The Golden Damned (X): COMPACT SHOCK RESISTANCE

COMPACT SHOCK RESISTANCE

Rest in all your futures. Did you become what you’d want to? Did you let the light in, to change, to change you? I for the sake of a thimble’s drunk paired the saintlike honesty of the rink in lime with my mother nature’s most sacred face. And that meant nothing at all to the lot of you. But what love spreads over everything, now? What takes you in its hands and lands? As I was sat down at the -writer and clacking the keys, do you know what occurred? I became a figurine human, doing the winter work writing the thing. It was a page onto which ink glared, in the light, and my hair tossled in the draft from the door agape where ghosts entered, who politely curtsied but did not know that I was not the owner of the manor there. And that it was not a manor at all, but a room in my parents’ apartment back home, where I wrote whatever pseudo-fictions I could because I was afraid that I did not know. And I did not, so I put the words down anyway. Do you know what it means? In illustrated forestry I compare my idle sitting around to the journeyer seeking safety among the plant life. What was lost who could not know? Down another street, the wind like a wraith in the cold night air starts to take you. And gusting about you over shoulders round your midsection, blowing your hair forward as you clasp your coat shut, falling on and around you, it will be as if a hurtful armor had just taken. You will wake and you will wonder, What have I dreamed, again? And it will not occur until later, because you will be doing something that reminds that nascent forgotten part of you still in there about a moment in the dream to which you are recalled, at which point a fragment will become remembered. But only a fragment, and only for a little while. Still even traumas get forgotten, flashbacks and all. The point as it were had to become, ultimately, that it wasn’t a bad thing, whatever you had to write. It was merely a reminder that words put together could mean even greater things. And who knew anyway what it did or who I was. And what did it matter anyway? You were going to die at some point in your life. At the end, maybe. Why give into judging your contemptible work ahead of time until it’s totally unable to materialize? Who cares where you go what is following you fate-wise. That sense over your shoulder you have to turn around because who you were in the past or the future—at some other, in strange-another-time—is catching up with you right now. The eternalistic look at how to be or what not to change amagrophoedically linked to the willow pesting of your chest’s swimming fish sensations. And this-is-all-wrongs being faced with nothing-is-wasteds. No energy together forgotten altogether. You came here because you wanted to write. At my beck and call. Nothing. The whole rotating room’s intersecting light beams’ spinning shadows of window frames. Together with you in the middle, where the story still goes on. But A does not get to B. Or else, something like a nonsense jabber of a page gets linked: Again, we do not owe you to the nothing there. But who were we when the day was done and it had potentially been revealed that all that nonsense actually meant something real? Actually mattered, and made sense, and in such a clear way that you find yourself unable to believe you could not see it before? “Why don’t you glimpse up?” Freshest ice my neck pops. Rhododendron forgetmenots whispered off the twined body of water. In a fresh estate where you can’t get any work done. Because heavy magnets attach at your head and pull your thoughts this way that way all the time. Even now it is hard to find the net. That caught the limb to the point I made, which fell off around the third act. The one in which my avatar died trying to save the narrative, but was maybe redeemed. It is up to interpretation. Only the reader can understand. Though most of them don’t seem to understand. I held a magnifying glass up to the page because the footnotes were so small it required it, and the minute text read: “… all of man an island unto himself…” just like that with the ellipses and all bracketing, and I began to wonder why I had written it here in this form and what it had meant. This was a story we were beginning to tell ourselves even as it fell apart. This was the bird that reads through its cage the world it imagines flying around in. I do not go so lightly, though. Becoming splintered swept. Far and away. Behind myself the recording soul—the approachful head blooming into flowers as a record scratches forever. Disturbing the peace. What of me and you? this here donny says as I begin to slip unconsciously back into the old habit of terser syntax. Unable really to understand, shifting into and out of autopilot again and again. What occurs becoming that this maybe too closely resembles the formation of a narrative. Given the self. Abolish these thoughts for once and for all, if you can. Or else change it. You have all the permission, friend. This is all a mere exercise. You can play along if you’d like. What comes first is the tap of the keys on the words which appear, and then… the tinkering clicks and clops of the mind rallying its chambers to interlock and lace with red. Blimey all the dog fog coming in makes it look like the world is even cuter, if stranger, though this is what we all are. Come together over a unified sledging of tomorrow away from whatever it is going on today. To exceed the limit of the mind and come up with gleeful entropic ends. Which split and enervate the field to which they belong and disperse. This one time, this forever at all speeds: wrapped up into itself though we all know and we all get torn down some way likewise side to side and forever. And we could not seem to place end to end. But I am just beginning to get started. It would seem. The rage inside the heart of the world is coming through in the eyes of love. And it loves, as it looks at me. This black hole the world over already become rages, and rages, and loves as it looks at me. What do we dispense of knowing so little we’ve already given the end its credit due? What do we owe to the richness of the spilling out always all things over and over again across the face of life? Is this a washing away of the mind? Does the pointlessness seem to rigidify a split sense? Do you find sometimes you cannot attain? And what can you not? And who knows? Who would ever read so much of such a thing? I want. I come up from the murk of the deep end all too swum to swim and still distend myself so my head is risen up and at last again I can breathe. Splay my hair as I shake it out like a lion’s mane. Wave up ahead and get lost all the time as we all are. Together in this terribly gray expanse. All of us reacting off of the shock of life to the ongoing nothing getting turned and turned off and on. Trying to eject yourself when the autopilot has taken over and set you up for a crash course into the ocean. Did you ever really know what you wanted, and what you would still believe? Could you possibly have ever? Are you already broken? Do you not understand? What is wrong? Can you not believe? Wake up.

The Golden Damned (IX): WHATEVA BLANK NOISE

WHATEVA BLANK NOISE

The mood is not the thing. The whole bald brain. Smoothing curvature despite request, some. Taking in the chemicals. Not to know the difference then, but. Taking in the chemicals. Loose ornate change on the streets getting rolled down the drains in the rain, having fallen out your pocket. The sonic stop-it of the universe moving on. Grab your rifle grab your one. Together make it through the looseness who knew you could make it through. And I am a comet coming crashing down become the asteroid you blue-blue look at, look through. Tornado person walking down a line. Getting torn down by the wind I am and the damage it creates. Lying under a speeding train when I am too drunk and coked-out and gone through. Plain as day. My car must have been scrapped by now. If it is still beyond the impound. I can come to on a groove so new it doesn’t occur but is known, now. Gray goose familiar no how. Reference the bed is a spread getting worn down. I am the angel-headed hipster as HOWL described. I am the front of the wall being torn… being torn down. Getting loosened up with wedge shots and nail biting. Getting blasted away with dynamite becoming rubble all over again, simple dust. How do you know what to do, now?

Come queue as you are; let’s invite you, now. The reference doesn’t make a difference, but I have heard goddesses orgasm and thought, Well now. What do I do here in the head of the heart—a tornado person getting torn down?

We have surgically removed the spirit from the body and knotted the worn out spoonsful of Sick into the dropper and intravenously melted. I have been in…

I have been in the house of satan and found my most glorious love, there. Who loved me more than she loved anything, before I was lost in the motel lots of ambiguous pornographic nobodies hidden behind curtains like smoke-white lust.

I have made my way out of the soon-now, the house was Quadruple-Zero: 0000, on some lane or simple address. I have seen Satan’s rooms and wild behaviors. Stone-faced pools with andronite hollows for archways. I have seen the becoming the sad sick watching partygoers to a wedding or a birthday I can’t remember now. I have holed whole stuck.

Disappeared into my clothes and ruffled the fabric of reality with my luck and my love. I have seen the telephone get taken—handset off the nail or lever, now.

I have requested the truth, from a lucifer who was fat and wore a black suit and married some woman I didn’t know, now. I have refrained from attending the ceremony, and stayed in the house, where I’ve met my lover. Her hair was black. Her lips were perfect. Her face was milky and beauteous and somehow forgettable as hell, now. It was all in a dream. I give you dreams. I give you love, too, sometimes, somehow.

I tell the truth in a way that lies to you about what it means to tell the truth. I tell about nows in the late tense and ask for something of a re-do. I bloom sacred pain out of my back like black wings and befriend the devil who makes jokes out of life. Alice-in-Wonderland-style.

I have held in the secrets of love with my soul’s risen hollows and rows of black roses wilting and flowers’ love decayed and tomorrows promised to never come. While she, walking through Satan’s house, entertains the guests of the post-reception.

And she has talked, to me, and loved me, and kissed me in such a way I could not possibly have been able to tell I was in a dream with how dreamy and like a dream it all was.

I had played the game of Do-Not-Let-Them-Know-They-Love-You, where what was right was always so wrong it felt like a taboo to even blush in her direction, and to blush harder because of it. I have melded the sane with the in- and over the course of posting-my-self-ups become more like a stone predicting futures than necessary.

I have let my mind go soft and frisbee away the dying day’s necessities like to eat and to bathe because it will all be gone soon anyways.

I have known true love but only in my dreams because only there would my superficialest ego not get in the way.

I have been uninhibited and cried and raved. I have watched as the gun was whipped across my face in a bar back in Birmingham where the manager was being gashed upside the head with the pistol’s butt, and I was so drunk I just had to jump in.

You do not know me, but I have to pull through. To get to know what it is you are if you really are, to get to know the train I was under when it would begin to brake after passing, pulling all the oxygen out my mouth with the speed of its freight.

And tonight do you know what I will dream again I guarantee you, so long as I am alive. And I have been sober for over five months and that is a long time. But I do not know that I will be able to stand it for much longer; soon enough something will have to break.

And asleep it will be as if I was awake, and I will go places and see things. And speak to people only I will have ever known, because the world reflects what I am and I can see that in my dreams. I have just with this next period hit nine-hundred-and-sixty-two words, not including the title. Let’s get it over a thousand, now.

Can we please become who we are when this is over you think you will say when you want, though—soon enough you may blink and find yourself already there, so don’t.

The Golden Damned (VIII)

Bleachely contain central control. Its most common component is the soul which is always looking over the edge of something. Domain bromide less than contain a thesis: that Artificial Intelligence is least adept at coming up with entropic sets. And that that is what might serve as a good marker for the human soul. Thus The Golden Damned and cetera. Necessity for all the seeming randomness, though honestly it is more or less just a kind or form of play. If I have died, I was wide-eyed on a moment. I have tested the sharpness of my spirit on the rough vole. It occurred in the cutting of cotton fronds that I could not be warry any more than I already was. I’d made my fingers bleed, and that was enough. ¶ Rotund on isles of leads. Become poured chance and brewed serenity. Mechanical Geiger counter ambience pricking up the ears each nodule’s spoke of the pitch-up. Miniature melting angel babies the snowfall. Each flake flecking gone on the grass. Intuit tomorrow the self becoming closer. Becoming poured chance, though less so in the item the eye’s ended up. To focus on right stars and neat voids. As far as light can bleed. Through. Ambivalent nascent imagery. The coming-up of new things. Real inventions. Words that have no meaning. All the time. On the tropic of verses come clean the ships of thieves which pass like shadows on the oceans in the bleak. ¶ Come closer I have a secret to tell you. I do not have any clue what is going on. Wait up where werewolves wander. And soon. I’ll become brewed serenity. I’ll end up where my eyes focus and come up with you. Whatever you think that means. Hold it close in your bag. And wherever you end up. Come to. With your back on the earth. And the sky in its veery repose above you. Call copped udine about the arguments over the rent fervor and smash me in the mouth with your fist over the telephone. Again. Forever begotten. We are just now realizing what it means forsooth to sake. I staked my honor on it, because I had maybe more than I could realize. Maybe less. Maybe I was already dead. Maybe I would never know, and that had become the allure of it all. Tell us for once, please. ¶ Every instigated new ologism was merely a name gone uncapitalized. God having said, purportedly, “I had made up.” But we were only barely able to make out what it was we could hear. I was only just beginning to be able to put the words down at all. Jank in seethers beghast rolling up their hopes-‘n’-dreams into papers and wetting the ends with their tongues. Fuck if I know strike a match. Let it be smoked. Thus it is our duty, now. Thus it is our dreary sign. ¶ If for the sake of someone you have touched your own heart, who then? And if for the sake of yourself you have managed to relate to someone else’s, whose? I do not pretend to have the wings. You merely bring them out of me. This all-this liquid poetry going nowhere getting forgotten. Getting drunk by the alcoholics. Whole heads soon forsake me. Bless it bottomless. Become what we once weres. Nevertheless in spanned reefs to which none of bliss occurred. I do not pretend to know. Glaves the sprees in witchy light distend the shadows of the candles’ flames to cast a spell made of words whose effects are words. Do we not know. No, not, even still. But pretendeth thee over and over, gurneys. Pulling me to heaven in a silkworm’s forcefield. Pretendeth thee too much? Weaving our loves over loves over and over. I know I have not you. But who you are I don’t know—anyway, so… what’s the point? In this sick loss lersiggin. I cannot comprehend any it for you. Bless our sable meditations’ griefs. Bless the body to be able. Grieve. Bless the abundance of the light on our skin. Bless the letting in of the light by the clouds by, on even the gloomiest days, when it ain’t let in at all, bless it. Our journeys form and waver over an inch’s breadth of space and time from the swipe you make of the napkin off the table, being Magician, showing me a magic trick. I incandesce red and continue to glow for all my life. Just slightly. Just enough so it is obvious. I become forests of blue and green eating themselves with more space and more time. I become the eavy blimps wallowing away into overcloud sea of skies. Shining away. Billowing. I become what it once was when the future self tries to touch my arm, groaning, bracing himself, reaching out, straining. What did you think was going to go on after all? What did you think was going to happen? What do you think we are on about, even now, all this time?

The Golden Damned (VII)

Hallowed spare. I came across your crashed spaceship. And wondered what was inside. Heron’s stare I saw you. Stepping out like a being of light. I made a raft in my mind. We sailed off on when I saw you. And you flipped your hair when you came up to me, and you said, “What’s it?” and I said, “Who’s there.” En I am an Orb, Bro. na Maine? That is the palindrome. But I realized amid all this subterfuge winking at me I was not doing truly much of anything. And so, what was this indebt? And what was the Tantric Tibetan MAHAKALA freedom chant doing for me now I was listening to on the World Wide Web? Likewise, how could I expect to seize the interest of a reader with a clamor of words that are not carefully prepared? How could I ever know, then? I walked from the edge of the world to a brittle stalk in the center to understand, but nothing seemed to come. I cursed the face in reflections I was closest to as they slid between slats I was moving past. I did not know. And I do not know now. But if I could, I would carefully describe you. Or for you, something. And linger in the gnosis bright endings of sparks. Clairvoyant mystic selves that never came to pass in this world. But which know you, from another life. Reaching their hands through the light to touch you.

            Harrier hindered blotter, paper I paper I might. Even the mistakes are not mistakes, and they never were; we were always being written. I wanted to show you something kind of like my soul. It was a novel I had started writing in 2015 or so. It has still not come to pass, and I do not know. Any longer what it is about or who my protagonist is, as a person. It is very sad and strange. And I am strange. I’m aware. I don’t care. There are reasons there are stories at all. I cannot light to you the overbearing feel of things. Watch as what you thought was real walks away. And I, too. Burden says to proof I know you’re many things. Triumph at the last great will to do whatever you feel you have to do. I don’t know. This was supposed to be a subjectless article. I was supposed to be the nonauthor in a veil of smoke. We were supposed to do many things in many places, but none of it mattered or else none of it came to pass. Do I know you?

            I came across your crashed spaceship. And I wondered what was inside. Haven’s swears, then I thaw you. Rubbing my arms and my legs to create heat with the friction. It was a cold night. It was a nonexistent night. Then I saw you. God may have torn me up and put me back together a bit, but I don’t know. I kind of like it this way. I may be sick and alone in how I view things, but I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I kind of like it this way. May all dependent reeds permit. In this order high flow. Water stills my understanding of “I want to change.” You can’t help but to. How do you want to change? Tell them I am coming home when at last sight I am getting a sense of what it means to be alive. To have a life. I heard her fixes in escrow. Coming down off a strange trip. Especially so, considering. I was hiding out from The Man and listening to the agent angels reaffirm goodspeak in the self-talk. I was reclining on the sleeping bag in my room full of boxes more perfectly than I’d ever reclined. And crying and laughing and looking through my hands to see the infinite stack of my legs on the sleeping bag. One over the other over the other, such that it occurred to me how time is just a figment of things in which space goes on forever. And it felt like a proper realization. I had seen the world as a painting I was walking through. I was not the same, til I came down again. And you can never reach the top floor, so they say. And you can never know, so I say. I say it a lot. I don’t know. But maybe I do. Something. Intelligible. Able to be picked out from the noise and silence all the rest and wondering how long have I been speaking out loud these words I’ve been typing? Oh well.

            It was calmer snow. The sober life seems so mundane. That is what life is supposed to be like, I’m told. It just doesn’t make much sense to me. I’m not sure I will make it too long. I don’t know that I really want it, or want to. I want to be rehabilitated. I want to be able to drink and smoke again. I am an all-seeing nothing in a world of listening eyes. Gradually numbing to the sensation of sight. Gradually thumbing “Let’s go. Let’s go.” Have you heard or can you hear me, fallow? Have you heard or can you hear me, sight. When it comes down to it, all this meditation doesn’t seem to end. It’s not a problem to be solved or anything. There are reasons there are stories at all. But so what do you think is going on, at the heart of this? Do you want to reach your hand into the light? I am sitting on the cusp of a great field haunting. I am wondering what’s…

The Golden Damned (VI)

Exists—every alley in the castle. In her plumes of verdant noble grief—the inordinate lattices of weeds overtaking the vast stone walls. Grayed imp for seas they pass us on. In the walls, in the walls, the prince awakens to the sound of wind in the reeds. No, tonight I have slept in. But it has been many years. Whispers down the hall from his chambers, where veiled intact architects repossess the secrets of purported dreams. Sinister Oatley Macabre Arudah leans into the pages of the text to be seen. But then what of the untold masses not frittered in this world, nonexistent to the sheltered fiefdom. The inner sanctums breached with love or loss likewise at hailed a distance dill-wert in. No can you not describe. What were we doing in the all-ways all-tides. I complete a sanguine seeking. In rest well oh do you say who was under the spell I saw us looking at one another dancing together doing lovers’ things and wept.

            I became the saddest thing in the central nervous system’s world and made of these lies I told myself little ornaments to the behemoth of night their own raving mad-sprees of light. I been sold to a high bidder whose arts are the span of centuries. I request a diet Mtn Dew. I drink it. I place an importance on empathy. Plenty of duress to the castle still looming over the clouds the world beneath a strange sort of city breath getting exhaled continuously. Venice Spree and the head antics. Denote little dialogues on the footnoting of the latticework weeds. Call up their dreams in the sweet-relief way. To map onto the world onto their thoughts—the untarnished shoes of the veiled intact architects. Lay rung doe-lee.

            Crosst into the spectrum of nonlight the grave swim of lees of green wind took us apart in ways and put us back in ways and did not alight altogether at the same. But were to be a sable right. I crosst the fields of the mind to find the little aubergine mushroom aglow in wallowed world’s dead center surmise. The gray cracking desert earth around seeming to resonate as the organism is snapped from the stem. Well here we are in a vast nowhere again, becoming blended in with the surrounding chaos of sameness. Held-in esprit divulging nudge to the heart’s sway. Crude beams of the orcish miasma cave cracking at the voice of God as it speaks into its mouth and says, “WHO DO YOU THINK PUT THE GRAY TO THE GRAY?” And I a lonely traveler by watched as it happened and lost my countenance.

            Something Important. In the house I grew up in, there were ghosts. One would shift in the mirrors. Another would portray our mom and walk downstairs. There was a quiet kind of character to that house. I didn’t know what was going on. I was far too young. But I remember phases. In hindsight, I grew up very fast—as all things seems to go in hindsight. I remember key components of sacred core memories. I remember tadpoles vortexing in an industrial bucket in a dimly lit garage on a gloomy day. I remember the black boulder of a full trash bag being shoved into a bog, floating away. ¶ To feel so connected and then suddenly very gross and strange.
            These are little imprints on an ancient stone. These are respirating Oh-Jeezes praying quiet prayers for life. Coming into being as newborns. Growing up and getting old. Setting their suns as old proverbs praying old prayers. Getting too fragile to walk. Too wise to speak. And lost in them somewhere the music of a love-nostalgia only they can hear. Each one’s soul’s song a different song. (Eye erupting into grays and blues on acid: … “Pull me. Pull me apart on your way home. Take me. Take me apart but put me back ultimately. I want. I want a soul’s sail; sail me to the moon. I know. I know I’m not there right now, but maybe soon.”) Diffident sidewise upward list. ¶ They all these spirits in gold do … flock to my spirit’s waveform like cherry pigeons to a power line; bring up the soul with its coat its own onus. I become split some in the attempt to understand what is going on, and so sometimes I don’t really try at all to understand. We peach rings in a plastic bag cell ourselves and taste purer sugars. Heaven’s wed the abstract overbearing owner of book in the light. Arudah’s head coming through a wormhole in space and time peering back at me over a shadow of lime. Drink in my Diet Mtn Dew can letting go now I wish was alcohol. Trembled sirens waving me off my way. Skillful in nonsense. What does it matter? Everything. Everything depends on it. In some way, we all fall. None of it makes sense, and that is fine also.

            All in marvelous overload. In the zone: where fluid thought manifests as symbolic objects working in cohesion to elucidate a creative system. We let you go and you’re gone now. What is the object? Oh hold on hold on now. We are the system. Wait wait do not go. Do not go. Light, I need you.

The Golden Damned (V)

Hey don’t loop back though. The port is arts and devious hegemonic structures. New silvered fangs over the lips of a lover. Looking down. Grifter in arts festival loungewear pilfering wallet-shaped souls out of people’s pockets, returning to Hippie-Junkie Land to share in all the riches. Swallowing the psilocybin mushroom chime he’s thrown up in his mouth. Speaking bliss over the world today. Bliss you, bliss that. The whole damn foundering fairy of Sweet Malaise under the effects of a toothbrush’s gum aggression, much later. Would he. But wasn’t him. The brief undergone subject of a study. The paranoid agent in the looming window of a castle covered in clouds. Weak-legged stifled baby deer learning to stand for the first time prancing off into the aether. Barely able to really understand. But become the one who dreams, I am. The soft-knitted fabrics of reality warping to accommodate my physical disruptions into space. What say you the ghost of odds that I may go from here and be prosperous at all. In this world I don’t know what to do with and often forget not to take so seriously. Have you pleasanted the endless rhymes of Barbadoic Driz Entine? Have you begun to suspect the world you’ve created in your head is not merely the one being mapped onto the world as it might be? That it is in fact the doings of truth and that what you believe becomes real? Oh no. Not me. Simultaneously living aside other realities, only attempting to understand the central thing. That this world is true only for me and exists only in my mind. Wouldn’t it be lonely? I need a blanket to cover me, sometimes. I use my jacket while lying on my blanketed bed because I don’t want to disrupt the make of it. Sheathes of life concealing a persona mask. Waves of Theologian Phoenixes waiting to blaze the downward skies of the day. Cross-pollinating Idea Germs funded by the executor of your estate’s Time. I Wander into the forest of love to be alone. I come upon a glade where the trees have withered in the season of eyes. I set down my tent pegs and set up camp and wander internally on a dream of a ride. I am taking it for us, now. I am coming lately to understand: it does not always make sense. There are problems with the size of the will in the man to honestly die and be born again. But we go on. Therein other problems lie. But become one. The solace of being alone with yourself in the night. If it is warm where you are as it is cold out, so you can think. Even having thoughts merely listening. Always listening always watching in some way. Much as God is said to do. Do you ever wonder that all you believe is really a lie? Does it become you, and why should you care? He takes his time to answer never questions. The answers are never answers and look like Time. Space moves through and is filled up with a gradient he can’t describe. The solemn-sounding voices of speakers on old process radios in dreams. Stitching the seam of the day up with the cloudbottoms of the night. And sun sets hairs’ widths away from my eyes. In all this closeness that has come to me. Do I look away. Preparations of a song that plays at the time you need it the most—preparations for death. For the infinite disarray beautiful spiritual blissful worlds apart. A whole new consequence of living and seeing things. Wake up. Wake up to Jumbo Mouth. The whole implicit system. Wake up to wondrous fumes. The breathe-in-breathe-out that takes you. Wake up to long night and respite from sorrow. If you can. If you can. Wake up.

Altered States

Do away with—what. Yeah. The Tyranny of the mind’s pre-judgements. Gnosis somewhere out there in the world. A spirituality you want to find. Altered states, again, where you can see visions of the world as you so desire to see it. (To see it.) Where you can hear the angelic agents speak guardingly to you about your continued progress and how well you are doing and how all right you are as they make their way to the center of your reptilian brain to bring the light in and let you unfold from yourself. To fight off the negative state of preconceived notions having taken over the brain, the lay commitments to being a loser, a non-quester sitting static in a disarrayed loop. Over the centuries-old visage of a self sitting crisscross on a dais adorned with white crocuses. Gilded with a suntan that is the coloring of uneven toast. Watch as the old magamas shift your weight for you so as though being a marionette your legs are glided and your body is allowed to make love with the whole of the universe. ¶ Transcendent olmé olopé the universe folding itself around you as it allows you to be one with it and found or lost either way exactly as you would choose to have it. To somehow suggest to the whole mind in so vivid a way you all but can’t help to realize that the choice is yours, all the time. And perception as a power is very great. And you can decide for yourself what your life is, how you’re living it, what kind of a person you are going to be. And that though it sounds like the symptoms of a kind of madness, it turns out to be a madness that is true. And so then the quest itself becomes one within your control. My name is Atenga. I have been living most of my life up until now in a very dark place. And coming out, now, nice music plays. “Green is The Colour” by Pink Floyd. “Quickness of the eye deceives the mind.” With lilting guitars and amidst charging strums. I am like a light ray getting split down the middle, and each split getting middled, and so on. I am really very wave-shaped. Blue and pink and green wave colors splitting off in a dozen directions from my aural signature as I take my guitar and plant a wave. Tress up the infinite loop I’ve been living in and watch it wither away. It beginning to seem as though, if you can’t find any answers, you might have to make your own. To believe that you are on the right path is essential to the being the quester having lately taken up the mantle. In a surge of glee I divine you. My mirror reflection. To go out and be free.

The Golden Damned (IV)

Color warp inward greatest show. We’re going to see the inversion lift. Load in the fire and give it air. Fan the whole shift of flames. Beautiful golden heat veins. Following through. There is much alive in us I know we can find a way. To accept what is wrong and get through even still. I know we can find a way. ¶ I wonder what is really true. To abide by a name that’s new. I know I could feel something riled moving through the forever phase of this blimey fog. I could see my friends finding their ways into obscurity. I could hear their voices trail the dynamo of resultant spew from the glacial-moving honors’ snow. I was held together and I was fired through. I was called to act on a great escape. I wondered where the highs of the medicine went when I had to up the dosage and I found I felt nothing. “Too much desensitization, bring me back again.” And rill the greatest show. We’re going to see the inversion lift. Would you like to come along? It should be great. It’s all the rave. I hope you know. What it looks like, seeing the mountains range the horizon’s growth. I wanted to call up the shame away and love on you. I wanted to make us whole again. I was called to make a great escape. And hurt me, as I hurt you. To make us brave in a way alone people unalone are not the only ones able to understand. There are glows in the grit of the rubble on the side of your face, waking up in abandoned cities where today finds another one of your selves alone. When what it means to really be alone doesn’t seem to make sense. In a world where you may very well be the only one. Who knows. There is a way that all of us dissipate for you, though I can never know. And nothing that is remains. And all I can say is, So… what do you want to do today? The great forgotten greatest show. Turn into bits of rememory lost on the dance idle shifts into Moorish winds and midnight. I call can you cable this rest I’ve done til the rest is gone. I know; I know. What you want doesn’t sit right, but the seat is occupied by your body so… What film of the world do you try to see through? Why, I wanted to show you: the mountains’ heads nodding off and on in the way they went over there and everything. Not a late di stro. Am luck and palpable. Am crushing fatal blow. ¶ Gild a frequent rose. Become what’s only you. Way you dance, lady practical, lent to nondescript, not to talk about non sequiturs too much, but I may be gone for blue. Dark-dark dark blue wants me again. And I tend to get overtaken by that song in my head. It plays with French horns and steel-beam violins and cradled harp guitars that rave on touch. It knows the way to the honest few. It doesn’t pretend it’s a way to go. It lays supine and lights and bends. The rest of the day becomes an ink droplet in the purview. To test the way two soul-halves comprise a single one. At a glance, we’ve been burned by our own blaze. And the tri-partite entity of you become a lesser power, so the world can bend as it does in your dreams the street before outstretched above you. You can watch the moth of love in a light that fairs become attracted to the future and fly forward forgetting what’s now for a destination that’s never there. You can become something like a sage in your own right, this hour, and melt into plain view. Knowing nothing in practical scale. Submit to your higher power. Melt into plain view. ¶ I believe we may have lost the plot, at times, though I cannot say for sure there was never a way to understand. The rest in flow, the water, the honest man. The hand that graced the shoulder of a dying friend. We were all too young and reckless to really know. Rend ablaze a finished spark. Come up out of the blundered lieu. All of us are waiting on the other side for what kind of a person you might become when we are gone and the rest is said already the same thing over and over nothing read. There is a place in light that is honest, too. There is a place in light that’s honest.

The Golden Damned (III)

What was it, again? The Golden Damned, Three. Rotund artillery fresh out the nowhere from what civil unrest of the soul. Your made-on scry wank was the shapeshifting agent for the whole per diem, apparently. Ghosts infiltrating the lungs of regular smokers through their cigarette, vape bars, juicy aganognoid estuaries, severing ties with the physical realm for them well in advance. I even line the truth with a vein of falsity, here. I do not pretend any of this makes sense, but—much in the way we see faces in the woodgrain surfaces of tables, or find a bunny rabbit made of clouds for a moment before it transmogrifies, the human mind makes its own stories out of chaotic stimuli all the time, it seems. I could be wrong, though. You are not expecting me to be lucid, maybe. You do not know, maybe. I am merely freewriting as a means of psychoanalyzing myself, and that is really just about all there is to it. Saying the first thing that comes to mind, then the next thing, then the next thing, because there is only so much time we’re blessed with here, before we’re gone for more or less ever—too little time to spend worrying about what to write. To say your truth exactly as it occurs before it is altogether too late. Something like that. But then, who knows. It may be the case that reality has become too real I don’t know. So that when I for whose sake the dragon flies south and reflexes its tail against the curve of the earth so as to cup it like a nesting stone or a gift-wrapped present to God, who can say that I am not the little one-eyed slush pile getting run over by the bohemian bicyclist with a guitar case slung over his back? Zoom-zoom-zooming through, you know? And it is here we begin to take the pill to understand. Hard or easy to swallow, either way. To float forth into the seam list. Where ducts of spiritual phantasms reek of too much wine and the thoughts of aethers long disproven last in the eyelids of the dissolved third eyes. Where Iv and Tulah are the same character hardly if ever having been described. No one is able to tell. Then what does the next page portend, when it is all the thing that is all dissolved in. Because I am the man at the laptop the macbook air from 2017 blessed with a subscription to Microsoft Word and hands to typewith and a lap to set things on. Typing this, now. Watching my own hands peripherally as the screen fills with little text nodules and the symbols form. By some strange twist of peculiar events somewhow seeming at least a little to enter a sort of a miniature trance. Not knowing. Though when it goes, the story is lost because too much has been described. Not enough has been said on the thing itself the object is supposed to be of attention or what have you. There is just text and ableton chaos reforming into meaning again. Not at all the same as prior so then let’s get back to it: to the pill: the one you were meant to swallow: to understand: what is at stake: the heart: the heart of the heart of grinding endless mechanicus of life. What a higher power is: the fabric of reality, or simpler, Truth. Iv grinding away at his workstone in the field of blue grass, trying to piece together why the food he’s hunted is frozen in a block of ice, now. Tulah whoever that is suspended above him, in the air, watching being the reader’s eyes. How to pretend all is right when very little can be made sense. There are times and times and times for things, I know. The dragon cups the earth with its tail. Imaginary persons happen to exist. Deal. It’s not any sort of a thing I’d wish for you, but is The Truth. In some very essential way. It is. Solemn overbitten reef spoon dug up the exuviae of the Titanic where eelworms are hollowing out a vintage tea set. Left field is open where no ball is thrown. How does one pretend nothing is seen? Are there not paranoias you have to do away with at some point? Tell the terrible tale, will you? The one you tell yourself every day. It is time for sleep. Get some rest. For me. For me. Please. It is time.

The Golden Damned (II)

 Tonight, I will go to sleep and dream a dream, I know. I only hope I can remember some parts of it when I wake. I only hope I can carry forth the dream the dream the dream, the know the late whodunnit who knows. You cannot portend to tell pretendering slender felled who’s-its-what’s-it. I know not where we all go. After this life or for what’s to tell what’s next, ah. I become splendor dreams, somewhere somehow. Someway you gotta get happy, somehow. And then when entry permits I may step yes to step yes per dream a way down a way up between the levels, who knows it. Ivory wings they slank away. I watched them go out of the -sphere. Watched tumult bring us all this way down. Bruises’ inky planets defending nothing from itself, at last, pretending nothing lasts. While all the ways away from it nothing festers outward forever and the leant-in collapsables split splintered down their edges into each other. I know not what the call is or how I feel brought this all about. I know only disfigured thoughts the mind for vibrating legs I watched the earth below me quake while it was still. Spun in and out the elderly visions of ancestors’ dreamy nonthings. Delacade Decaresse. Haughty blowfloats towering high the visages of cartoon evils. Postmodern men with briefcases made of pumice. Drifting in and out of elderly thoughts, their ancestors reviled, and I akin to all of them. Saying NAY! to the must-go-back-and-editness of it all, wherefore I replaced “some” with “all.” Trays of food you can’t eat brought for the olfactories to sense and the brain to cry. I cannot tell you the living things. Falling away from everything into where the way nothing makes sense makes sense. Blot the light away. Tender poor is iron, but porous ionic bends in space and time the real the rift beneath is key. Wait and watch as the mind unfolds its own necessary veils and wears them to see itself in the reflections its image makes on the reflective things. Surfaces it can’t see the entirety of but from which it can get a sense. Because of the veil. ¶ I’m telling you the truth, now. How did it become this way? I was once a child. I was once a child with a pair of wide eyes untouched by all the chaos. But then, was I? ¶ Why can’t you speak to me? Holding onto Theron’s root, I know, there were many buses to take to the place we became friendly. I know. But then of course what was the avid gale?

Not to care in wet cement. There are flights we could take. Now, your plane is boarding. Watchout.

In line linger. There are setups we don’t have time to. But which are. If it’s ever.

Progress of some sort, somewhere, to be made in what regard as to what effect, who’s to say. But to something’s effect. Big fish in sin. Low fly, but we turned the radio off. And to great effect. Ratitude escape. For better or worse. Into hello-bean buoyant. Low comma log in the water still described in the sun. Did you well know? Frost and karma have our heads. Rillo halters but not all can be said today. Whose dreams lie in wait I was a burning expanse. On the river Thames. Well under blue gone well under gray sky. I bought John Updike’s Rabbit Angstrom Tetralogy an hour ago, and am excited to bask in the prose. It is the Knopf Everyman’s Library Edition. Ought to be pretty good. I know something good must be bound to come. If I give it enough effort for enough time. I hope. Earlier today, talking to [Redacted], I mentioned about the possibility that I should be hopeful, and I said, “and hope has not abandoned me. Hopefully.” Rows in stride to rend the day. Up and down and round and round. Nothing but the best to say. Something’s true and something’s found. Love, avatar—of my soul. Black as tar. Has a way of seeing green. All you know is what you think you mean. Lesser the heaven, her buckling legs. Are giving on out and I’m out of my head. Altogether now, every man. Up all the hills and over the land. Way distant crosses falling into the water. How can I tell you and how can I know? Nothing is wrong and there’s nowhere to go. How can you move such a way through space? Every last billow, my heart’s arace. ¶ Kent and calm and clean, dot nets warped out before I had the time to taste what was going on with my character. I was the man in the pulley’s section not moving any levers, waiting for my time to come. But the spotlight struck me on the face, and I wondered, what was this? I was no longer drunken homebound heathens forever lost. I was no longer nowhere no one forever in his own way. Dry as high and a high busted high-falutin nobody with three names and none of them connected. The body a dry desiccated balloon flying round losing helium. I was a cold saw with no energy rusted over dull-bladed soft in the water like the log low described in the sunlight. I was a crossed light-sailed airship that never landed but often became smitten with the world in a rather dreary way. Hey now, dose knots you tied won’t get you safely down, rappelling. I was gone on something or other and moving through the world as though the fallen branches and leaves were minute works of art repeated infinitely I was deliberately stepping around. I saw the beauty in everything, and it was wonderful. I am not so certain I was changed for all too long, though. Now I list on the ragged edges of my fear’s frame and wonder where the light went. Now I await the cultivation of time to become more of time spent. Now and do you wonder? Do you wonder who you are, sometimes? Grace-lifted energies. De-energized banks. Toils and rolls and come-to-fores. Tress but tuft a rug.

The Golden Damned (I)

They don’t know the way. The grubby little knife-flank blew through the bayou of the page with a kind of a disregard for the traveling way. He dropped from his pack twelve pages, on accident, as his wings twitched along their way. There were many different cloudshapes falling apart into many different inken shames. A trouble the burden couldn’t prove, but they still floated down: flit-flit-flit-flit. In this way, nothing mattered. For the pages fell into the bog of the page and became soaked, and dissolved into the greater one. There were appendices to the reason you could not understand what you had written in the dream upon waking, which no one duly answered, and which did not make stands. ¶ The slovenly empty brains of the crumb police shant-gegnashed spilling recumbent-simple out the sides of their heads as they sang, “We are but line drawrings, in a night-mare, in a night-mare, in a nightmare.” And my shapes became your shapes as I was the narrator above you watching you describe for yourself the very different ways every eternity seemed to come to an end. I cannot pretend to understand, hold you. I cannot pretend to understand. I want a wealth of things for all you, say I, but I am the king of a land only I know, and nobody in my domain is real. Watch as the leatherbound books of your childhood go floating upward invisible into the sun’s swath. And the crazy days look brightly down again as if nothing ever happened. The crazed lazybones of a man who was once half-decent at writing now relegated to the state of such an imposter who can but scarcely arrange letters on a page in any sort of way that makes sense. Wonder how his simpleton arrangement of strange days does. Wonder how he feels spending all them in bed with his unwashed linens, going mad and numb inside himself, retreating from the light holding his hands up to shield his eyes from the rays. Wonder how a hypothetical commoner wants, what is golden, damned.

            So then, hey, release all your infinite ink splurge. Become a slut for the rage. To upend every table in sight. Watch as the knights hedge their bets against the dying of the day, and scream and cry as the only setting ever of the sun takes. Watch as my books become your books. Hey. I know. Underfoot, there is the earth in its beautiful prying caking to mud trying to sink us up. Take us on, rueful ambiguaré. They host silences for common sense. Surely. The damned golden no-one in tents says to the outer yield of gross appointments, Surely! Something in the way must be a lesson to learn—surely! Surely, something I say—just one little thing—among all this sad drivel must make some sense, nae? Watts in uss trummun sense. Aye divest lamplight stints in the disarray night. While list-ning to Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly.” Come back, common night. Do not abandon me. Every word you write is a poem. Every uncommon lip’s twist a dripping limb away from lakes of light. ¶ Watch as Sin-Aether embery uncatches the fire ball of fright and moving backward in slowmotion unravels herself from the flowered dress she’s bloomed into so well. The night craving caves demit what’s unknown. Way down who knows where the hedges bet, against knights in soft caves listlessing. Come come read my nothing-sense like a spell. Read it out to your wards of high uprooted somethlinglike and watch them devour you with their sight. ¶ Try some wampum, willowed leering steel stiletto high-heels clacking on the pavement as Meenish walks into the lounge where all our fates play cards amidst frail cigar smoke. Let me get fucking high again. Drink like a drunk. Become intoxicated. Even Iv’s wurds know I’m slurped up. Know I’ve been taken past the realm for once-for-goodall. I become a preparation. The seed light doesn’t know how to handle on the last inch. What I’ve been made to do, who can tell. I sink out again to the outermost the thought returned the way-V base of noncommittal junction sprucing. I say nothing as a way of getting clear. No way to go no way to here. Ray down to light petrify coarse feel. High oxygen on the late whoever’s may. Descend dating iron become what’s only sun. Trail fuming high-regard lay down the grass only glued on but way hemp yards feel on twoarset feet. Nail perdime not travailing anyway. There is a necessity to do the things the things the thing anyway, son. Just to get the fucking words out. You cannot be sat here wondering all your life why. You cannot give over to the nothing all the time without sense begging for a shock to just once again feel somewhat alive. You know. I know. Bereft-in dispense who’s gone.

On Self, Again

Starting to see more of something or other that what is often perceived is a lie we’ve told ourselves and believed. À la the persona vs. the true self under the ego. For what purpose does one play at being a person. And in how many ways does one pretend to have one’s own traits such that the ones manifested are like lesser copies of much greater things? To fulfill a role within a context. When or if there is in actuality no context at all. Does it cause you to wonder? Who am I right now? And who am I pretending to be? And have I mistaken this mask for my face? Or my face for my identity? What shape does a soul take? I want to be restored. I go around in cycles, wanting to be restored again. Maybe I ought to want to be changed. “First thought wrong.” Break this circle, please. I could never understand. I complained that no one ever explained it to me when all along I was the only one who could explain it to me. My back hurts and my neck aches. I have been sitting with bad posture for far too long. Good posture makes me a little more mindful of the fact I’m composing myself in the moment without even necessarily realizing it. It sort of takes hold in its own way. Free writing uncovers active imagination at play the subconscious mind one step closer to the truer self, but only when written truly free and unjudged and unprepared. I suppose. Spirit shed my mortal frame. Did you merely pretend? For how long? ¶ If I could in any way will not to become a thing, was it then myself I denied in trying to say I was somebody or something doing right? How on earth are your veins? To reconcile with whomever I though I was the long subterfuge by way of play, I offer now my honest mark my mind and heart my everything. Potential or otherwise. Let me change.

Nae Veu Untra

Septum dark in the inner sea. Forgotten espers keeping the binding of the manuscript sealed. Welkin for deux. Walk on the line to Fate Reigns. Never sees the outer reach of the machine he’s inside. Later emblem du nails the whole stitched scene. Emblematic of embers off a coal cracked up into the dark cold night air. Whole beams of moonlight come down and rapturously swathed. Dreams I am the man obsessed with shapes and structures. Who writes about the incompetence of being alive and not seeing these things. Seeing these things only slightly enough to be considered alive. Waiting wars with the rest of the people in the room. For the door to open and the next one to walk through. The eclipsed edge of the face of the woman speaking I imagine the camera’s lens warping round to come through and capture the semblance of from a side I can’t see. Cities of ionic warp energies making up buildings of growing shapes which only appear to be growing because we’re shrinking, going farther in now, becoming attuned. ¶ High beams the surface deleted. Incomprehensible moral dilemmas. Fortitude in the gust the wind pushing your body away from the shelter of the buildings you’re walking between. Sucked out of the ether. The spirit dissolved in static burbles the televisual snow going sea of rose in cathode ray tube. The armament to divide, to waste, to give me over to. Watch while the saint descends to tell me something I can’t remember afterward. I wish I could. Watch as the trash-bag boulder shoved out floats in the bog. Not to get driven to. But where we all within us while connected in a way depose the light for making images on our eyes. The surface of the sea of static snow flushed deleting the high beams of my car as I drive cutting through the darkness at high speed in the night. Watch as the high beams cut through. Tending to salvation the ever going over prescribed floor falling forward meeting your face as time bends. Watch as the syntax warps and becomes you. Watch as the scene shifts and a thousand days a thousand nights pass while you look catatonically out a window through the center of a single sunset. Watch as night becomes day becomes night again and everything halts and we falter and the floor meets our face. Too for you the dreams you had where an engine made you work with the crew you were the elder of to deliver life somewhere. Having to space out the infinite perils having to wait out death. Watch as the sun calls it curfew. Only one only a million-million ones coming unfolded into the wake of the everlasting gorge watch as the sight recedes and all is black again. The verso of birth the being born again, the need to deliver life somewhere. Inherent to the heart of the mind. The way that nothing goes quite as well as you hope but then what did you really hope for? Getting always exactly what you want. In the sense of lacking. Despite the change in everything you can touch always going on.

Entirely oh-known disproportionate to stream. Published all in a book somewhere that hasn’t been written yet. The words I gave to the mirror’s eyeball a hair’s breadth through the glass from my own. Do day, were I to tell you I still sometimes have flashbacks, would you believe me? I was run over by a train, and mostly those have stopped. But I cannot describe many things. The grass still in a nonwind floats for me as though it were all underwater, sometimes. I hear angels breathe in my sleep and wonder what it must feel like to finally die. How blissful it can be. And I roll over and hit the disposable vape bar and feel icemelt flood my lungs and coarse exhausted through my capillaries. And I watch the people of the world celebrate their observations of one another and feel happy and strange. The strangest sort of strange. Undertow foreverlong wavelengths. Ripped in half by an undercarriage going godspeed. Would I then open up my heart to life and let in the warmth of the love of everything? Would then maybe finally understand?

(If Or When There Is Nothing To Be Salvaged)

An intensity he gave to the poems he read to himself—by way of his voice. We miss you and the way you’d say things. And “How did it go, again?” would we ask you, if you could listen. Now, forever locked in your internal maze as we watch from the outside your catatonic eyes follow the sunset into night. As you asked, “What do you want me to do?” upon the return from a dream. Well, just let it be. Leaving one dream for another. Satisfaction comes when the hands forming the words don’t have to try, and there is a great care seen in the act of letting go … the perceived will to write. Oh, Author Without A Name. Is it time to go to sleep or wake up? ¶ Quest to retrieve the long light become our selves at home. What more could you believe in? While your spirits from forever ago walk through the walls of today. And do not feel the warmth of the light on their skin. While noise and light and motion all go on at the same time, and they fall through the core of the earth. Poppins the little white dog of the house who ignores the metal fencing she can walk through and surveying the world immediately outside. The music going on through the windowed walls. The people inside thronging in communion. All of them happy-seeming, grateful for something or other, each one. The peril of being a human being alive. With time to risk and a heart to beat. A point to breach. But at least you can know. We were all standing at the turning point. All of us, in some way. Still are. Contending with principalities. And being alive. Hard to be one with the self is at all. The castle floating over the bridge was our destination. We could not know for sure how to make its towers out. They were often invisible in the daytime, but when the moon got involved—well, that was a different story. This dream or that saw my courtship with a divine lady go struggled between different campuses. Some of which were lost aloft broken cement streets and clean-cut sections of open waterpipe. And this and that were all their own stories. I can remember only but glances of. The reality untold is that all this is the story. You or I can see only but fragments of. When the castle floating over the bridge dragged itself down and the ghost of E and I watched from the verdant overlook as it crumbled the bridge to pieces as though it were made of toothpicks. Water the soluble paper shred inked with “guilt” dissolves in. Nothing of this life all the same, I don’t think. Huge plumes of metal beam linkages falling through the water. What does frost and forever say? Because comma set demanded I write the next line, I did so under the demand on sight. It was not a decision my body could’ve made for me. But who knows. When tomorrow’s afraid. This was all just the next grove getting widened out. And readied for the truth to make its way. I set out to find it, and now, I wonder: have I found anything? Did God curse me to be blind for making an idol of some other thing? This I wonder, too, as I let down my guard in the night, watching riverspray.

Told The Algorithm

I told the algorithm to give me what I want. And it did: a Liquid Drum n Bass Music Collection on YouTube. I am just about all set up. Writing to it. Although I’m not too sure as to what about this is so sacred, I can at least feel it. I am tired, and under the duress of a kind of nervous energy, but I love the moment well enough. I truly do. I feel at peace with who I am and what is going on. ¶ I am aware that I get to choose what about the shit in life I experience speaks to me. I am aware that it is a great deal a choice of mine. There are things—many precious openable books—I can look into. There is a path for those who seek it out. And anything is possible that you can make true in your heart and believe in. I truly believe that. It is all vague and very big picture. But take today, for instance. I can use the prayers and instruction my sponsor gave me to use: the serenity prayer, the 3rd Step prayer, and asking to be useful. I can do these things earnestly and start my day already having given up the things outside my control right up to my higher power. Whether or not I know what that is. The fabric of reality; the universe; the planets’ alignments’ variant rearrangements in the vast vacuum of space; gravity; some greater more intelligent being who knows the truth; truth itself; who knows…; etc. I can actively do that and maybe get out of the house and do something with my day. I can be an active participant in my own life. I can actuate change in myself and the world around me just by being. Actively. Just by doing. Soft are the words and hard is the way. It is worth it, I think, to expend some real effort into whatever you do. That is how you get something out of it. Paying attention, looking at what you’re doing, being a part of it and engaging and interfacing with the world around you. That is surely a key. To something. Who knows. I used to think I enjoyed the vagueness of life, but recently it’s the vaguenesses that’ve been giving my spirit a hard time, I think. I The real self-given test is to render the test trivial. Maybe. Insofar as to overcome the problem is a natural course of action. These buzz phrases, too: “course of action.” They ring some bell-like stimulus inside with which we can resonate and come subconsciously closer to understanding what is meant when it is used in what is said. Something like that. You see? There: the last few sentences. They were not so much realized; there was not that effort really put into them; there was not the trudging through language to communicate a meaning. The sentences seem more vacant. There is something perhaps palpable, on a spiritual level, missing. ¶ So then, to return: life for all intents and purposes (another buzz phrase) has already happened. You get to choose how to see it. That is one of the more comforting ways I know to look at things. I think there can be some real solace in that. Though it really is difficult to wrap my head around. I just know that there are beautiful books and things to be done, including writing and reading and interacting. I don’t want to waste so much of my time self-criticizing and worrying anymore. I want to enjoy my own personage and who my soul feels it is and to enjoy that and every aspect of myself. I want to savor being a person. I want to appreciate the life I have and to bless myself with the power I’ve been given to do so, however ably I can. So I can forge my own destiny, here, and it is all in the eye of the beholder, see? You can determine for yourself who you are just by judging the reflection of yourself you see in everything. In the sense that everything is you—the world your mirror, because you take it all in through your own experience and senses—you are able to see aspects of yourself you would otherwise be blind to. The things you enjoy about other people are character traits you possess. The things you revile in the world are judgements you could very well levy against yourself—you are. There are feelings; feel them. They are there for a reason. And if it is to teach you what your truest self does not want around or to be, then that is a good reason. Learn from your mistakes by way of the feelings. It is a good thing, to be able to feel. It is an example of the empirical fact that people change. And that change is a constant. ¶ So then I wonder a little about maybe why I haven’t been able to feel so much, recently. What it might all mean. Maybe, as I trudge forth, and continue down this path, I will be able to feel again, because I will be ready to change. That is something I’d like to believe. Either way, the truth is the absolute for me which most represents what I want the most. If it is true, it sings all on its own. I hear and see it in the people at AA. I listen to their stories and shares and little conversations, and I hear the truth in and through them and it inspires the truth in me. What I want, I get, through their presences. It’s really something else. There was something to do with “growing along spiritual lines” which was said. And many other instances. At a speaker meeting in Provo, Utah, I heard a man who’d been meandering a little suddenly spout some bolts from the blue, one of which was “I became everybody I judged.” And it was so true. It was like I could hear God speaking through him to me. I think, now that I think about it, to simplify and purify things, my higher power is Truth itself. That’s as far as I can really understand it. The fabric of reality—the core of the ultimate truth. Who knows. I love appending that. To the end of my thoughts on the vaguenesses, because it feels so true to me: who knows. Maybe I know. Maybe I just have to, with the conviction of a living, participating person, take up the mantle of truth by admitting how little I know and giving over that powerlessness to Truth. Abandon myself to God. All that. Who knows.

Clear Haven from Heavy Heart

In the center of the hallway a shadow rises. Becoming the wanderer of the lone buildings through the night inside of which fear grows. Painting a picture of the ghost you saw. When you were a child. In the sleep stupor of the bathroom in the morning. White tile. The redundant climbing sun breaking clouds up through its shine. Cocaine a few months ago up my nose. Nothing new to talk about. There are Pegasi the Lord of Drugs prepared for me on a chariot I was supposed to steer. But I never did. And then, on the edge of the mountain we climbed, I thought I saw God, and I called out, but it did not respond. If it even heard me. Tomorrow’s lectures going out of sync with the lips that deliver them. I need to go to the store to buy a book in the capitalist mechanicus. ¶ I had a dream. There were scientists saying I had to get drunk who consulted with a god by sneaking over the fencing of his pool. A large beige house. The brain’s subaware treatment of the moment mostly deleted content you can’t regain access to. ¶ Unaware of what to write about or who to be anymore. But you knowing who you are somehow like a dream. That being not quite enough for me. Stepped out the door as the drums slammed on in the song. Same sum still going on. Getting calculated. There are tomorrows you could never be prepared for. There are samurai waiting in the eaves to riddle you. Great noons to moonlight. But I’ve slept in today. I’ve slept in, and tomorrow is gone, too. But right now I am in the sanctum of the breach, where lost people in tattered clothes root through the walls to find a secret truth they know nothing about the nature of. And all we are becomes what was once real. Clear and bankrupt. Something stupid. Bed lying become a sport I compete in against all the other sleepers invisible behind walls along with the few out in the open under the eyes of God. Tantrum prayers the one who loves me prays. That I will maybe see the light. Though who knows, maybe this is all I have. Creeping suspicions nothing is wrong and everything is right. The need: Must not buy into the verso. Of that. And the school terror of going down slowly through a fall and not knowing where you’ll land, if anything will catch you. Remembering past versions of a life this one is supposed to be the product of. Not knowing what it felt like to be who you were. Not quite knowing who you are. Not understanding, but laughing at the jokes. Because who is supposed to say. Who is supposed to determine the shape the light subsumes. I and my cannon mouth hurtling nothings back at the sweet universe blessing every bit of me. Not wanting to become well.

Little Sober Realization

The spirit that walks with you walks with me too. I’ve heard it in salvation’s rings. Though I know: every living person walks alone. Our stone is not in tune; it’s no damn use. We spend money we don’t have just to try to laugh. We spit on the debt accrued and call it rude and feel so blue. I bet one little bag on the life I had just to try to laugh. I walked from the path that’s right in the bit of light that made my shadow shed. When I confidently cried my eyes to red, I felt all right. ¶ I find it strange the process of feeling shitty about writing. I can sometimes get so overwhelmed by how pointless it feels, reading it back. But I think as long as I try enough, I can find something like truth to say, something true to me, and that somehow is bearable at least. Maybe its being true to me gives me something like hope. I’m not always so sure. Even if it’s a sad truth. But I have been very happy to walk. I will walk alone for however long it takes to get somewhere. I am very happy, to walk.

A Modern Film But in Black and White

“Then rebel yell, despite the wands of yov. Me like the way that nothing shut it off. I come across a hundred trials a day. Not even one can serve to take me away; I’m a herder yah.”

A Modern Film But in Black and White

The recreation of the scene in May. There is a picnic blanket and a pair of people on it discussing nothing. The dialogue is voiced over. A bald man with a handlebar mustache in a wifebeater and suspenders mimes smoking a cigarette or a jay. Many many bald eagles congregating on the snowcovered branches of a Canadian forestry. A hundred or so butterflies flit about in a churchyard some in focus some in blur some going in and out of frame. It is all in black and white. The director desponds the film. He doesn’t like stories. The crew of seven know nothing of what to do with the day. Now and then I pick up my thermos and sip a bit of bitter coffee, watching on from the knoll. Where Distresser wants me, I go, and I watch the world like his eyes and his ears and olfactories and gyroscope and I know very little of what to do with my day. I set down the invisible microphone in my hand I’ve been using to narrate, wanting to be the mime in the film. I do not know what it will look like. I want to be at one with day. I want to hear and fear and be swept away into something. I want to know everything. Even about very little. I want to swing up eternally and fall forever, too. The director says, to the couple on the hatchwork blanket in the summery park in the day, “You, move over this way. Just a little. Yeah. And you. Be alive. You only have today. This is your only day.” I want to be the director, directing things. I want to be the smooth alive fire in the eyes of the grizzly looking into my cabin through the window in January. The Christmas tree over nestled presents in December. The thanksgiving feast being eaten. The whole damn month of November. The ghosts of Halloween. The reversal of autumn from winter back to summer, forever, going backward to the very beginning. I want to be all things. This May. The director quiets his mind. He then says, “No no no it is all all wrong. We must develop a patternless sequence. Other pretentious things.” I kind of scoff from the knoll. Where I’m sitting, just in earshot of them. To myself. I don’t think it’s pretentious. I think the word’s overused. I think Why count yourself out like that? Man? And then I think, But it is dumb. Shut up. Shush. ¶ The corrective arrangement of my garment today is a loose white shirt depicting the poster for an old movie I’ve never seen. I walk barefoot out in the cold through the fallen leaves of winter. I feel cold inside and all over. I don’t have a judgment for the day. Not yet. I become water, spilling over the rim of a sad fountain. I smile. I am a giddy sad fountain smiling walking barefoot through the leaves of the autumn over the well-thick grass of the yard. Little bits of black bark. Green. Brown. Soft beige. Yellow. Leaves and bark and grass in various stacks. I smoke a cigarette in a shed and write down about all the things I never needed but somehow want anyway. I watch God overlook me as another example of the conditional human. I come home in my heart to a table that is never made. How dumb do we get when we are. Here. Forever, I am not too sure I know. I gliss over the word count. Gliss is a word I think I’ve made up which I likely haven’t. It means, “verb: To gloss in a blissful and/or speedy way.” I tap with the rapidity of an ear-scratching rabbit’s foot on the keyboard about essentially nothing or essentially something in order to pass the time. To feel my fingers move across the keyboard. I knock on the door and my God opens. I cannot see it, though. Whoever’s responsible for opening the door. When I walk inside, it shuts, and all is black until I eventually bump into a light. I write on the fictional truth from the perspective of a real thing. I do not know where any given sentence’s start will end. I become somewhat turned in on myself as I begin to think and so stop thinking for a moment and utterly zone out for what feels like a long time but is probably actually only a few seconds. I go from 700 words to 800 words. It makes sense that it doesn’t make sense. I write about the black and white modern film that I never watched getting made. Pretending I am a fictional person. I assay to describe things I have never seen in person as though the videos replayed in my head are true. Who knows what is right and what is going truly on this way or that way. I do not pretend to enjoy absolutes or to understand. I maybe do. I do not pretend that I have to understand. I maybe do. Watch out while I move over my hand to the ash tray. To ash the cigarette I wish were a joint. I am sober going on four months and cannot make sense of it. I want to be at least a little high right now but cannot manage it. I think I’d right a lot better, at least a lot freer, high, but know that’s probably not so true. I want to turn upside down the plate on which my mind’s dinner sits and watch it fall onto the floor in disarray and go uneaten and weep about the tragedy of the self-sabotaging I’ve done. This was the person I once may have been. It is all fictional now. There is something under the current of things I cannot get at that I feel may at least be true but which does not seem to want to show itself, if it is there. I want to read about the You and Jean-Paul Sartre and Blue Bayou Bangarang Awful Shoe and the woman with gnarly thighs who lives in my head’s dreams for a future life and the pet pup I may never have’s name I may never give it and the ladder that extends for seeming ever somewhere so far up and down that the terminus of either cannot be seen. I want to subsume the fictional manuscript I’ve created in my heart and subconscious and assume it and write it all out in a dream and print it all out in real life. I want to take into consideration the most honest things. I want to become one of those old dire figures the stories get written about writing a thing that writes a thing. That is essentially what the book is about that I’m working on. I’m just afraid that I won’t be able to do it so well. I know I should do it anyway, but I’m tired of saying “should.” As well, though, as the last sentence which so much imbues the hoary old cliché more than anything. Yeah yeah. It’s all respective to me though. And here I am harping on myself, though, in realtime. That’s maybe why other people and characters are so necessary. They take us outside of ourselves and let us go somewhere else while still relating to a person. They let us relate to *another* person. I think this is a good thing. I want to watch the pond village eat up all its leaves’ dew drops. The little Atlantis of the Squibblesquabs living there get overshadowed by the ice age of this winter until June fades suddenly into frame and the whole civilization is gone. Washed out to the mud banks. ¶ There is a necessity to at least create a story at some point. To run in tune with something that is there because it may not be there all the same. There is the sense at last of something gained you so desire. It requires the work to make it music, though. And, though it is written as though it’s been gained, it has not been gained. I wonder.

Before The End of Time

Because I’ve only just become able to understand. Surrounded on all sides by everything. My anxiety can be let to eat me alive. If it is so allowed. Otherwise, who knows. There are too many options sometimes. There are too many ways things can turn out. Though. Even the way my hands repose is just as much a signifier of these and times and times and times. Sometimes things don’t make any sense. And the senselessness wills the snowballing of dents. I become a bird above an airlock trying to fly against a vacuum’s pull. I have no clue why or to whose order I owe the things. There are processes I still can’t understand. Even as the madness takes hold, there is a part that can stop it all. It is a man convincing himself he is crazy, just as capable of being sane. Imagine, though, that the one thing that makes one crazy is believing they are crazy. Isn’t that a trip. The seed of the idea is the problem itself. Were it this way or that, who knows. Then when you find yourself above or below the pinnacle, will you know? There are journeys we’re on that comfort us for forgetting. Where we’ve come from what we’re doing what’s been going on all along. Who can tell if it’s this way or that that we’re meant to go. Who can tell how a meaning is meant. Why am I as much enraptured by the shapes of the letters on the page as I am by the words and their meanings they create? Is it because it’s all relative, inside me, anyway? Is something really wrong with me? Who is to say? Against what measure or what art. Who knows. “There are sometimes too many things” across the spine of a book. My eyes twitdh and throb and my body jerks sometimes in my sleep. Backwards. Like I’m being pulled. To or from where I have no clue. I would like to learn though, at some point. ¶ Then what brick by brick step must I be arranged to climb. If I live in a town of gloom and who I’ve become is not the same. If my grammar abandons its rules, so long as it helps my point, who’s to say? There are ad infinitum streams to say there are ad infinitum things. The theoretical library full of every type of book imaginable, including the ones which include the library. Similar to Borges’ intimations. And then there are other rooms with other people at other times. If there is really a good or bad way.  Again on the multiphasic emblems the time decides. If one part is wrong, the rest all get thrown out. That is the way it typically goes with these things. Maybe the very best way to start it out is to imagine a frame getting drawn. I don’t know. But I like how a friend said about why humans like to watch fire so much being supposedly because there is no distinct pattern to the flames, and this stimulating the brain. I’m not sure how but I’d like to be able to do that with my writing. Or maybe I think that’s what I’m already doing. With all this nonsensicalness or whatever. I want to open a door of light and fall to sleep inside. With no distractions from the tired blank array. To take on the weight of a slight ray and warm myself. Become all one. I feel like a stranger unable to understand. Why anyone is kind to me. Through a lens turned destructive against myself. To not understand. Why I can’t understand. A billion light years out from one moment to the next. Not a single clue only blue-blue blue. Noble noble hey, hey. Runs from hell-bent angels ensue. Why would I want to understand when I just have to get away. Then what more could I have to say apart from the same old thing? Blue while old the cold veins disarray. Nothing but a Saturn setting itself on rings. Nothing while us on our way. Told from the perspective of the light. I’m become my own the end of things. End of bureaucratic problems, with them all, all the time. Maybe some time. No one stays. Only a little later. We all find out ways. Maybe a little later. Who knows. ¶ Then there are days. So some of us say. There are days. We make a part of ourselves open. They become the we we were wanting all along. All for ourselves. They become nothing we become one. How can I parse this bit for you? What do you think it says? The engine leads the manuscript along a supply line. The Readers take a look or two, as it passes along their conveyor belts. Not one part is recognized; not one bit is known. The publisher prophesies what is his own. I do not know. It is satisfying, though. Read each word. Let it fall through your head. That God can recognize what is wrong with you. There are problems. All the time. Everywhere. You don’t need to be apart to get away from. But which you feel so keenly you’re in distress. Not the only thing to be read aloud. The man at the mouth of the mirror watching himself get closer as he leans in. Watches his eye. I dis-apart come clean with the coke up my nostrils. Breathe steadily not known just yet. My face is a runaway paradise gone strange. Not this once I like to listen to dissociative songs. With underlays of off piano over which the ambience of a room plays in which some date is talking to you. Not me not my voice on the stereo. Not my voice on the record. The staunch despondent the road that says “die” the nomad who must walk it down. Twisting away the camera lens which records me looking into it confused. Become anguished long darks set apart by song. Become the one strong thing still in the guitar and synth wisping away. Lapsing over the rock glow of my pills in their containers. S.O.S. distressing setter down of light things. Whale’s slow heartbeat. Ringin’ out. Baby’s laughter. That was yours. When you were a child. Tomorrow’s anvils coming down hard. Yesterday’s forgotten gray fading slowly just recently bolder than it is now. The tablets on the wall mirroring your face wanting you to suffer in silence. Having wants, being inanimate. Rough exposure “But it was only a fantasy. The wall was too high as you can see.” ¶ Now can you please lift me up, God? Again? Show me when you’re being so honest. I cannot tell the sky from sea. There are reasons I should not see. I know now I was not alone—all this time I’ve been on my own. Come back the siren quire forever in deep. Come back the truth you’re forgetting now, don’t forget, remember. Remember. Remember.