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Here we go. The swamp is widening, but the border patrols are keeping up the decorations, so everyone can stay calm, appeased, tranquilized, removed from the fear pandemic scouring the country like a typhoon of mad locusts that just can't get enough to eat. Damn. Someone set out a bowl or two. They're hungry. Damn right. We're all told to keep aware, to look at the foe straight in the eye, but in the wrong direction. A screen's been set up to show a film. We were all invited. It was fun, a good show; took our minds off inevitability.
You steal back toward yourself, reeling way back, too far. The substance is becoming sparse. You're losing your way. What you have in mind is not what you have at your hands. Look at your hands. They're dissolving. Look at your face, it's becoming unfamiliar. You were told. You ignored all the advice. Too arrogant. Fear cracked open a new path. You thought it was the right one, the necessary one. Your loss. All that was is now gone, but it never was in the first place. You believed too quickly. Reality found you out. Now you're finally finding it.
In your sights. Yes. The most beautiful thing you've ever seen. It's come for you. That's the last thing you expected at a time like this. Inside a thickly folded pile of memories there exists one that shines. It was the one that led you to the path. Such a thing is a marvelous once-in-a-lifetime experience. You had it. It had you. Both of you carried on. Now the days are getting shorter. Should this worry me? No. I'm capable of making sharp, intelligent decisions, even now as my body bids farewell to the ability to feel.
Not out. In. Valueless conscriptions to an astral enterprise gathers flotsum and jetsum threads of a phantom we clutch as real, hold as dear, creating images to seal its illusion as reality. Bowing ceaselessly, we only end up hurting our backs. Eyes dip to a floor that knows only shuffling feet. What may we do to fixate on us? Time honored webs afix myriad gears of lies in a vast machine. Such a fuddle. Clapped down to this harsh reality, astral resolutions keep time with traditions screaming from ancient, musty texts. At least it gives the dust something to do.
On the phone-gears cranking verbs and vowels out for resuscitations that I might feel the spiraling into one. No such luck. Iím taking a break, stepping back, viewing the canvas as fully as possible. Can I pull far enough back to see myself outside of myself? I like the way things have been organized. I mean, the available reruns are endless. They take my mind off decay. Who will clean up after I pass thru the portal into which Iím now staring? Shall I be aggressive or meek about this? Pointless to be concerned one way or the other.
I burn myself in you, the heart of my love; I keep to the flames. They cool me. In this forced privation, what germinates is the seed of something between us that we cannot control, yet we have it, as it has us. It's in our hands, though we cannot feel it now, it's there. Growing. I give way to this. I will not look away. We must look inside it together. There is much nourishment in this, much mystery. What I hope is that we find the new light a way to guide us firmly on our new path.
Sure, the passage of time marks its space firmly in your legacy. How could it not? You've made a long trek. Where you are is not where you were. Is this bad? Are you sad? Did you not get what you thought you would like a disgruntled kid on Christmas morning, feeling dissed, ignored, beaten and abused? The extremes are extant. They have a place. They mark the boundaries, beyond which there's an uncertainty that both baffles and intrigues. We don't get to see this place. Will we ever see it, be there, living inside it? Good question. Your roll.
I mean to transform the space I'm occupying with a new form. I don't know what that form will be, though. I'm not supposed to know. That's my feeling. I sense an imminent change. I keep this to myself. When it manifests I'll be very glad to share it, I think. A little bit makes for a lot. Yes. If it's one thing I realize now as an older man, less is much more. You take an eye. You look into it. What you saw or wanted to see as a young man is gone. What do you see now?
I look ahead, but I don't see anything. Eyes seem to be useless. The road is unseemly. No telling how it winds or where it goes. I was told follow, but with no reason given, why should I follow? My habits will undo me. I gotta remind myself, I'm no longer a follower of the faith I once held to be true. That was shattered and scattered, and I was so relieved when I was freed of it. Yet, there's nothing to take its place. The times are fearsome. One needs all they can bring. The fires will be significant.
This is a sneaky time. Things slip between the lines and lodge inside the place where thinking is no longer sacred. An infection ensues. Quite apart from anything anyone might suspect, it takes a course that claims a radical turn. No one could tell anyone what that meant. That was the idea. Create something that'll take on its own life. The rest'll be a surprise. Fashion dictated this turn of events. Disturb the rhythm. Upset the status quo. They got what they wanted. In terms of keeping secure, that's a gamble. Being secure is being able to say you'll die.
Fearing this. Fearing that. You gotta box with eyes. Above, below, around, to the sides and back, a revelry you can't quit, drives the point home, you ain't alone. Control is the issue. You buy it, sell it, barter it one way of the other, but it's there as an instrument of the farm. All the stock is marked, checked, weighed. Nothing is left to imagination. Nothing is left to guesswork. You're told where to go. The going defines your path through the world, which used to be yours in some fashion. Now, your going is how its currency flows.
Keeping check. The line is shorter today. Demand must be high. That's good for some. You nod to the keeper. He eyes you like an object. That used to bug the ones going in. Now it calms them. What's the point in getting upset? I don't mind. I'm the manager. Best to keep things away from the personal. This is the way of things. It's been this way for as long as I can remember. The herd has been strong my whole life. I helped to keep it strong. My mission. No one has ever complained. That's about to change.
It tilts over the edges. One can view the entirety without guilt, without shame. You see it for what it is. The crisp, brown edges, deep inner spaces, soft entrails. Your nose flares at the sight. Image after image passes over your screen. You are there, even though you are here. No distance locks you down. Limitations are extant, but you feel no loss, no lack of coming together. It's the ritual of it that brings you in. All it asks of you is surrender. You give that gladly. It's the thing with sourdough loaves. They give at a distance.
If we knew it to be true and didn't do anything, we'd be branded stupid, blind, cowards, but the fact is we don't know it to be true; we just want it to be. The edge is getting heavy with everyone leaning on it. Many have come to this point, but no one's taken another step. Fear lives here. It lives like a virus cabled thru everyone's heart. The unknown has a great poetic voice, but when it comes down to the reality of facing that unknown, it become something altogether new. It becomes the enemy and steals our faces.
Half way down. I suppose it's time to speculate. Sky seems so far away, yet the ground is nothing I want to hold. In abeyance, I'm found to to be in a state of puzzlement. Granted, this is what they said would occur at this point. No matter how many times they told me, how many times they mapped it out for me carefully, methodically, I held back involvement to be free of judgment. Ironic, that it's judgment they want from me. Looking in the distance I see nothing but an unavoidable answer. It'll come for me. Let it be.
Over and over. The same. A carnival ride. Music is so cheerful. It lures you in. Bright lights, extravagantly painted horses, their bright orange eyes. They seem to leap out at you, catch you in your breath, then the hand falls in, body follows. Grabbed by the momentum, you can't resist. All else follows. Hour after day after month after year, round and round. You don't feel yourself dying. What withers is care. Joy is the ride. Falling away, some voices feel familiar. The loss of one or another pangs but for a moment, the rest is the ride. Ageless.
I guess I could say I'm wandering my room in my head, as my head floats here and there looking for something. I draw out my breath the way I should, but I feel outcast sometimes, that I don't belong to my breath. I wish I could explain it better. I feel good, then I feel apart. I feel beside myself. Inside myself I have a dull feeling, but I know my real feelings are here in the room. They float about. I reach for them; they reach for me. I keep the gold of connections open as a possibility.
They grow on you. Words adhere like a disease that has no cure. Inviolate to the core, the heart keeps time with the discordant rhythms of the times. Dancing has never been more mosh. Elbows in the brains, dashing lights for the conundrums so exquisitely played out in dreams. We feed off dreams. They nourish us in the dead of night to bring it to life. Exaltations divide the cells, exhort the elixirs, like blood from the alien, eating through the finest, sturdiest minds standing up. Can you stand up in this storm? No way to leave. Just do it!
Amoeba become a worm, fish, dog, cat, horse, flesh pot rising with vague awareness, creature resembling a man, woman, a great beast with no face, eating as it goes, feasting on the believers, taking what it needs to expand, grow, replicate. Doubt is eradicated. Fear tranquilized, till the hoards are numb, not knowing, not seeing, believing the lie, the great giver of all things who takes, takes, takes, how it stands above everything declaiming, proclaiming, unfurling its shroud to block the sun, covering the adherents. We are alive in a time where increments of decay are splitting down to zero.
Calling that off to another conclusion brings a kind of relief that feeds a different sort of brain, one that's built from illusions. Keepsakes of the heart, tiny matchsticks of memories piled one upon the other, make up the kingdom of this mind. Alone in a dark, 5 by 8 room, the person may ponder endlessly. The mind is an amazing thing, how it's able to construct itself as a series of rooms trodden daily, filled with faces, objects, a pastiche of the past, patches of hope, even oasis of love, that all may be lived without moving at all.
It moves slyly, capturing itself invisibly, slithering from host to host, establishing the silent comm, growing viable threads, stitching a web around the world. Winds are rising. Horizon is dimming. Focus is on the patch of earth you're on. Beneath your feet, inside your body, deep within your brain it lives; it moves elegantly without fuss. One might even be impressed by its elegance. Few creations have grown to such heights in such short a time. All the world's the stage for the creation's actors. Words are becoming fewer, speeches even less. The quiet is looming. Masks are becoming ash.
Coming down to it, the right of way is off left of the mind's center, grabbing at something that has nothing to do with the matters in hands that are dissolving. What was solid yesterday is but a river of bad ideas flowing down the drains we created for our privations that have allowed the worst. It isn't what we wanted. It's what we have, what we've created. Better ideas were probably on the table when we were young, but that time is long gone, museum time. We greet ourselves around the mummy cases. It's nice to be a relic.
Pushed to the wall as it recedes in the bowels of head, a good fart ensues the soul's highway to excellence and fetid heaven. I got the need to push the envelope, far as the restaurant won't allow in the kitchen; dicing, slicing, pounding the meat into shape before the beauty pageant. You can see it in your mind if your head is appropriately duped on the foggy swamps, be they in your basement or in the attic or on the black waters on the bayou. Come with the crawdads. Be at ease with the gators. We got chow, baby!
Likely no one will return, but that's fine. We want to make an impression that lasts and lasts and lasts. Good as it gets, it gets better down the winding road toward an extreme version of holidays without fun. Why go for something typical? Why take the road and make it silly with sentimental goo you can't play with in the backroom? We need putty in the gears, fingers on the greasy knobs. We need slippery Susans in the garage where the oil is changed into wine. If you got that kind of god on tap, the customers will come.
Pulling myself up, pushed though the tiny hole of eye, spraying sight for seeing like a roadside bomb blasting away chaff for a glance at the truth so carefully tucked away against anyone's need. Resisting all urges to remain quiet and pleasantly affable, the time is now for true sight. I am tired of the dull, lifeless facades, tired of being the smiley face. Tired of the rude chaff held up like a standard in the face of devastation. See what you see! See the smoldering ruin. We made this, all of us. My eyes are opening. Bllndness, no more!
It sits in the back watching. Sometimes you can make yourself forget, not so much that it's there, but why. Hard to shake the rattle and hum it digs for a body rhythm you can't deny as thrilling, achingly seductive and complete. Separating yourself from it takes work. Pulling the secrets eats its own volubility. In a depth out of your ken, the sights you gather steal breath, drives soul out of itself in a lust for another, yet another, a true vampyre heart. Fearing yourself in its grip, you can only smile as it takes its prey for love.
If you had it, you could see it, feel it, breathe it. It would invest itself in you, such that the outer world would become the inner world. Each road would worm its way into you. All sights, sounds, sensations, beliefs, would recede into your imagination where they originated. You would be dressed as if made anew. Such a dream made manifest is just that, a dream. One wakes from such dreams with regret. What harm would there be in surrendering to the dream, to not waking up, being absorbed, forgotten by a reality that's no reality but a nightmare?
Such as it is, you can hold it. The house seemed quiet. No one was moving. Lights were off, but the front door was open. We entered cautiously, feeling as though we were doing something naughty, but also something that had to be done. There was no use waiting anymore. The floors creaked. We listened but heard nothing, only the floorboards under our feet. The sensation of something being there was real, however. We all felt it. At any moment, we felt, it would appear. In a moment we laughed. How silly of us. We walked on. The mouth opened.
One more and the fish is mine. Long river winding to its unending mouth in perpetual approach dives my heart to an unexpected realization. Such as I'm prone to impulsive behaviors I'm surprised at myself but gratified that I might've learned something new. This point marks my place. I don't know how else to mark it. Can a river take me so far that I can forget the origin, the mouth? No. It's always there, always approaching. I'm beset by the irony of fate that's facing me down. Is it an enemy or friend? Is it past or the future?
The ball expands. Skin becomes taut. I'm led to believe it's okay. I'll be fine. What rises within says otherwise. Can the road become more confusing? Will the winding ever cease? Are we going around in a big circle, redressed each time to please our vapid fancies? It's expanding, getting bigger, wider. Shape is unusual. The clear headed expectations are, once again, redacted. The sum of needs can't be reduced to a fistfight in the backyard. It can't come to that. Not with all the work we put into it. Not fair. Should fists be the new guns, we'll lose.
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