Saturday, 11 August 2012

some darkness (may make the light more visible)

          Her sorrows were great, yet her awakening was thorough and cast wider and deeper channels among squabbling currents and radiating fields of electromagnetic conjecture. Thoroughfares of panic scattered like light, yet not necessarily coming up against the peaceful full quiet of celestial orbit paths in ritual apparent constant cycles in the shadow of universal change and chaotic dionysian contrast. She had barely enough consciousness to still her choices in a frame she materialized before her. What she found when examining the quality of her apprehension, was that it was severe enough to warrant direct action. And having resolved the primary cause of her problem was the presence of an inner voice disturbing her immediate peace of mind, she quickly examined and made her choice.

          Thought assassination was not an activity she enjoyed. Severance was a preferable term to the a-word. Thought severance. Or extraction. Ya.
 The voice, or the prevailing thought that made up the voice, was now so desperate to save itself from her, it had begun a kinda mantra in her ear accusing her and using the a-word specifically. She considered herself not so much into peace as non-violence. Anytime violence arose as a possibility, her inclination would cause her to take pause (if possible) and breathe for a moment before deciding among options. She would imagine anyone of the many world leaders who had successfully implemented peaceful protest. Then she would imagine (if there was any time left) herself having some delicious poached eggs with said leader. She wanted to ask for the catsup, but did not dare.

            She, like any of us, hopes for some sun, some light to be lit by. Are you looking for something uncertain also? A Salve for the wound residing in your heart and soul?   For she will tell you if you come to come across her and smile when you meet, both, she will tell you no different but surely altogether not the same.... in a simple gesture or saying or empathic insider-true heart-rendering. How each of us share in the burden put upon us, each of us take what we give, or suffer thieves and keep giving, hold back some then to suffer more still, until....we push back disease and come back to our senses, and give back what any can see life has lent us.

 What were we to understand about some concept or other? I need to know as much as you, don't I? To have an equal or greater quality of life? But who measures that? Some agency funded by Phillip Morris? Those once passionate, interesting, compelling, emotional conversations of the seventies in America USA, where have they gone? All anyone sees anymore are clips, usually in service of fashion or timeline historical placement. Or comedy.  The TV sucked any and all meaning, and left it embedded in some lost episode somewhere, out of context and inextricable without some antique media player.

 Buried beneath the bottoms, beneath the beneath. This is where lies the truth, someone once knew, the true you you once knew, this not so. Have you no trouble convincing anyone anymore of your self as you present when asituational relations convene? Do you not slow or even stutter over your words? Do you numb out the affect under duress. Under weight of expectation of full manifestation of self? How do you account for this? Cannot relate? Cannot convince? Get talked over? Not listened to no more?  Do they still look into your eyes? Do you allow them?

Excavate it, your suffering. Study it, learn something or just stare in awe, make the money from the business of it, until the consumption tires of itself, falls back, and best we fall back also, as what we raised also falls back to its home in the earth, in the deeper rings of crust that comprise the earths layers, one might imagine, like that cross section of a tree whereby we learn its age.
Covered that was you and you and only you.... to fixate upon the put upon testosterone fueled madness of inquisition, intellectualism, dance of half-blind dionysian, create, slash, destroy, slash then burn, overpower in show of force, war for wars sake, replete with imagery and iconic substitution of symbolic wisdom handed down to handjobs and bury all any culture found.

Well, if you gotta, then girl i suggest you choose denigration on one of those days you had trouble falling asleep because you were such a bitch that day and regret it. Pushed some lackluster kicker deeper into the thick of the kick, simply because they were an easy target and indefensible against your marking them with your black coal soot of fallen heavy unnatural type words. Charred and burned pejoratives. Captive audience. So no sleep for you. Denigration of self, because you feel badly and want to be mistreated to level the field. Cannot face them now. Maybe in a week, but a week of worrying how you gave someone a sick gift. Like a book written or signed by someone like a curse. Someone who by their signature wants only for you to feel their pain. Like yours wasnt enough.

Well, surprise surprise. Did you think life would carry you down this little river here? Surprise surprise! Now notarize your thighs. Otherwise...some sociopath might claim them. Cut your living will to your best friends and family, if you care where your stuff will go when you go. Because you may go before you thought so. Surprise surprise. Twenty years after high school and a far cry from who you thought you might be? A far cry from whom all of your family and most of your friends ever thought you might be? Alienated? Though intact are your principles, your manner of being, your way of carrying yourself, your choices even as you might have expected to choose. You choose, you lose.

         Words fall through the bars (encased in letters folded and tucked carefully into envelopes produced from the pulp of the millions of trees. Words fall through the bars in sentences in ink ascribed by those who cared enough for those who stood behind the bars to reach them this very intimate yet often overlooked by steady consciousness gone aground. The posts gave way to the most incredible shift in the egg of the eye of most of them. those behind the bars. The posts arrival each and every day but sunday, caused most men to find their asses lightened and their spirits rising from any pose or posture, however comfortable, with some hope uplifted... for connection otherwise denied. Yes. these ones they stood in deprivation of usual human understood and implied and expected daily connection with one if not many others like them.

 Do not worry your little heads. Connection is inevitable. Rent not the freespace no matter the run of zero across the land, no matter how droughted and tapped of honest water by honest populations spiked by honest natural patterned growth spurts aka boomers. aka baby boomers. aka baby boomers boomers. aka too many motherfuckin' people!  
Treat it like the treatment all shall inevitably receive in this land of focus on the most privileges and able, the prettiest and smartest, the most likely to smile their smile until you feel it up there somewhee in your colon, a shot of git! the horses know too well by their bloody flanks by way of the careless excitability of some goddamn cowboy unfeelin-like and insensitive to the very animal without whom he would be suffering his own miserable pace along the new frontier of endless ridge and canyon and flat prairie inbetween. For days by fortune of his horse. Impossible weeks or months were he without. Impossible life. Dreaded life he never need to know.

Not a cause for alarm or even concern for citizens A through Z. For some... well, many, or maybe even most to all of these ones were  family or friend. spouse. merchant.  the cylinders. the intoxicated toxic wrap fingers around to hold their equilibriums up. When they no longer can, when they fall on the hardened stone floors and feel the sweeping of time in the uprise of startled dirtsand... the chase is over, and the journey becomes something other than ducking and dodging and acting incognito... they cannot go on through the country motels along the highway with cash and false names no more... they will be pushed away and out and not wanted no more for nothing, no info no cut deals with the DA. Nobody wants to smell your sour breath or stare down your colorless eyes no more. Sorry baby. Nobody and no one to chase ya. Nobody hoping to off ya or erase ya. You may have done so yourself.

          Back of mind by now. Front of mind is who knows where and such the act of scribe scription is lost in dereliction. Alpha emphasized phallacies, please. Leave the girls the ladies the women to drop to knees without much power mostly, sometimes the smart ones like Joan of Arc can be played out and advertised to others who dare to object, torture will be your misfortune, certainly, so back in your swanky old school dresses, and respond with shimmering meltdown to your man's caresses. Smile back to friends passes. Fuck! do we have to teach missionary or add that to your itinerary/ your classes? Register. Then shoot the chemical facade and try again to do the impossible for the rebellious girls, worship the rod. Take it in, walk up the so many steps of the washington momument. Dripping wet with sweat, now come on to him.

              The manipulation just started there, in two thousand eleven, the year of the Empty Stare. Slap the looker in the face, and later, once intoxicated full, he might undo all that you've done. Undo  your lace and fuck some sense into your senselessness, with abject sensitivity. Coarse condenscension in turn gives rise to tears. The vulnerability! of your henchman?
That's when you were sure this was all but a dream. And your fears crumbled crumbs, all over the place! Then back to spatchula and your sunnyside eggs. Reality halfway hit you as hard in the head. And focus on the eggs you must. Almost lost one over the rim. These puppies got legs.
Once served to you, by you, you find yourself pushing away your breakfast. Pushing away your dreams and such, and all before grace. Pushing into your own belly, your fingers prod and feel about for that dream of lace. Gone without a trace. This time suffering would vanish alongside the dream, for the time being!

             May the age on your aura filter the world to your soul. May your spirit be full any day you depart us. Full and as young as the day you first felt her, your spirit, inside you, the brilliant day of your awakening to her. Your day of true birth. The day you began living your life. The day you came along and were you and only you. You saw yourself! You made no excuses! You put yourself out there! (no matter how fucking ruthless).