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You know and you don't know. You see and you don't see. In between blinks the world spins, once black, now bright, then again, black, a photo-cropped light socket bandying its strobe issues. You can hide in the black flashes. The light rushes in. You dodge by timing the rush. You can flee the disaster, cleverly weighing your priorities against those of your fellows, who deign to circumscribe their lives according to the mastery of the strobe device. Who is this master? Who gave him or her the right to seal our fates by a carnival trick gone amok?
So, after calibrating the machines that guide our guts with surgical precision, the mobs have a go at themselves, not believing their own strategies, not trusting the machines they themselves designed. They seek a kind of serenity in the madness by tossing the buck, as it were to the next player on the next team, who's inevitably asleep or drugged or having sex with a goat. It's a confusing time. The coffee breaks have gotten much longer, but no one wants to say anything. Everyone knows what's going on behind the green doors. It's a tossup. You just can't win.
Carnival time, baby! Such a method you can fold up and stick in your pocket to use it or not, anytime or eon, you bet. It'll keep for eons, oh yeah, even since the time something decided to trigger the start of the evolutionary ladder. Such a tiny flash, tiny flick of a primeval switch. No one saw a thing. Well no one was around, you lunkhead; of course, they didn't see anything. Do you know what this flipped trigger accomplished? Are you aware of the consequences? It's not printed on your MegaWin ticket. You won't find it at CostCo.
Can I feel what you feel, swipe it from the core, fling it off to the mass of yore, so it can chew it down, swallow it and digest it for another villain to be grown from its mess? I am in the heart of this. I swing with its beat; I ride with it on the rhythm we often ignore purposefully. I want to see, feel, hear the commotion under wraps. I want to embrace the melody no one knows how to whistle until it's too late. This is the world I know. I hold it to my soul.
It splits it up. That key inserted secretly in defiance of regularity, sorting out the status quo crushed in a moment of blazing inspiration. Such is the glory and ruin of minds at the edge of their tolerance. Gone are the barriers, morals keeping those prisoners at bey. You can judge, parlaying the values of beliefs into tiny porticoes where all those who live behind decorated bars convene in a moment and see. In that moment all that's been withheld, submerged, denied, rushes out in a glory of light and power. Those who can hold intact will keep the day.
Values drip from expectations held out in burned hands working the tangled metals, shattered buildings, inverted humans who know it's wise to keep time with the minister of electricity, for they are the arbiters of the magic living at the core of creation in a place no one knows. But it's there. If we hold ourselves aright, that which pulses will send tremors up spines to ignite the minds, this is the time. We must wait not more. The hour has come to go, and those who know where to go will keep this secret until the last lie dies.
You work throughout. It's in the mix. You feel it. The mix combines a mystery with certainty, or so you believe. In the middle, not the end, the instruments of moving will become apparent. They may not please, but you've put yourself in a position where you have no choice but to accede. It's a delicate position, an enviable position to many. They don't know the whole truth. No one does until they know it, and when they know it there's no going back. That's the delicious part. The end will have its way; a few may even enjoy it.
I glide my head thru the container of ash, a spewing blast furnace no comedy no tragedy, rather like mercury spit flung across the room or oceans to speak of, a curious desire to see water turn to flame drunk from a bottomless well of scotch; so gleeful are the atomic rabbits you have no choice but to laugh uproariously. It's a scream! A moan, a tired chuckle. You decide. The rabbits are watching. They're never not watching. They come as innocents. You don't pay them any mind. They do their thing without interruption. It's good you leave them alone.
It marches one thru a devastating landscape of not knowing. Confusion marks the guide to chasing your own reflection, keeping nothing of what's known, discarding all that's familiar. The challenge is to face an unknown, while knowing you must find a semblance of yourself, even if you cannot feel yourself being present. The present has dissolved. No landmark exists but a knowledge of the game you endorsed, though you cannot recall doing so, most likely. The ones in charge know exactly what's going on. They delight in creating confusion. They watch you scrambling like a terrified mouse in a maze.
The blistering gaff where sun is digested by wishing, the onlookers stare in numb amazement, how life is sucked by a blue sky full of venom, clouds as minsters of shade that only laugh and jeer. Look at them run! Look how they nod after desiccated faces prowling older as they go, digging themselves deeper inside their own Bethlehems of exhaustion. Sidewinders go as the melody thickens, a gloppy soup of sweaty residues, some might say, wearing badges of honor were they gotten in the steeplechases you've only read about in boring history lessons. Going as they go and gone.
How do you kill something that needs to die but refuses to yield to reason, that the punctuations of life have reduced the thing to a state of incredulity, that the function of its life is boiled down to the means of continuation on the basis of pure existence, a heart beating to the rhythms of life on a microscopic scale, behooving the lifer on his or her chosen rivers, to fashion their collective mind as a precious jewel that must be guarded with lethal force? In the admiration of the jewel's gleam, one become seduced to something darkly fantastical.
It has to go. You know. The dance isn't the same anymore. Corrupted at its core, the feeling is one of emptiness. The sad fact is that the dance is meaningless. There was a deity, or deities, so they assert, that loved the dance, that blessed those who did the dance. Those who had fat pocketbooks were especially blessed. It was a calling. Those who answered the call were often singled out eventually as just plain weird. The rewards varied, but mostly the rewards went to the deity itself, if possible. More often, they ended up in the leaders pockets.
How do we want what we want, that such a desire might promulgate the idea of desire as being necessary and good and complete in itself, not only in the satiety granted on its path but with the fullness in its depth taking the surroundings, blending them into themselves as though an EF5 was at its core surging its spirals as a mess of hands reaching out in a frenzied dance moving steadily toward an infinitesimal point beaming like a black hole at its absolute center. This is the paradox we love, to go wild in a wide fantastical implosion.
Disturbing. It goes with the pages thrown hither and thither, like flesh to the fiery fingers in the dark, where no one can fend them off, define them or render them as real. They don't exist. Disturbing. It crawls up the spine invested in surreptitious divinations brought to the fore by desires gone awry, like a faulty rollercoaster with spindly wooden struts aching under pressures that have no release but for the incipient collapse. You watch it waiting for the collapse. You say you don't want to see it, but in reality you crave it, like an Indianapolis 500 crash.
Movement toward questions is the disquieting muse, the charactery of a catastrophe waiting to happen, sitting on the edge peering off, standing above an abyss, barely in place, feeling the lift off but a flinch away, almost wanting, dreading it, hearing the engulfing space call to you, come, just one step, one tiny movement, and if you dare, if you shred conformity as a private hell, as the home of death smiling as a life worth living, you can feel death demanding you hold your ground. If you need the light, true life, feel the incipient awareness beckoning, go, now!
It fills all moments without spending time on its inertia, for the largess of its mind exceeds necessity of time. In the spiral toward the center of its quality, one notices there's very little to hold onto. More empty space than anything substantially significant on the path toward sentience. Thinking excludes rhythms you might recognize. It isn't part of the structure, yet works its wiles as it works its machines to create the structure. Have you felt this structure yet? Do you realize how it moves inside you? You may have even accepted it. At which point, it's become you.
Storming so like a lightning viper in black silk, slither, glide, strike with an eye for the catch you never see. In a darting flex, the muscular hunger keeps its coil on a bed of cool anticipation, watching, waiting, gathering up its vim. Let that not deter one from entering the room of wide spaces reserved for the aggressive viper. That room stretches past any imagination. Can love dissuade its surety? No. That is not in its vocabulary. You are hidden to the strike. Accepting the fate will keep your value high. Slither, glide, strike. See its will be done.
In the room it veers left, veers right, up, top, bottom, through the floorboards, spinning all around but in the room. It sees you, hears you, feels you like a marauding rapist. You can't keep it away. Close tucked in a high corner in stillness it peers at you. Eyes, hungry as its intent to feed on you, there's nothing but a stare down. No winner. No loser. Despite how shallow it may appear, it has a hideous strength. It knows you. You can feel it mining your mind, extracting this and that. Somewhere you'll come together for a feast.
The feeling one gets on the trigger, feeling the metal of the mind, colluding with an intention, finding the grit to pull it, pull the venom out of the armed box, snake it down the drain, plug it up and be done with the madness of such a daily dilemma, having the nerve to finish it, and what it is, you may ask? How does anyone get this far in life with half their mind intact and not know? It's with you every moment of every day, and I can say it now, it will take you out if ignored.
The field is filling up with emptiness, just as they wanted, ready and warmed up for the engagement. Combatants climb their muscles to the edge. They feel the desire to exhale passion of a different sort, the kind that bores holes in diamonds, etches their weaknesses to make them stronger, enhance their brilliance, lure people in with their pure, perfect luminescence. It's waiting in its place. All those who meet will take heed. They who compete must bow before this brilliance. It is their doing and their undoing Such is the glory of battle, such is its grim, messy detritus.
When I'm there on the mountain of my head you're there too. You exhale the degree of fear stewing my guts. You spew it out. Storms come. A blaze of noise, rumbles in the metals of the earth. They blend in the deep heat, and cool is the face of the core ingesting them; watching, waiting, feeling the enterprise as it moves over the earth, which is boiled down to me as I sit in a boiling vat of us, I can never leave. I don't want to. This is our habitat. I will stay however it manifests in us.
Growling up from a deep mire in the blackness an idea takes form, rising to a pulsing bulb, amorphous, gathering speed as it rises in the mother brine; an eye forms, a tongue, hands take shape, begin to move their fingers sprouting like dandelions, feeling the cool currents becoming warmer, brighter. The body writhes, moving its slow muscles feeding off itself from the fluids coursing through its bulk. The surface is but a stretch away. It has momentum, purpose; it possesses a knowing now. There's a reason inside this knowing. While the gathering might widens, so does it's burgeoning doubt.
Hung your lights on the past to guide your way to a good feeling inside a widening vacuum of soul. Feels better back there, right? Home sweet home, where the fledgling mounted an intent to grow along a curve, best thought of as purpose, but it got bent somehow. At some point, it no longer led the way but confused the way. You took control, bent it around the hook of the nasty grab where a lot of things died, and flung yourself back. Now, it's good. Now, it's quiet, where you can contemplate that fledgling as a pretty photograph.
It's where I live the most in the center of storms which are continuous, driving me from my bed thru the day back to bed into dreams where metals of my Tin Man soul melt, flow thru the mutating molds, as I crawl from the idea of me to me and without me. I will never cage myself for the psyches where no one gets a pass; there are no passes in these cages, just vapid wishing for a pass that'll never come. I see myself burning. I feel myself rising in a tangle of storms that will never die.
We have features they don't see. We sculpt ourselves in the dark. Our forging oven keeps us hot. The tools we use are mutable at our pleasure, that such a forming would redesign us as well as this reality decries us. We create our own reality. We fill it with our eyes. These eyes we plant for every new season's growth. Look hard, but you won't see us being us on our growing grounds. You can feel us if you look away. In the pit of your mind where secrets are stores you may find a remnant that's very familiar.
The winds are in my mouth to yours, a digestible conversion from one to a billion. These eyes we feed in back of our mouths under wraps of minds bleeding into minds like alligator frenzies on drunk chickens who didn't know where to park, is a rotating world of many worlds. It's like this, that all the commotion winds down to a feast of contrary breezes, but what can one say about it beyond that? Nothing. It's the place where we are, where we become ourselves after realizing we are ourselves. Such a transformation occurs lightly yet heavily. It's confusing.
It goes so slowly, then too fast. Intersecting the deviance reveals a mystery. Now here. Now gone. You had a look, a glance, but that's all that's needed. Hold onto that glance tightly. It may be the one thing you'll need in a very short time. The time is currently compressing. You can feel it. Within that compressed time there's an event soon to be unveiled. That which sits behind the curtain of that event is unknown. We love the unknown, even though we say we don't. We want that unknown in our pocketbooks, something to cash at the end.
Fluid recourse alters plans, redistributes the expanding mass in unexpected ways, gathers the attention of fast moving outsiders trapped inside desires to commingle residues usually lost to rats and the odd cult leaders looking for a crumb to smash, so well the river has been forgotten yet still flows, waiting for the journeyman to return the canoe he rented so long ago the receipt has withered to bad recipes using lard. Better for the baker who masters his loaf, but not so the mariner who's really just looking to move forward, get out of this damned swamp. He'll eat later.
Time's lost again in looking for the map. Damn. It was here. I know it was here. Yeah, but how long ago was that? When did you last hold it in your hand with the intent to use it not lose it? You were very good at losing things. I tried. Doesn't fly, babe. The other grabbed hold better than the taught main, and you let it slide out of your fingers. No one to blame but yourself. Of course, when you faltered there were legions of eyes ready to glow into action, and so they did. They roped you.
Look, look, look at them looking at you! They never lost sight, even yours. They held onto that for as long as they could. Awareness percolated in slowly over the eons. They knew their time to be found would come, but they weren't telling. They knew how to keep up the con. You got smarter. 'Course you did. In the severest place where creases began to form and the steam began to leak, you opened your willingness to get burned for life. Had to face the steamy morass. Giving up the oven wasn't easy, but they did, they exclaimed, Bravo!
The emptiness squats in the room waiting for something to suck, biding its wide time with ideas of inviting vacuum to dinner. By the instruments of mind we calibrate the viability of being inside this luminous emptiness. Violating all designs of physical reality, incorporating residuals of the beginning, it knows the end. Does reality really detest a vacuum or does it merely need to be redressed? Indistinct functions, by which we thread ourselves onto the matrix, determine the usability of our electrical natures. We plug ourselves in however we can. When the flow engages, we'll know how the vacuum thinks.
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