End of an Era

Maybe nothing ever completely ends, but this is close enough.

R.I.P. it up and Start Again

X

Ex: preposition (from latin) out of, from.

“I want you to notice,
when I’m not around,
but you never did or will.”
Fell and Crashed into the myriad, labyrinth, matrix
of fantasies, idealizations, dreams, thoughts about you.

“Here it is,” and she presents it, cold and self-conscious, naked in front of an inattentive audience who all recognize her:

I.
My lips wrapped around
your cock,
fingers graze your
buzz cut,
and then the volcano erupting
salty, slimy swamp water.

II.
Found and am Following this treasure map,
to find where (“X” marks spot) I went wrong,
why I won’t ever be good enough.
I keep Following it because I AM STUBBORN,
can’t give up trying like you did.

III.
Something inside compels me to live, eat, breathe, and want you;
an Invisible Force heats the water that turns to water vapor
that moves a turbine causing mouth to incessantly chatter about
some reason to live
someone to grieve.

IIII.
My heart pounding opens my lungs,
the anger smashes open an adrenaline treasure chest.

I might never give up.

If I let go of these bricks of gold on my ankles,
I’ll be floating in space,
where the tedium of freedom rapes me of my
fear of a hungry shark (he then eats me, I die).
Nothing to solve.
Nothing to lose.
Nothing at all.
My body keeps me weighed down,
(Can’t disregard my heart remembering and my cunt craving)
to Earth and also brings
PROBLEMS.
PLEASURE.
EXCITEMENT FOR THE IMPOSSIBLE ENDEAVOR.

V-IX.

Some faceless ghost unwarrantedly replies,
and whether truth or fallacy you can judge with your own eyes:

X.
Don’t you get it yet, Jess?
If he acknowledged your existence in any way
it would cut you off from the
IMPOSSIBILITY OF THE ENDEAVOR,
the impossible would transform to potential,
everything would SHUT UP and slow down,
with possibility to move, but no movement
until something else made it move,
like trying to watch a flower grow.

Be patient.
Let it be.

12 November 2009

Kindling for the Flame

Mother, wrap me in a cool quilt patched of mostly Truth with some Lies, to keep me from freezing in the Arctic where we are all 10 cents per dozen and nothing is good or right or perfect, fighting and flying in circles, a leaking tarp to shield me from the Rain of God, the rain of my weeping eyes and soul, let me sleep forever to the sound of your beating heart.

I squeeze out oxytocin-rich tears to release the pain, stress, disappointment
from the billowing, relentless fire in my head.
How am I going to live in this world knowing what I know,
being who I am?
Whatever “Plan” they were talking about
won’t stitch its pattern on the cloth of my life.
They were all a bunch of liars
They told me that it would
(all they ever do is tell, say, proclaim on the slippery soap-Box).

I disassemble the premade pattern,
pull threads from the warm blanket of lies that they gave me
and see them disappear into the flames of the fire,
piece by piece, layer by layer,
disentangling myself from poorly tied knots,
find myself naked and freezing after they’re all burned up,
the fire has gone out,
looking for some quick fix,
warmth to stave off frostbite
and stop my lungs from crystallizing…
I must move to circulate my blood and produce heat…
I run.

No one is chasing me this Time.
Motivation dwindling as my weak muscles cramp up,
but I’ve gotta keep running as fast as I can through feet of snow, littered with the corpses that failed,
stars in black night are the light at the End.
…frantically, through tangled branches in the thicket, searching.
Searching blind for the Cabin of Henry David, but:
the Little Light Inside is now TeeVee,
and its new occupants expanded it with add-ons, a four-car garage
triumphantly proclaiming, “Progress!”

No one is going to Save Me now, I’ve got to Save Myself.

This was never for me: No Room of My Own in their blueprints.
Keep running,
releasing Dopamine and Seretonin and as I stop at the river to drink,
I see the reflection of another that isn’t me
and realize that no realization is going to
Save Me.

If I don’t want to die (which is up for debate),
I’ll start weaving
the strands of all the realizations,
twisted into threads, intricately
one at a time.
The warmth from This Quilt is all I’ll ever need,
gladly, because in the End,
I have no one but Me.

Lies and Liars

I’m going to give up this time. I think I found the…answer, or closure, or whatever I was waiting for. But every time I found it before, I wanted to pretend that it wasn’t what it was and wanted to pretend that I could somehow bargain my way to what I wanted: that love, that truth. The Truth might have been a really nihilistic one. Misery is all that is Real. Misery is life. Fuck you and your misery is life, life misery. Fuck you and all the times you said you loved me. All the words you SAY but fail to really ACT. Fucking lies. Lies, lies, lies. It’s all just a bunch of fucking lies. How do I let go of lies?
I started to believe them, the words.
I keep going back and forth, in my mind. Between trying to hold on and trying to let go.
I started to believe they were really coming from him when he was trying to tell me all along (through a lack of action) but I didn’t want to know and even now I don’t want to know, but this time I HAVE to know.
And the whole goddamn mess could have been avoided, but the sound of his voice sent me back there, to that place full of false hopes, giant trees that look real and smell real and then you go up and try to pick an apple and the whole façade falls and its 2-dimensionality is revealed.
Time has nothing else to do but pass. The only thing it is capable of doing is passing. And if this, me, human, mortal, limited in perspective and existence, is limited by time, bound up forever in the fact that I am going to die and that every single second is a second that will pass, then this will pass, my life is going to go by, and somehow I’ll be able to accept the truth.
But that knowledge only goes so far in my brain. It can only do so much to halt the fantasies. Fantasies don’t give a shit about any rational explanation for their death. Fantasies think they are God, they really think they can just manifest themselves, they really think they have a chance and that “Chance” (read: intuition, some divine ultimate prophecy) is the mechanism through which they will be lived.
It’s going to take some major Buddhism here to get these thoughts out of my brain. They lived dormant for years, growing all along without my knowledge of it, and just exploded like invasive species, sucking up all of the space where necessary thoughts lived. It’s going to take will-power.
The whole reason this is dragging on so goddamn long is the lack of directness. Just a bunch of causal little lies slipping through, nothing blatant or obvious or DIRECTED at me. I would kill (at least these thoughts) for just one direct statement of the truth, the obvious.
For so long, even now, I would do anything for love, for his love, to make him love me or to love at all. I did so much, tried to change who I am completely, to cover it up, “edit” it to suit what my distorted mind thought may have been his tastes.
I mean: I would have literally done ANYTHING. You name it, I’m there in a fucking heartbeat. And I mean, now, I would literally do ANYTHING. I see how flawed this is. It’s really fucked up. But it’s the truth. I really would.
There are at least 2 Selves living inside me and right now they are beating the crap out of eachother. I really hope that one of them gets a gun.
But, at the same time, I’m a fucking hypocrite. Because I would have done anything, but I obviously didn’t do enough, could never do enough, and I failed. I guess I did what I said I was going to do just about every time, but it still wasn’t enough.
I never was enough. Never will be enough. Could not possibly be satis. Let go.
When is it going to end? I know it’s going to end: Everything that lives dies.
I just don’t know how to kill it. All the resolutions, conclusions, epiphanies, trying, slowly killing myself, changes in thoughts, words, actions, rationalizing, promising (to myself, to him)….never end up leading to the ultimate death of this very fucked up attachment. I gave up some of the best things in my world, it’s all changing, I gave it up really for that ultimate Desire, all in vain, and now I will be alone because I am fucking stupid and should have never done it in the first place.
Maybe that’s when it ends. But I am skeptical.
At least Meatloaf had a limit. He would do anything for love, but he wouldn’t do that.
He’s fucking dead.
I can see how he got there. If I didn’t have a neatly rational Other Self, then I would be also.
Hopefully The End is soon.

Karma

The world is full of givers and takers. As animals, consumers, we are all really takers, but in society there is an emotional/spiritual give and take which all of us take part in by interacting with one another. No one is fully a giver or a taker. We all fall somewhere on the spectrum.

I listen to what people have to say, share what I have, and have provided emotional support for so many people. But, lately, it has come to my attention that it isn't helping me to give to people who never or rarely give back. It isn't about stuff; it's about the stuff of the mind. I may be a "giver", but like everyone else, I have needs.

By being there for people who really don't care about me as a person, I make myself a doormat, let others think that's okay, and only contribute to their self-centeredness. By being there for people who don't have anything to give back I let them suck out all of my energy and become a shrivelled skin of a once vibrant being, leaving nothing-- no happiness-- for myself. This stifles my growth, is distracting, is a waste of my time, fills me with negative energy (listening to anyone's emotional trash does that), and makes it impossible for me to make firm decisions in my life. I don't do what I want to do: I listen to tons of shit patiently and become uncomfortable.

So, I'm giving that up. The difficult part in such a resolution is that people EXPECT for me to be their emotional barf bag. FUCK THAT. I'm at a place in my life where I can reasonably deal with my own depression and anxiety, so I, for a few weeks now, can see through the clouds of emotional chaos.

I see an end to this shit in sight.

I may have to be harsh and brutally honest. I may have to be uncomfortable in being brutally honest, but what is this? Uncomfortable. Nauseating.

I am a person. Being a human person does not give me any entitlement to anything of this Earth. But at a more micro-level, on the level of people and the Hive, I'm no longer going to give of myself to those who don't see any value/importance in me as a sentient being, and who don't appreciate it, and who only have negativity to doll out (which is not really giving, but taking: my peace of mind) but nothing positive to give back.

Here comes Karma, and I won't stand in Her way.

Decision Day

D-Day. Decision Day.

I was writing in my journal today and I finally gained some clarity about my living situation. I have been struggling with the decision to A.) stay in Bloomington and get my own place, even though I have no friends or support system or B.) move back to Ft. Wayne and finish my degree at IPFW.
I came to the realization today that maybe the reason I don't have any friends and haven't been able to make any connections for a long time is that I need to focus on myself and on learning to be independent.
I moved in with Dan in October of 2007, during my first semester of school when I was 19. I have never lived alone, except for a couple months when I was sharing a house with a TV-addicted 47 year old and a couple of months when I was sharing a place with a materialistic, scared little boy (Thomas).

I need to live alone and I need to be alone. Moving back to Ft. Wayne would simply give me a network of people to depend on for acceptance and approval. I need to learn to accept and approve of myself. So, I'm going to stay in Bloomington. I decided to come here for some reason, and it will be a real action of self-trust to stick to that decision. It may be hard, but anything worth doing is hard.

I've made it through a lot of crazy shit in my life: through the chaos that was most of my childhood, through many sick relationships and friendships, through very intense depression, suicidal thoughts and desires that lasted sometimes months on end, through extreme feelings of social isolation and rejection, and through many, many decisions that compromised my integrity and the Truth.

So, I am strong and can make it through this and I think that I'll be a better, more well-adjusted, and comfortable person in the end. Maybe I'll even like it.

The Way Up

Sequel to The Way Out

You’ve chased your tail,

now you’re at a stalemate,

running down every dead-end corridor

psychotically beating on every door.

The only way out of this maze is

Up.

The blue, buzzing ceiling lights are unpromising,

so I must face the lies within myself and rise above them.

Gazing up, up into the heavens of my mind,

my eyes detach from my head.

These dreams of you are bricks on my ankles,

keep repeating,

but I never thought I’d let you defeat me.

You are just a part of me.

I’m still here.

I wake up suicidal with the dreamsicle sunrise,

though the light behind my eyes burns on

and compels me to live.

To live, I must overcome;

crawl out of the comfortable cocoon I’ve trapped myself in

and fly up, away.

I’ll still be me and I am the problem,

it’s no man, no city, not my mother, nor society—

I must transform my head,

stop choking myself to death.

Gazing up, up into the heavens of my mind,

my eyes and ears detach from my head,

no longer can I be led:

astray by the illusions I hear and see;

into the black, stormy ocean with bricks on my ankles—

I can’t swim.

I’ve gotta face that, stop following you or I’ll drown.

If I chain my ankles to the hollow ground

I’ll be dead and buried before I learn to live.

I tried giving this world all I had to give

and it smeared shit in my face,

I became a dog.

All it took was three words and an expression,

my life was undermined,

compromised as a building sinking into sandy soil,

should I throw fireballs back?

The only way out of this maze is

Up.

Gazing into the heavens of my mind,

my eyes, ears, and mouth detach from my head.

I inhale a crisp, autumnal breath,

remember:

each time in the past the leaves fell, Everything died, winter came,

and It was reborn.

05 September 2009

17 Aug 2009

All the world spread thin before me

is bleeding out of my anemic veins.

Everything you thought you took from me

turned out it kept me from pain.

She told me that you don’t have to be lonely when you’re alone,

you don’t have to be homesick when you’re not at home,

you don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be,

but when I see everything I took from me

all the world bleeding thin and bald

I don’t want to be anything at all.

I come round and back again to this thing I’ve learned:

when I look at you and when you look at me

everything else seems to disappear

all the lies, pain, and fear melt into your smile,

so disconnect a million miles.

There are miles and miles of vacant space

where I could belong,

but when I look at you and you smile and I smile back,

I know that it just couldn’t be wrong.

The Backs of My Eyelids

My cyclopean eye is clouded,
but if I could just be like Jack
and climb to the apex of a shrouded mountain,
only the burden of tin pots on my back,
my eye might see if I could be celibate from society,
its goals for my existence,
and opinions of how to live piously--
nearer consciousness?
I don't know.
A fast from mirrors and screens would do,
as I am so fake, dolled up,
hypocritical shrew.
I know damn well that I've sold myself
to the Bank, thus the Devil,
all around the lost and dishevled souls pull me so far way.
In them My Eye sees neither consciousness,
nor subsistence.
Keep digressing from this needed day,
and so I must accept penance.
Inside flies and flustered air bubbles press converging to benign tumors and minds, pounce and zag, the whole place sags and reeks of excuses, gusto gusts from here like air, transparent, disappears...
into pockets of thieves to their getaway Car, couldn't peeve a burning star of gassy combustion, they get high from the suction and seize the day away eye lids vacant nothing left, the soul inside his body bereft of any place to express itself, except for Space or Hell, down the Hole again (does it disappear?)
Then it reappeared...there. In your burningly vacant eyes I see and now don't see blue and electrifying, you think death by freak accident is mystifying, but what did you expect WHEN IT IS ABSOLUTE?
I suspect the solution won't ever come to be
and that this is the one True case where we lost energy.

26 July 2009

Kind of an experiment.

written 24 July 2009 just before sunset

I think of you ALWAYS and especially lately. It isn't 2 1/2 glasses of wine and a car ride in the back seat. I feel it all in my chest and abdomen-- anxiety.

2 more weeks til I see you. I want to hold you and cry and look deep into the river water of what never was and never will be and melt like ice into your beating heart. You act like you don't like anything nothing brings you pleaure, you can keep on pretending for the rest of your life, but let it be known here and now that I know that it's mutual and that you're anxious for it too.

I've done this before. Seems like every second of every day.

Never was and never will be but nevertheless special because it's lived in my heart for [how many?] years now and before that you were prince charming, my dream boy and after that and always my love for you is eternal (possibly self-mutilating, foolish, and to a degree unrequited).

You don't want anyone to make observations (permanent and with conviction) about you because you think you'll lose you you want to own you.

Thinking of you turns me into a star-- disconnected, dead, admired by billions, acknowledging none.

Everyday is hard not to think about the past
And I think about the day when it’s no longer part of me,
deep sleep of nothingness, no more attachment to it,
when it stops caring about me.

The sorrow is stubborn,
Caused by brain chemistry.

Synchronicities sometimes are the only way to remember that I am part of something that is bigger than all this
Remember: the last time all my hinges fell loose, and I spun and fucked the Universe until I was whole and no longer existed and I saw the Truth, no one else could see it or take it,
but the last time I thought I’d lost it—which was the goal-- the energy put in was lost in the reaction so the product almost matched the reactant,
I wanted the whole fucking compound to reform to something different.

Something inside of me grows,
I must have swallowed a seed.

The place deep inside the chest, right in the center, under the bone, electrocuting some organ
Is a violent heart attack manifesting itself, makes me breathe shallow.

Really
All the tears I could ever need to cry have been cried, but they keep surfacing—
Dry, invisible—
But the fish keeps floating at the top of the fishbowl and the bugs keep crawling inside of the window and the mirror on the wall is swept up daily and the weeds in the garden make my hands feel scaly (soft, her hands),

I would like to destroy with brute force the rhythmic Center of the pendulum.

Now I don’t have friends,
Because I fucked them all.
I have inanimate, unchanging snapshots of time: books,
my dirty whores, I in myself a gang of unending hungry rapists,
read once as quickly as possible,
discard,
rarely think about them,
move on.

I don’t want to die,
but the monotony is sucking me dry.

The Sun and all Time
took all the moisture from my eyes and I wonder how long it is until I’ll die,
sink back into nothing, not even nothingness, blank absence of consciousness,
unless It happens to be the compulsive astral need to Fuck,
like it was on Speed, in dreams. Not moving or still but stuck as a puppet.

The speed of seeds is very slow,
but if you let them,
they will grow.

They will likely birth more seeds,
in the end all plants will die.

The Serpent, My Self

Inner dilemma of sentient beings
is a product of the needs
of the plurality of voices:
The needs of one Self
undermined by needs of another.

Starved (tibi, for you) in my soul
your eye and the “good times”,
joyful reminiscence of sunshine,
followed by bowling ball cloud of coughing dust
& early onset heart attack.

Selves inside this onyx shell,
shed skin of snakes,
transposed on one another, dueling,
until fullness and adaptation can settle.
Selves want to remember
you, fat cat whining for more kibble.

Why must you meddle
in my Forest, my possession?
What you do most often,
is how you are.
What you think most often,
is who you are.
New voices in my head every day,

Drink deep the waters of the paradigm shift.
Voices funnier than any comedian on T.V.,
Writing poetry in matrices,
Art produced using scientific method,
Science on a Potter’s wheel,
Religion is the Forest,
in tact (not chopped down,
carved into a cross by a carpenter).

Deny government, politics, movements, activism:
I’m swallowing down the dust,
vomiting my own fecundity,
back at them,
who believe I can’t be a woman or a Free Spirit
without it,
the Flag Almighty, legal strawman, & children pouring out of my argumentative cunt,
one after another, single file.

All tied to nothing real or True, in perspective,
but selfish motives of Humans.
Busy as bees, but less beneficial to the whole.
Take and rape,excuse our Selves
from the Elephant in the room who demands answers & change.

Mammary glands reject the malicious intent
of Supposedly Supernatural
Christians performing Cuniligus on Mother Mary.
Et benedíctus frúctus véntris túi: Third Eye, Right Tit, Failed Heart,
all the while I’ve got 2 fingers sliding inside feeling the fleshy and flaky Self.

March-May 2009

Vocation by the River

I.
O thoughtless mind,
spit forth declarations from your limp, worn-out neurons,
and tales of imaginary lands where vapor seeps out of pores in the streets, remnants of a prolonged combustion,
coal-fired trains powered by mechanical shovellers.
Massage the data out of the Temporal Cock,
the number of possibilities varies
depending on how Blitzkreiged you feel & understand (then say) yourself to be.

My lips wrapped around
your cock
in mouth
fingers in hair.

If & Only If every vibration of this Space directly correlates (in equilibrium »» no energy is ever lost, only converted) to a vibration in the Spiritual Realm,

II.
O God, then the duality, bipolar magnetism is comical!
What is all this—
do we attribute more to “the gods”? more to the gods we think we are? -delusions, absurd, always regressing to randomness, or divine-orderly-structured
serving our(selves or gods).
We can never know truth, even if we think we can, truth is relative to what we feel & understand (then say) it to be, circular patterns,
discriminations tick marking an expanding Universe,
Conquer the Universe and so yourself,
The River of Contradictions flows freely in our Egos’ bodies.

III.
O thoughtless, the ghost inside corporal suit,
a layer of concentrated absolute bliss fed through feeding tubes,
concatenated to Universe,
Her golden power is the Source,
the suit’s disposition secondary to Desire of Spirit.
Breathed in, the cup was filled.
It took one breath.
I was once a fetal parasite, cells multiplying, whose choice was it?
My cells keep multiplying uncontrollably,
creating skin & blood,
the systems’ Thoughtless Mind
reaps creation & destruction,
(Is it my choice?)
symbolic knowledge in the nucleus of all cells
and braided into expanding, flattening universe.
Inside the tiniest building blocks,
chaos can be seen,
within them, recorded lightyears of rock & ash,
absent from the night time sky.
One reaction sets off a chain reaction,
birthing ambient pain we feel trapped in,
frozen in space & time,
clogging feeding tubes with hatred,
reactionary sadness, excuses
always caused by something else,
twisted around the key to existence
yet septillions of units away,
projections larger on the screen than
What Truly Is.

IIII.
O Reckless Desire to change it all,
but it’s hard to blame you
for doing what you knew was Right.
Investigate morality and see everything I once couldn’t see,
wonder if right now, looking back in However Long,
had I changed my mind or life?...
The Mind changed our choices,
The Bipolar sickness-magnet is absurd,
what is all this-
our consciousness expanding and smearing over
Earth, as bread, spread thin,
another layer crusted onto bloodstained panties,
peeling back the skin,
in the Bird’s Eye View, I see.
How trivial it was back then!
(What will I think in 50 years?)
All the strips of my different selves sliced long and thin,
bound together absolutely,
My cunt wants that throbbing violet vegetable.
My soul wants the world.
Detail-oriented, a papery glass doily,
tap on the ice and fall through to freezing water.
Or,
Eternal essence as forceful as an imaginary brick wall,
sucking faster than the Ideal Vacuum.

V.
O thoughtless universal mind, your choruses of sirens that have eternally demanded the question & quest that follows it:
Fear of rejection old enough to buy cigarettes in state of Indiana,
Tragedy, we cannot communicate via inaudible language like cats,
“I know the next thing I’m excited for,” says I, “& it ain’t now.”
An aura of fire asphyxiating me,
need out of this shell,
mind full of theories,
body a bag of sand,
soul exhausted,
clean hands.

February-March 2009

The Illusion of Intention

I.
Under fluorescent lights in the morning:
some “place”, some “point” “in” “time”---
why am I even here,
because what is the "I" that was written?
Is it a means, an end, a Void,
am I just a competition?
They aren’t talking to the spirit writing this,
they’re talking to my outer shell;
they think that’s me,
they think think think think think,
don’t know that I am a Void,
a future Buddha (“Jack” was “right” this “Time”).
II.
Who is really Right?
How do I not listen?
Is it better to listen (mock) INTENTly
Or to Realize that I am a Void, while
They’re acting
[ACTING! ACTING!]
As though I’m a sport, a ludus
Ludicrous means to their ends?

The Way Out

He’s still like back
fucking F. Scott, you’re
Zen and the Art.
You’re Zen
And he’s just fucking
the wind and the clouds.
Drunk, I’m so drunk
I want to try to remember,
(We teleport
to the past and to the future.
I remember every single time…
I’m inhibriated, feel this sense of
longing for a figure I’ve seen in this state.
The figure is the form of You.)
but my inhibitions are
still thick as
a swamp;
distractions.
Too many to shed, send
bleeding—the lining of my uterus is now.
I don’t know the moon phase,
haven’t seen the moon in days,
but somehow, beneath the hours
beaten into me,
I know it’s full, it’s new.
The brand,
grand newness
of an egg I found in a nest,
built of gravel, broken brick, and ash,
lightly upon a sand-castle of snow,
floating on ice.
I wanted to smash it open on the ice,
envisioning
all of my childhood traumas,
and all the Hell of Life.
But I knew
that thoughts are never the right thing
your intellect is wrong
and your instincts are wrong
and the only Way Out of this
maze is
Up:
to transcend
but not die.
I guard my eyes, while looking high Up into the sky--
On journey searching for The Truth,
I was somewhere on the way,
caged in a Venus Fly Trap
in the living power of the
throbbing violet things.
Somewhere… the tractor stopped
and I rolled out of the Stack of Hay,
rolled over a prairie of Sheep.
There was a Shepherd
looking into the attic window of a huge Victorian house,
broken down in San Francisco.
In the window He sees another window
of a pink Victorian doll house—
little home “less” Ragetty Annes and Andies
littered along the cracks of the floorboards—
with a colony of ants Living inside,
burrowing a well in the ground to their
supply of Hidden rubber Strings.
Their description
cannot say what I want to say,
and Their definitions
are even more vague:
Television rings in, I just need a
fucking moment of
Silence.
You go play in the bedroom,
slamming the door and
fucking around—
Where is the Center?
Where’ll I Live?
Their Boundaries are clouded,
this isn’t going to work out,
my first instinct is
TRY TO FIND A WAY OUT.

Strings, Boxes, Doors

I came upon the Oracle,
the android dream machine
out of one side
and in one side
in-through-out-unchanged.
The fragments of ideas
keep changing
perpetuating themselves into a sticky ball
that I can’t get rid of--I’m stuck in quicksand,
tracing shapes into Floam with my fingers,
shapes that will outlive me.
The Serpent Mound I’ve made,
you’ll see Not so cordially,
in accordance with some broken code
that didn’t work the first time
(won’t work this time).
Every day
I don’t write a thousand words
on the page, it’s empty
strings of words, beads
strung together
the cord(iality) holding them together
snaps
lashing back
to what where how it was Before Beads,
in Principio.
“I have this obsession with beginnings and ends.
Birth and death,
Overshadow life and decay,
Every second to die
To be reborn.”
We’ve spoken this monologue
Since the very beginning.
How could this be so linear, and how could I be so separate from here?
Where will we be if we keep going forward, turned around walking backwards?
(Not for the sake of rhetoric. Earnestly, how could there be an end?)
Through a tear in perception:
Om patterns of light
852
852
transferred, Om in the Center.
Down the Middle
of the Earth and Grounded
dissipating soul back into moths or feathers,
fairy dust, glittering specks
of light dissociate.
Where are they going?
What will they be, are they (and is there such a thing as) me?
The questions have always been more im porta nt than the answers.
Cradled spooning god, curled up into the fetal position,
eyes wide open, staring out curiously, earnestly
as a tabula rasa,
ramblings inside from the heart of Om.
What I do
Does not affirm “my” identity.
What is just as transitory as is,
and this ever was.
A millions specks welded together
to form my soul--
my identity can’t be something owned
by anyone.
Writing “my” only tells you which million specks
clustered together, over Time.
I don’t own my body,
the shell I am renting,
I can only affect
my actions, thought--Do I own them? Will I own them?
We think
(this matters so much).
We think, think, think
We’re looking and searching
for knives, daggers, patterns, similarities,
some way to divide the Whole Place up,
into neat little boxes;
searching for things
whose molecules are stubborn, stuffed together.
Where are the answers
that don’t matter
to the questions
that we Always wanted
Semper
Always
to be made Out of It.