Friday 29 May 2009

white noyz

If you let your contemplation soak into it, yes, if you just numb your mind and focus on your breath and stare as vacant as your eyes can (diverse endless thoughts strung along and diverted down the windpipe like the switching of trains from track to track unnoticed) yes, eyes clear as light or the edge of the earth, trained on that safe and warm salt and pepper sea of light, yes, the kind Carol Anne once got sucked into, a mid-tone gray portal disguised in black and white sparks darting back and forth and acting like the two dimensional facade of the three dimensional lightbox of an earlier depressive rabbit eared era, yes, here in this mound of freshly abandoned terra somewhere up in new mexico after the colorado river gave its final salty teardrop and can give no more, yes, where future cancels out past and creates a fucking platinum rich moment in time to feed on, the populace mainly gone now, yes, forced to crank the sound out hitches decades uncranked, yes, the women gathering up the children and making the previously unmoved dust collecting reality of their lives move, yes, the men forced to rise up at the deadened hour (sacrilege) to lay their bellies over their work in front of them, or simply to move in the movement swirling up around them and sourced from the silent wail of survival to hook these common frequent trailers up to anything that moves, yes, so to search their dusty heads for some oasis to satisfy their wives and this ancient horrible thirst they never knew they had, no, having never went without water before, no, maybe just now accustomed to taking credit to pay off fines inflicted by going over the undesired efforts of the state to ration, maybe, simply abiding by a common western passive aggresion, maybe how less than grateful never satisfied folks do sometimes, maybe to assert without saying nothing 'you dont exist if i damn well dont choose to see you existing' of course this was never said, no, and chance now have it they all gone these ones, fled in fear or greed maybe, moved only by the threat of discomfort and the ever rising wave of inconvenience maybe, and as the story went, left is you sitting there cross legged with yourself and maybe all the feral (and some of the domesticated fixed) cats left behind or chose to stay or just not to follow or else were simply sleeping through the drama unfolding, well (you are left) and if you, yes, you, leftover in the wake of all them undesirables anyway, if you do sit and stare blankly at the tv screens they left behind, letting yourself get pulled by undertow of light into the sea of salt and pepper shake shake shake...... well, then and only then, yes, then, there in all the deadly beautiful silence and lifelessness of the scene, you know, you have finally found yourself some fucking peace on earth. maybe. meow!

the END>

post. sparks that did not ignite -- maybe some laughs. maybe not.
within a few states of new mexico and grace, Utah was otherwise completely forgotten. yes.
check self before wreck self kind of philosophy permeated the starched shirts. stop. all who worshipped the starched shirts. stop. with extra starch in these trying times. stop. order 100 gallons of liquid starch. override water delivery in favor of starch. stop. starch in lieu of water. stop. so to create a halo effect of white light to further blind and astonish the simple masses sandwhiched between mountains and dry beds of formerly life giving, life taking waters. which were not ordered anyway. stop. to our own misfortune. stop. like some religious sacrifice gone bad. starched shirts plot out reverse course back to some hoped for water source. canteens made from an average female spinal jello mould. stop. strapped to the backs of the many of many of many wives who fell out of recent favor. stop. she and she and she would not go down on him when he asked without saying. stop. all would be and was subsequently held against the prude ones. stop. the average of whom was forced into the jello mould. in the designation of responsibilities portion of the planning portion of the hopeless odyssey dropped on to them in channeling fashion through super starched shirts of the inner sanctum. stop. say that again because its big: inner sanctum. use caps. INNER SANCTUM. a damn near giant eggshell pregnant with the generosity of bleach byproduct, the life giving life taking chemical bath all current and past (and future if the preservatives keep it!) supreme leaders baptized in. stop. water was never enough and could be polluted. and lacked color and flavor anyway. and chemicals. stop. Bleached supreme chemical wet brains. stop. need we say more. all work and no play kind of crazy. all catharsis at first. frothing at the mouth spinning in space kind of experience. on goes the tragic comedy. the spirit pulls out of them in a fast and furious wave, yes, something of that nature, like cheering because they made all the folks different than them feel kinda sad and worked over by some illegitimate adulterous legislation brought forth by a hundred thousand wives with ample time and energy past wrapping the shared megalomaniac in starched kisses, to create a thinktank with no heart, thoughts but no feeling, a tragic bottoming out with no apparent ceiling. postlude end. purr.

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