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.