. I'm always looking for the beginning. In the midst of a race I'm bound to myself to beat no one but myself. Here I stay. I won't move. This time when they tell me I have to move, I'll stand my ground, thought the ground give way and betray me. What is this? Eternal dilemma.
After all the rumpus, storms of brain-mating sky and earth, a numbness sets in, colludes the thought machine, pulls the engine down, pulls the cover over the light from within, tells you in its silent way you're done for the time being. Better to relax, have a sandwich, watch the ensuing violence on TV, well removed from the actual melee. Once begun, half done; nothing can be done. The eyes have it. You can see the fruit of your handiwork. All the people have come. They're gathered in the circle. They want to enjoy this. They know the drill.
Stretches out the nausea, a complete picture of the event, in patches, here and there, like a grand puzzle with a few pieces missing. They dance about, trying to earn the right for the remaining pieces. It's getting larger, deeper, the people are dancing faster. The nausea doesn't abate. It becomes funny, a contrary response, unknown till now. With the end fast approaching, thoughts of sleep flee. The dance is odd. Vomit strews the floor. That too is funny. Watching people slip and fall is the punchline to this game. Singing. Dancing. Vomiting. The lost pieces become the new gospel.
The feeling is undefined. Strange feeling sink deep, flow in and out. The tributaries have no regress. I'm bound to their device. I am fed by their device. In and out. Strange feelings. Euphoria. Horror. Dread dreaming while awake. Forms coalesce, as I fend for the reasons. There are no reasons. Strange things are stranger yet, but what is seen behind that which is seen goes unseen but by the gifted and the haunted by their psychical roots. I am pulled by these roots, wrenched from their soils. Gotta plant me anew. Strange angel. Its edict burns on my flesh.
It screams out to you. Use me. Love me. Take me in. I will protect you. You eat the lies as sweet confections. In your belly they rile their meat; my flesh is at attention. It couples the ferocity, bends quickly to the fires as ice. One burns. One freezes. There isn't a thing you can do but wait it out. Irony of ironies, there's no waiting it out. The thing comes alive by your bidding. More love. You give and give. It takes and takes. Round about the core of light the darkness piles on until the sun vanishes.
Listen to the music. It comes from the tenant in your center. Strains of its tune mix the fabrications you hold as your only true love. What you've fashioned climbs high in the sky inside your mind. You reach out your hand. You touch the edge. You touch the sky. Your world is hollow. The lies laugh. You're trapped. Thinking back hard, you try to find the moment where you took the plunge, when you took the deal. What deal? You don't have a paper. Where is the deal? You can hear it. All day. All night. It's what's left.
It pools at my feet. Looks unrecognizable. People are standing around giggling. They're pointing at me and giggling. I don't get it. I look at the puddle. I feel uneasy. I smell rancid oil. The sky looks wrong. Everything looks wrong. I can feel something approaching, but from where? I can't see it. It's arrival is imminent. The necessity is being ready. I'm not ready. I don't know why I'm here. It wasn't my idea. The pool is widening. I feel it in my shoes. It stings. My legs are tingling. My brain is turning off. Something is taking over.
It's just underneath. I can see it, see the form it wants to create, how my muscles strain against this pressure, how my mind feeds it. From deep it rises. My face occupies a fantastical image in my mind. My eyes cannot follow the design as well as my wishes proclaim it to be true. There's a volatile need. Calm proceeds on and off between islands of rage. Volcanoes. Placid seas. I'm on a ship, I think. yet I'm not the pilot. I'm bound by this invisible pilot's wish. He ain't talking, but I can feel him squirm inside me.
Cuddle up to your lion, tiger, ape pet, make it human, make it as real as a brother, a sister, one of the family, know in your heart it's just another human in a weird disguise. Bond to it. Give it a name a last name, a middle name, give it an allowance, a trust fund, take cute pictures of it, paste it all over Facebook. Let go of all pretense. Have a little wrestle, and before it's time to clean you off the floor, reshape your face, bury you, be sure to keep a careful record of your stupidity.
It could be a sign of change, or it could be a sign that the downstairs neighbors finally killed themselves and gave their dogs the right of passage. The community will be better off, no question. I believe the dogs left on a sailing trip to Tahiti. This was always considered to be the the correct solution, yet others didn't go along with it. They digest the world linearly in very definite geometric shapes that won't deviate regardless of the pilots. The meals will always be the same. You can look and see things the same or differently. Your choice.
What do we have so much in store that we can dispense with care and proceed as if nothing has occurred, nothing has made itself known as the root cause of this insane progress? Are we destined to be oblivious forever? Regardless of all that's come before, we stand as if we know. Such arrogance. Nothing seems to shake it. The earth itself cannot instruct. We listen only to ourselves. Hoarding our spoils we stand and look away. Blindsighted by hope, we intone, as we must to the next and to the next, "Just close your damn eyes and go."
The Tip Jar