Friday, September 4, 2015

gloomy sunday.

i won't let you get away. i expect you. here i am, my
window is open. it is the window facing the east.
there is the sun rising.

not malignant, not suffering... reverberating only
within. quiet. not beautiful. not ugly. happens

to be there.

i also have another window. it is the

window facing the west. after i am finished watching
the sun rise, i will wait at the window

facing the west
for the sun to set. it is not malignant. it is not
suffering. yet it is my blood to lick.

it could be i have gone blind; gone mad. i must be sure
every day

a resolution is promised, and that the promise works
itself out.

there is only one answer for the poor. revolution
is not it.

i know i sure don't want
any trouble. trouble?
it is sugar that rises toward the sky, without boundaries
inconsiderate of what space it has to rise
in the first place. it does not argue against this.

it doesn't argue against anything. it prefers to not do
anything at all.

it does not have meaning. it gave its meaning

to the first boy it slept with. that boy
gave its meaning back to him, except

it was malignant. the meaning spread. then, it gave up
on itself. meaning gave up on itself

because it was klutzy in its relationship
with itself. meaning.

the want of trouble
becomes clear- it contradicts the world, which is bleak. wanting

is not revolutionary until it gets its point across, admittedly
embracing that it does not care

about its point really, but about having a role.
it does not know what to say about this role in question,

so it reacts to other roles.
it makes things happen. look at the loud noises.

look at the fighting.
people are dying...they are white, black, syrian, and other things.

"you know," i think my way toward other people, hoping
for a telepathic connection (how i long for

telepathic communications), "someone once died fighting."

after that person, many more
people died fighting, sprouting from the father. since this

narrative has yet to finish, they're all famous

now that they're all dead. the people
still use them- they're legacies.

dying

is a pattern. it's hard to admit when you're caught
in a pattern, that you're that way

everyone else is. admitting our patterns
is admitting our robotic origins. these origins began

about one hundred years from now. adam and eve went back
in time. fruit amazed them. it wasn't metallic.

it's not their fault they were amazed by fruit and
otherwise bored. they were used

to stuff happening whenever they wanted, and experiencing
the sensations that occur in effect

to stuff happening whenever. they were stuck in their patterns;
set in their ways.

patterns

control us until we pop out of them, born. that is when we are
babies again. time doesn't exist anymore; doesn't coat us,
lubricate us.

patterns have a good side too, though. patterns are an art.

everything is. it makes patterns and other things
seem romantic.

we have no choice sometimes
but to rely on identity as a crutch. one identity

becomes another identity. hopefully, the coming identity
will be a safer one. either way, it is telling.
this is a pattern. i think patterns

are really really beautiful.

beauty

remains in the eye no matter what, interacting
within the fantasy. it's sick of me that i find patterns

to be beautiful. isn't it. isn't it. it's

unable to fade. isn't it. the world has already

answered itself (it was the day my human passion turned me

into the moon- so i watched from this distance)
and has become the ownership of these
answers. it was an echo. mountains needed to be formed

this day, stat, in order for the answers

to be remembered. echos

were the only way for this to be. the world

answered itself and reminded itself it knew, but
that it must remember.
if it were to forget, the world will collapse

in on itself. so, it echos.

everyone
can hear the world keeping up with its pattern. our relation to this
is what keeps us level, somehow. our reaction to the relation

is a secret. we hide it behind shame and guilt
and stuff- the real self, that is, which is reality
without gloss all over it.

the real self is left
to the unconscious mind, and the dealers

of weird, uncomfortable, secret information within.
it wanders there. it is all alone.

it is lonely. it wants to cry. i cry sometimes. i feel better sometimes
when i cry. sometimes i feel embarrassed when i cry.
sometimes i think i'm stupid for cry. boys don't cry. girls don't cry.

crying is a sign of weakness. emotions are weak.
i've cried lots over this

because i'm really emotional.
mists formed because of my crying. i felt bad. so i gave the mists

an enchanting story....they are clouds
that formed to make mountains appear mystical.

if you see them, you become a monk, or some other
child of god. you convert.

everything fades
but these claws digging in the hills, and the claws of yourself,
digging into the enchantment

only a child of god can behold. being a child of god

is the only lucky suit one could wear. the only thing you ache for

is a single point in the sky. it's a long-fingered
floating. i am a child of god, too- in my own right.

i sit at my window facing the east
until i sit at my window facing the west. there are plants

at either window. all of the plants

are mostly dead. they're so dry that when i water them, the water
slips through the moss, wood chips, and soil. the water

destroys the flooring below.

i don't water the plants often. i'm preoccupied keeping an eye out for the sun rising.
i make sure it sets.
i do not sleep.

it's a long-fingered floating.

one day, my real fingers
got caught in the steel door (it's the door to my bathroom).

i needed to go back to the window immediately- the one

facing the east. i was desperate and panicky. so i slammed the door
on my fingers as much as i could,

in order to lose them. it was messy. it seemed morbid. however,
human fingers regenerate. they do this

so we can escape from predators. i do not worry about predators much
because of the steel door. my old fingers continued

to lay where they landed for some time, until they become ghosts
and floated upward.

in my dreams, which i do
continue to experience, they had meaning. they looked like

billie holiday songs. billie holiday songs in which
she is very obviously high on heroin. her voice becomes lame.

she remains sad deep down inside. it's obvious a lot of people
are in denial about the potency of their sadness. billie holiday

is no exception. when she comes down from her highs,
her sadnesses comes back
in a rapture. she leans over toilet seats

hoping to throw up. she drinks a lot of coffee, too, and
hopes to shit. she dislikes this process. she finds it

repulsive. so she gets high again
instead of withdrawing from heroin. she knows she is kidding herself

but laughs it off.

she knows getting high is fruitless in the long-term. she
considers the long-term very distant, like herself,

so she doesn't respect the long-term very much.

it lacks equivalence to the short-term. billie holiday
dies cuffed and high. she ran out of

the ability to reason. she didn't care. she probably became
quite unlikable.
billie holiday became lame.

the long-fingered waves are the ghosts of billie holiday songs.
they speak in trances. they speak on fresh snow, being surrounded

by conifers. they inhale fresh air. i learn i wasn't breathing
before. i am now a bird.

the sky is filled with them. i am now filled with them, too.

i am meditating.
i am watching my experience.

the experience has a difficult time behaving. it feels
intruded on by malignant tumors. it knows

how to learn about pain. it doesn't know how to
make up for it. it is hard for the experience to accept

it is under attack. it is hard for most people to accept

that the brain is subject to being attacked
by itself. i cannot describe

it in words. it's sort of a jungle, but not an exotic one. it's sort of a war. it's
shadowy, and it comes with

eel-shocks.
there are eels is why. the eels are in the bathtub. the bathtub
is in the bathroom, where there is only a bathtub in it.

i piss and shit and bathe in it. i feel uncomfortable
going in there, as if this bathroom is not mine. nevertheless,

it is mine. there is a window in this bathroom, but it seems skeletal.
it is mostly just the frame.
the glass is shattered. sharp fragments of shattered glass remain.

they aren't easy to mold into. they are not easy to see past.
shattered glass puts me at risk for hurting myself,

incidentally or not. i don't want to hurt myself. i just think
it's what i'm supposed to do. i made myself

be this way is why.
i can't see the sun from this window. i can only see apartment
buildings, and their many windows. i don't want them

to know i am here. i don't want to know what they
say about me. i don't want to accidentally hear

what they think of me. although,
i want to know they are there. i want to see their laundry lines.

i do not want to see the laundry lines move.
i don't care about my bathroom being dirty....no, not
as far as i know. i don't care about the sharp and scary window.

i'm comfortable with it. in this bathroom is
the reflection

of how i feel about myself. it is my reality. i've imposed it

on myself. reality is a function. a function

is superimposed across autonomy. autonomy
does not have a range. this probably scares us deep down.

we are not parasitic enough. we like to have parasites
become themselves inside of ourselves.

that is where revolutions belong. that is where
revolutions start.

i was once convinced the world and i would abandon

itself for a collision into another world, another
form. it would be a world with a catastrophic, although

beautiful form. having a beautiful form means
matching

movement. looking like movement
how movements are intended. i do not know

that i cannot stand doing
so well. i tell myself i must do better, or else i should die. it is
because i am uncomfortable with doing my absolute best.

i am really good at doing my absolute best. i am not always
convinced i am not always doing my absolute best.

deep down, i know. i want to be scattered about something.
but being scattered about success is really confusing.

heaven is here. so is finality. look past the claws

on the hills, and your own. everything else is here too.