I thought to make a list to myself of
what I am not or would not say or do not do.
Posh! This was in some part to
appease my sense of principles as if I retain them in a swell of avarice that I
do not partake. It feels like a remnant
of the Catholicism I feigned motions for during so many years as if the notion
of expectancy was ever a thoroughfare progressing towards clarity.
The sights of sidelines may blur into
statements hiding inside declarative packaging.
The boxcars of words feel like interrogatives, but in the end are
actually statements not about the nouns, or subject matter bearing witness to
any of the actual arrangement of letters, but the implications birthed in the
perimeter of the silhouetted sentiments outlined by what they were not. There is no sidestepping the obvious, whether
the reflection or the object itself, either dares to bear the audacity of
requesting an audience. So arrest the
plaything of a reciprocal. Bring forth
another naked rant!
So I tell myself I never say, “I can’t
believe it is already Thursday or Wednesday or where has this week gone, this
day, How is it four o’clock already or my this morning is lasting forever, I
can’t wait until lunch time or I can’t believe it is summer already or it seems
like only yesterday.” Worse is to
declare that time goes by faster with age.
Enough with the manipulation of time in
a mental mirror-ground, unless one is to return to energy and outpace the speed
of light, time is not slowing down or bending on the gravity of the universe at
a rate to dilate the miniscule perspective of any nanosecond of the compartment
of biology that is humanity. I view such
protests or commentary as an invitation to death. Whispering at the beast encourages one’s
extinction. Any skewed perspective of
time to this short-life as dragging out or going by in an accelerated manner is
bypassing the actual opportunity afforded to a breathing, operable human with a
remainder of minutes.
I prefer to embrace each day, especially
the ones that suck-hard with enthusiasm, forced if necessary. Why, because the thunder is going to
quake. What the fuck does complaining
about it do? Complaining is a feckless
endeavor resulting in self-hindrance.
Whenever contemplated, I urge myself to desist post-haste. Once the root of angst is exposed, one will
either be soothed by one’s volition to address the root, or find peace in the
limitations of what is beyond our control.
Complaining is an indulgence of the feeble minded lollygagging through
parking lots refusing to enter a storefront or move down the street only to
bellow at the effrontery of the mannequins in the windows.
I prefer to dissect the differentiation
and move on inside the avenue of thought, of choice penetrating the one middle
finger to any notion of a sky-God. (Even
in such modern iterations, the books insist we are choosers and not driven
shells by a boy-deity fucking with amused by his play-ants.)
I do not eat fast food any longer as at
some point the combinations felt again like inviting death. If I do not care about my body, why should my
planet care about my body? So I try to
recognize the distinction between eating churned genetically-engineered soybean
mush mixed with felled void carcasses and becoming one. To ignore such symbiosis relegates one beyond
the vast obvious intelligence of the canine.
Dogs can see if I am good to my human,
my human will be good to me. Life is
defined by such basic mutual interests.
Yes both parties are both selfish and selfless in a teetering
counter-balance, that if ignored leads the world into a chaotic elected
quagmire of mutual destruction. People
love dogs intrinsically for this ability to syphon through the muddle and
discern this kernel of interdependence with a glee, passion and craving for its
consistency.
Children know this and adults bury it in
endless lists of musts that are not musts.
Therefore I hunger for simplification.
I ache for roots of what is priority, what is the chafe and to shed the
wasted energy from my endeavors. I hurl
into this pyre bitching about challenges.
This act is ironically named after female canines, obviously by men who
missed the entire point of existential exploration.
I do not worship or believe in any
sky-Gods. This decision has
compartmentalized some of the greatest loves of my life into non-options. The crevices of what I wish I could believe-in
feel like a thousand-year search for Santa’s workshop for a man with life in
his pocket refusing to smile. To remain
succinct, I find the concept of worship an entire waste of time, not because I
am arrogant or non-thankful for my opportunities in life, but because any God
that would value my worship would be an insecure asshole. Any God, if he did exist, worthy of any form
of worship would not desire worship. Therefore as an atheist, my Pascal’s wager
would rather anger the wrathful God, because like Good Will Hunting with his
father’s choice of the belt or the wrench, “Fuck him, that’s why.”
When my body is inoperable and dare my
spirit to confront such a deity or her armies, my retort would be that the
consensus of the muddled communiques seemed to swell around don’t be a dick,
pay attention to those in need, share, love, and give your best effort as an
imperfect being to leave the place better than you found it. If I can attest to living under such
pretenses and were to be sentenced to eternal torture for not selecting the
ritualistic nonsense preoccupied with copulation, tithing, dead languages, and
soap-operas of miracle-men, then so be it.
Give me the hell full of the brave. Give me the perdition of the armies of punks
willing to raise a middle-finger to fascist tyranny. Give me the stone of Sisyphus. But know, I have retained my mind, where the
clouded-lot has donated volition to the alcoves of a hive opposing all of what
life ever was. These pardoned-souls
taste the true-death. Volition is lost.
If God does exist, I would fathom under
a non-interactive paradigm such a God would be frustrated by our demeaning and
insulting misconceptions casting the interconnected oneness of the universe as
our most strident bust of fear rather than love.
Furthermore, zealots may preach to be
thankful for the blessings of genetic talents, confluences of the decision
making of our collective benefiting or serving detriment to an individual as empirical
evidence of a deity’s purposeful gift or penalty. To this I retort, if such a deity were to be
wheeling and dealing such indulgences or hindrances this iteration of God would
have an unending allotment to disburse.
What is the sharing of a thousand dollars from a billionaire to a 501c3
tax-deductible enterprise compared to the last beans in the pot of a single
working mother?
This is the version of God most religious
bureaucrats attempt to enforce legislation for, as such the generosity is
diluted and the conceptual penalty is all the more capricious. Such a God’s powers are infinite, yet set a privileged
species to plot our extinction to love above all through parlor tricks
documented by the scribble translations of crumbling sandy kingdoms.
I do not want to own a firearm, but part
of me is afraid to refuse the possibility. I can taste the chalky fear on my tongue in
the very debate. Some selfish fucker
could barge into my home, put a bullet into the skull of my daughter or my own
and I could have a tag-team of counter-bullets ready, sleeping in a drawer or
un-purchased in a store. Each is
possible.
Teetering on such is the balance between
healthy and absurd fear and love. You
cannot love or fear in absolute.
Volition is paramount. I have
little guilt in the action of killing another in true self-defense or defense
of a true victim. Such tests with
applicable tools present are rare, but none the less navigable.
I do not watch the weather on the news
if I can all but help it. Planetary
meteorology is partially manipulated by the decisions of man in a latent result
of the collective. This tends to be
disputed by the same crowd that seems to be obsessed over the consequence of
the smallest temper tantrum of cumulonimbus as if their rants to the atmosphere
had pertinence to prevent the inundation of one’s golf outing.
Overall both have minimal pertinence. However in the immediate all past data is
irrelevant in the dosage diagnosed in typical newscasts. The future can be truncated to a numeric
temperature graphic in a scroll with a sun either covered or not by clouds or
rain drops. Excess elaboration is most
often homage to our mythologies than science.
I listen to a broad spectrum of music
from punk rock, folk-Americana, blues, soul, hip-hop, reggae, New Orleans, old
school jazz, and Indie. There is very
little room in there for the crap played on auto-tune / auto-repeat on the
majority of America’s radio stations.
The idea that someone could enjoy listening to the exact same five songs
thirty times a day at work between the exact same substrata of twenty-nine
commercials is beyond my level of tolerance for an acceptable active form of
humanity. Slice my knuckles or shave my
skull and force-feed me the follicles. Either
is an acceptable alternative than giving up the autonomy of my musical intake
to a Clear Channel disciple.
For as much as America claims to protest
the evils of communism, it grinds my guts that a preponderance of mental
deactivations could occur to insert ear-lobes to the sloth-troths of corporate
harmonies. Often acceptable artists are
wound up in such over-play that the spirit of the humanity is all but
strangled. Only stellar artists can
survive such conniptions. Most grow
alien and form impossible allegiances to subvert the hive of currency such machinations
bring.
Adele is soul music, not pop. A hint of it made the world go crazy. Even in Otis Redding’s short life he had more
than one song. Springsteen has
thousands. Dylan wrote hoards. Cash filled pews and pews. Marley burned through fields. Strummer rioted in street after street. Who knows how many boxcars Guthrie rode?
Yet station after station intentionally
latches onto a monotony designed to expel opiates in the human brain with
Pavlovian reaction at the pop-drum beat synchronized sound-clip and at the same
time deactivate human volition, interest to become an organism of passive
rather than active absorption. This is
the tone and temper medicine of politics, religion and pied-pipers in nauseous
undulation.
A human that lacks the perfunctory
interest to explore the libraries of humanity’s chronicled musical catalogs
beyond what is fed to them in baby food jars has lost my respect. Such neophytes clog buffet lines en masse and
reaffirm my election to prepare my food at home a la carte.
Have an opinion. Make a stand.
Assert a purpose to one’s existence or be like an elderly complacent
steed and head to pasture by ordering your body to die for lack of use. The table is set and no dish is ordered. The scene is endless pairings of nostrils
submerged in bog after bog of the liquefied beige porridge.
Elation!
Elation with those capable of straightening their necks after years of
atrophy and yelling in dissent! Flip the
drinking latrines and rampage towards the lemming cliffs and build land across
a raucous sea rather than leap! This is life!
The noise of the lobbies backs me into
silent conference rooms of my mind at times.
I dwell in the internal bed-ridden and haggard. I want not the parades or the plastic
souvenirs. I know the difference in the
smell of a real tulip and a silk simulacrum.
Better my pillow be a book than a
fizzy-lifting drink screen riling me up, up, and up into a buzz-saw of volition-devastation! Eructation humility for the gaseous
acknowledge of impropriety in the presence of the herd allows one to survive in
the true-life: the path of purposeful kindness, empathy, awareness of presence
to be the budding rose for our flowering garden. I give you my flaws blatant to see me for who
I am and am not, so that I may be that interconnected peace and honest font of
determined love.
In such disclosure, the battles with loneliness
construct wars inside silences as if the gaps take up the space of all my
banished angels and devils. I have no
time for imagined advisories, the realm of the existential makes the pressures
of the collective tangible upon my epidermis.
The solar heat radiates the will of economic motivations guiding the
continents into dances of poverty and opulence.
The satellite beams ricochet off the emotions I can imbibe in the
webcast news reels. The pictures
selected. The data click hits of piano
playing felines versus bullet-ridden Somali slums.
The evidence of focus wanders my body in
undulating consciousness. I do not need
the touch of others to sense the connection.
The proximity is in the distance.
I taste the dance in a heightened focus of absence. Love is stripped. Children are vagabonds and prancing in the
folded Earth. Memories gawk as pale
vampires glaring from mirrors. Workdays are
powered by the possibility of decades culminated only to be eradicated in the hapless
volition of a stranger.
The specters never stop parading. So too is my antonym. Love envelopes you in the playful nurseries,
robust in fabled phone calls pulling action into activity into doing, into
mercurial apathy. I see you doing and
never thinking.
So says the pelican dripping oil. A day of flying builds a bird in a pie of
down. Wrap the crust, meat-wings raw and
plucked. Dessert is made and left on the
counter for the buzzards to consume. No
menu, no screaming, no knowledge of who ate the delicacy; only apathy
post-commotion. Drama can never fuel a
sun, only misguide with an eclipse.
I hear the people enjoy magicians. Maury Povich is still employed. The circus is posting tents with slave-pachyderms
and hobo-robots. The popcorn is exploded
somas. Cotton-puffed currencies of spun-sugar
Svengalis wilt on the tongue posing as sustenance. Lead the rodents into the Vomitorium!
I can always hear the jeers, the moans,
the roars of the stadium tiers and the catacombs of the people under the
stage. All at once the hot blood boils
in cauldrons of regret and anticipation!
We want to have it on and be done with it guffawing with such fixation
on the precipitation of the morrow or the sunshine of yesterday! The horoscopes promises are glistening in the
spider webs on sticks in the shadow of the eclipse.
The drive-through lines are wrapping
blocks. The people never leave. Returning is a repetition of identical days
masked in divergent orders from the same menu with the parts rearranged. The chicken elbows made into nugget or patty
or soy-past bovine pancreas are merged into wrapped tortillas trumped by the rib-wich void
of bone or marrow!
The darkness is all around us clawing at
the maw to engulf our skulls to salivate over our oblivious hunger for
non-choice. We are to ignore the flowers
in the eyes of the un-named children beseeching us for water. They wait like orphaned seedlings to
germinate in the soil of belief that in one rise another will finally consider
them as sacred.
I to you, you to me; we are sloshing in
this damage of night after night dreaming to be more than a rock without a
lighthouse, considering tragedy the only hope for intimacy. Reasons fall out like unhinged junk-drawers
compacted after decades of remnant dusty-childhoods, quandary-expedited
teenage-escapades catapulted into murky vocation-quests crusading for
procreation. Entranced progeny stare
back at us with mirrored ambition to diagnosis this confounding human
existence.
Choices fall out our mouths like carbon
dioxide meaning well and destroying our whole if never intercepted by a simple
plant which is rooted well to make a symbiotic nostrum in this catharsis of
soils. Given time we will meet who we
will be and murder who we were; never finding solace in the conversations
absent from impossible coexistence. We
are left with the inescapable recognition that we can only be who we are in the
present basking in the equality of energy equals mass times the speed of light
squared.
We are left waiting for that moment to
become energy once more and accelerate in the extrapolation of a virgin
universe to go back in time. Alas to do
so we must shed every memory we have ever had, realizing so long ago all the
things my former selves would have liked to teach the current and future
versions of what one may deem a self I bare membership. Knowing given the logical infinitude of iterations
in a boundless universe unbridled by time, that each of us have been in the
same and thus are and will be once again.
This distance is so fleeting in the
arduous frustration of what it has taken me so many years to get to this moment
and learn all these concepts I deem facts or ideas or opinions or whatever
Einstein might have called them were he to dabble in commenting.
I may cross the Mississippi River only
so many counts, yet in each the water is flowing and what descends from Canadian
snows was once dinosaur urine or dumped into the Gulf before and will wander
the highway heat currents of this magnetized tiny planet in a finite allotment
of water to only trickle under that bridge as I or another pass it on another
morn.
So as this we pass like ships waving
gracefully knowing not the count, or hue of ray, or credence of the meteorologist’s
baleful farce of commentary. Time is
running in a fourth dimension of countless shadows. We are men and women in hammocks dreaming of
the elephants in the breeze tickling our ears with novel ideas for us that are
no more new than Biblical recitals. Mars
is laughing at the names we apply.
The night is coming to grab me by my
ankles to drag me screaming and smiling into sleep and forget these words as I
mock death by writing. Never can the
sentiment rest muzzled with words to be found by strangers. Authors are immortal. Artists are immortal. Musicians are immortal. Even in a folding universe the chasm of explanations,
which can exist beyond language reverberates to teeter the unstable energy of
the bang to explode, because such notions must be experienced. Such notes must be heard. Such thoughts must be considered.
It is this rambunctious rebellion which
thrives in our core, neutered by the gawk-sheep of television monotony or radio-barricades
of mono-choice, yet never deceased. The
urge hibernates in the capitulated soccer-moms of Dallas shopping in mall after
mall, only to waken at the chords of guitar or the leafing page perused in a
happenstance book store. These pledges of
life’s playful ability to explore define survival, without them we are
dust.
Was I once a carpenter? Did I ever build such steeples and forget my
former careers? The shadows haunt my
silences to write such stories hearing the wind chimes like whispers from
memory. I come from a flower’s stamen
intricate and brushing off the pollen of my birth in a forever of ever after’s
mapped and backtracked. Did a cartographer
ever mark my resume?
Coin slots and bullet trains taking
chances on destinations, I swear some let the compass spin until I went
blind. I robbed the coach and waited for
the sheriff. The constable beat me to
the sky falling out the clouds at what I had done so that death was no
reprieve. I did that one as well in a
reunion of consequences my former self wishes she could elucidate upon my
consternation.
The bands and bands of skin soaked scale
weigh the measures of the prices I have paid to simply know certitude. I have watched the beach and seen the grits of
sand arrive from an empty palate of water.
The grains stack like volumes of other men’s minds on shoulder after
shoulder in library after library I will never elect the time to read. So it is the answers and questions wander
about in a train station of nervous middle schoolers afraid of what puberty has
done to our bodies.
What is tomorrow but another opportunity
to utter a salutation to the missing component to our puzzle? Another ticket to a lottery we gave up on so
long ago. Love waiting there in all her
dresses of despair. Love dancing the
night away with other loves. Love
tapping to the kick drum. Love sliding
to the blues harmonica as an angel’s harp.
Love swept away into the ever-changing rhythms. Love tuned harmony deaf to the others singing
in a room of silent commotion of every one and no one talking at once.
That is all for now.
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