trouble

was my middle
name. i used to think you oughta

stir shit up. now i know

anarchy is over
rated

revolution will
occur naturally now and
then

do not provocate

just because you see a change

before it comes

be the change. educate

peace is a precious
metal

m x memory -vi

What was (not by law) acceptable? You would have to be crystal (clear) to know that awareness had not changed. Not even by 2023. Awareness is like it was: half-whole. The industrio-technological revolution had consciousness in a blender and someone hit liquefy. The laws could not tourniquet the blood loss. In effect, all diverse perceptions broadcast by sentients and picked up on radios in tunnels, were to be accepted. Resistance, denial of telltale truths, revolt against the pioneers of particularly unpopular ideas, was punished by slow reflexology torture. The pedestrian access to all CNS points of sensitivity. Modern culture placed high value on sensitivity, for it was the easiest way under the skin and didn't cost a damn thing. But desensitivity treatments were about the most malevolent practice around. A desensitized sentient was today scorned and unforgiven... turns out all evolution has the fallout of consequential negative feedback, which angles off the light of the fresh vision and becomes the new bastion of ignorant factions which can be discredited yet never completely silenced by radiating waves of heart-centered caring intention...

imaginary friend

History has no heart to give, and not a heart to take
it combs through the sand dunes like a snake.

Time strung out on a wash line, 

weighed down by wet blankets.
Five of ten generations fallen to knees, 

to catch the rolling heads of failed monarchies. 

And so goes the common revolutionary narrative.
The numbers anticipated it all.

Hers was not uncalculated risk.

She took tireless heed of the numbers

and counting, left no room for guesswork

 or doubting. 

Emotional coloring would be of great use

to intention. Logic got the nod. Reason

got a mention. 

The battlefield would be determined by alignment of stars.
She shared with her generals the finest Dominican cigars.
She was pathologically obsessed 

with synchronizations

 to relieve stress. 

A single number 

could send shock waves through the rest.

Kinship with her was allocated by dreams. 

Material ties was not her imperative.
They would break off on their own,

falling from the beams.

When her people protested it hurt her heart so deep.
The leaders of protest were often asleep.

She did not sanction violence, but in some cases it happened.
She allowed for proper burials 

per dictates of culture and tradition.
Any failure in that regard led to charges of sedition.

Some of the prophecies just blew her mind.
She shook her fist at time, but never cursed the divine.
She became tired and let down her guard.

Then awaited a sign. 

Pacing and racing
nights and days through the catacombs,
the last safe place from it all.

Suffering the dawn of her
eloquently stated
much anticipated
emancipation
from any and all relative life support.

I received her newswire off my cortex wall,
hundreds of years later
and I liked it.

I imagined she was my best friend
in two thousand
and ten. 

Rolling Allostasis -x)

And so goes the common revolutionary narrative. The opposition carried untold numbers. She took nothing more serious. Scrutiny was their middle name. Some of her prophecies just blew their mind. They shook their fists at times, and threatened great violence. Some of which was carried out in a spectacular show of untold force. They bombed our back yards. Our victory gardens, hung defeated. Falling premature off the vine. Hard and without fruit, the trees scorched the air with barren branches. Many of us looked up just so, and cursed the divine. We became tired. We tried to let some of it go. We let down our guard of which had not yet already been demolished, and awaited some sign. Suffering before the dawn of our eloquently stated, much anticipated, emancipation from any and all relative life support. Only She would let us breathe free again. Like chantix in the blood, but better. She was like willpower, but better. She was like a freeway seam, stitching a patchwork of concrete and farmed family squares, to the wilderness of her personal (collectively scorned) dream. Speaking truth to power would be no bed of roses, though she would not force us to do anything. She modelled her style. We got to witness it, if we only showed up. Her runway was  gigantic like the Pixies : a big, big love. She taught us we could make it, before we even knew what we were making. We received her message via newswire.

Maybe half of us subscribed. The other half unsubscribed. Half of the latter half prayed for strength to endure the former half. The better half. The better half of the half in prayer, became lost. Half of the lost became found. Half of the found, found themselves. The rest were relegated to the lost and found. Half of those who found themselves, experienced an awakening. The other half fell asleep. Half of those awakened experienced enlightenment. The other half freaked out. Half of the enlightened set with the sun. The other half were engulfed by darkness. Half of those who cast shadows, stood seven feet tall. The rest turned into tumbleweeds and tumbled down the hall. Half of those who stood seven feet tall, grew egos ten feet long. The other half checked their egos. Half the ones whose egos became checked, knew that they were wrong. The other half took swan dives whilst singing swan songs. Half of the swan songs auditioned for the Voice. The other took a dive in ratings, because they had no choice. Half of those auditioning, were booed right off the show. The other half went on to notoriety in small suburban towns. Half of those who lost their fame before it came, turned into phoenix out of ash, and rose up from the flames. Half of those who underwent the alchemy, now undertook great hardship. The other half flew south for summer. The ones still there, you could almost count, while lying in bed awake. They were not sheep. They were not dead. They were characterized in universal press, as having five to fifty heads.

Rolling Allostasis -vi)

She was a history junkie. A doctor. phd.
Examining old cultures and wars was her rush.
Anthropology was her fix.

She found what she needed to know while tabbing through her cerebellum's internal ledger, set to siddhartha style scrolling, which kept her mind rolling. Her attention was set to its highest ceiling, steady conscious, you know the feeling. Urgent were these matters she had to attend. She wanted to bum rush the majora with the minora. Do the hundred yard dash toward the cash money stash.

She liked to focus on that heated point where marginalized culture unite, center of the heart of the body of any creative work in motion. After studying each slide of her mind, she would leave it behind. Leave no trace. She set fire to the scrolls after thumbing through the seat of memory with a fine-toothed gnosis comb. You know, right beside the garden gnome. They both stood there, in the corn rows of her dome. And watched the paper separate at its perforations, fold up toward the center as the edges caught fire. The scarecrow shuddered. The crows, they flew away. The margins moved in to drop trails of smouldering ash. The paper chase got chased right out of town.

The revolution was on, like a wheel that's been trued. Effortless and unglued. This was where her mind joined the mind of the people. Territorial boundaries became blurred like some communist conspiracy coming into view. Empowerment via numbers was mathematically guaranteed. They hunted the bloated dumpster raccoons until they were treed. Reduced odds down to one, aka: no other possibility.

She prepared herself for rain. Premonition kept her sane.