Saturday, December 26, 2015

the free country.

the future, today, is an infernal grey-out. jesus is plotting somewhere, thoroughly through his old grey eyes. this all has something to do with flat tires. the future has something to do with a threat of dishonor. inevitably, one hobbles.

i'm not counting on much change right now (not the kind of change i expect, anyway). it's status quo to numb out. to numb out is to make one’s self indestructible.
i. continents regaining unison after breaking apart.
i was born on an island- my bedroom- filled with stuffed animals. that chandelier that was here for most of my life was still there. i swung from the chandelier to the neck of a giraffe, delicately spinning a one point, i kill to get a net to hang in the corner of my bedroom, one of those to gather stuffed animals in. it disappoints me. it's not how i expected it to be. it bores me. somehow, i believe, it has to do with me making mistakes.
nude in the jungle, i find myself swinging from vine to vine among enormous green leaves. the world is moving as fast as the clouds. i'm flat and uncolored. i have two beady eyes. but shamans visit me left and right.this has something to do with jumping from extremes to extremes, it'd later be translated into. possibly also with spiders. also, i'm either being chased by clarity or keeping myself in motion in order to preserve what clarity i do have.the jungle is alive, we all know. it is without time, without memory. my focus is so bent toward one thing- that next vine- that i don't know about anything else except superficially at most. this means my intelligence is wasting.
i extent my long arms for long enough a time toward the effect of literally starving.
ii. first world problems.
i search for the american dream. all i can really think of is norman rockwell paintings, how they're not really my thing. there's something that seems fake about them; transparent. i give a teacher an essay about this, how this is what is meant when people use the words “the american dream”. afterward, i stop searching- not because i failed my essay, but because i can't find anything else to do. i don’t know that there are walls everywhere blocking my view.once i viewed things without faces. now my face has been taken away, too.
nobody sees each other.
iii. drop your weapons.
choosing to wake up now, because i don't want to wet myself. that's a hassle. instead, i experience what's called a psychogenic seizure, the same stuff vincent van gogh was subjected to. i see finely cut tiny gems falling and shimmering toward my face, blinding me wherever the light hits them, and a guy rolling his eyes at me behind them. me doing things happens all the time. these are consequences of breaking boundaries i have, for punishing parts of myself.i look outside my window. it is the screen of a television set. dreams sell, but you never get them back again. pcp sells. stuff from hollywood sells, methamphetamine and sludge sell. the internet sells. people used to value secrecy. now we wish for voyeurs, we wish to be watched. yes. the internet sells more than anything.
i hate this funeral.
everyone is still alive, slowly moving, but alive, and yes, it does make a big difference. hair grows on these bodies, on my body, more than i'd expected. it's silver fairy tale hair. the rejection of society is silver fairy tale hair. there's only so much society the body can take before we reject it.society looks like what we've made up our minds about. stop signs. the rejection looks like what we see in one another. i see god now that i know so. these broken tears of god are what the dirt is unable to sop.i cradle my thanksgivings in my arms... i was into them when i bought them. i remember liking them in the moment. we have to vow to the moment- is there more than the moment? i remember the rush of buying stuff, the anxiety, the fear that i might not have the money for it. the view of myself from the security cameras.i take off my clothes because i don't need these. i might not need the grass under my feet but i sure as heck appreciate it. people of earth, make up your minds about what your belongings are, and whatever they are, take off your clothes no matter what. i'm about to see myself in you is why. every last one of you must undress in order for this to happen.
everything i have learned could be used in war, or if i were to find myself faced with a bull who was just held in captivity in a dark shit-hole for a week with his balls tied- i'd know how to run for my life. all other knowledge i reject, or fold into a tiny square and forget where i've put it.
i am this bull. sometimes i imagine myself in the dark space, going crazy in it for a week, not knowing anything about where i am. i feel this softness, this sensitivity that's going to leave my body if i have a say.
iv. domestic chores.
i have no choice but to work toward embracing an interpretation of reality, somehow, as hell is too expensive. it's been exhausting.from now on i spend my time judging the past- an empty scream; a hollywood-manufactured purpose. a purpose that will never be shared with me.
without worshiping music we're left to face the parts of us that we don't want to exist. we have to escape into the music.
v. i never pray. but i believe when i'm close to death i will pray.

let's hit the road. let's find ourselves able to walk around our neighborhoods as we're listening to music.