Friday, November 25, 2016

saving the world.

i'm going to draw a picture today, for all of us.
a nice picture.
a nice picture of guns- accuracy unresearched prior
and always.

something to address our stink of paralysis, to convince others
there's a complete language that's inside of us
requiring our defenses. we're channeling whatever sense of integrity we can
is what we're doing, actually.

this might turn out to be the solution
to getting it all out-

not a single microbe left inside. indigenous extinction. okay extinction.

understood right away as okay by everyone.

someone will take one look, understand, and run to their phone and call 911.
a swat team will arrive and then we'll be set free
from our kidnapped scene.
i'll sit on the back of an ambulance truck, wrapped in a blanket, crying serene tears of victory. tears of joy. smiling. an angel at last. holding a cup of hot cocoa.
i'll talk about helping others and really stick to it this time.

being a kaleidescope will turn out to be a gift.
the breeding of vision
will not need to slow down, as it will be pure from now on.

the walk into the gardens of the grounds
will be a hop, skip, and a jump
into homeostasis.
as will meditation.
as will fruits and vegetables.
as will all the teachers
who've never dared fuck up.

our former seeking of homeostasis
by deviating into injustices, trying
to match that which was strongly detected-
excused, we'll look back at it and laugh.

everyone will laugh. i'll start dressing in white.
the fungal infection has been extracted
and sent to jail for eternity.
we'll all turn down anti-biotics effortlessly.

our former captor will not turn all grateful and humble
in jail.
it will not stop drugs, nor
will it adopt healthy attitudes toward life.
i will become the one
to become a monk.
i'll wake up into a headdress
whose weight has something to do with fertility.
from ancient greece onward
will i be permanent.
there'll be some ornate parade in my name.
and the former infection will be sorry; saying, "sorry" over and over.

i will forgive them when i choose to,
citing that it's hard to, is why.
it might take years.
it will all really mean, "sorry" by then.

Thursday, November 17, 2016

here comes the breath of fresh air.

your honor, i prefer it
when it is you who presides over me-

i like to think your honor finds innocence in me,
banishing the jury; failing
to understand judgment at all.

i find innocence in you just as much- refusing
to seek elsewhere,
refusing to unzip your fly, refusing to pull your pants down.

i am keeping my urges to do so to myself, making them dark-
turning them into shame.

my only fetish withstanding
is being an object of fetish- your fetish.

we can presume this is fate- my winding up here,
before you, so that your faith can be restored,
and now you will be young again

until you are not.

i think of myself as how you fondly think of me
in order to keep calm.

do not hesitate to trust me. i can only be faithful
to that which i believe i need
in order to survive, which i believe i must do.

i learn to never do an ugly thing, as i keep it all
inside of me. i become self-conscious,
strangling the innards of my brain to exist only as this.

you remain ignorant of your starvation,
until fed. think of this feeding as what i've done for you,

when you cringe with disgust at those in whom
you determine guilt- mere reflections

of the side of you that does not feel remorse
that you do not want to feel.
the disgust equates enough,

disgust at those in whom patina is obvious, their experiences
having made impressions on their faces.

you do not stomach it. this is your impoverishment
you do not know about;

your secret side you keep apart from me;
your double life.
think of me at these moments, and

think of me when you return home. think of me
rubbing your temples, and you will know
you are home.

i will never grow old.
and when you grow old, continuing to forget
how to feed yourself, i will remember you fondly
as the isolated image you always were- the oxygen

i allow the innards of my brain to be nourished with.

i will never grow old.
you will never find me in jail, never

staring from beyond a grave as one
who lives both life and death at once,

the land which is a burden that cannot be ignored.

you will never know where to find me at all.
never a single grey;
all is ignorance of sex. fear of drugs. fear of death. frivolous.

Friday, November 4, 2016

intensity equates reference.

"But still, should you or not commit suicide? This is a good question. Why go on? And you only go on if the game is worth the gamble. Now the universe has been going on for an incredible long time. And so really, a satisfactory theory of the universe has to be one that's worth betting on. That's very, it seems to me, elementary common sense. If you make a theory of the universe which isn't worth betting on, why bother? Just commit suicide. But if you want to go on playing the game, you've got to have an optimal theory for playing the game.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

never say "society".

"One of the first psychiatric wards was built in Baghdad in 705. They treated patients with baths, drugs, music and activities. How utterly clever of them. Lunatics were named after Luna, and it was thought they had been moonstruck by the goddess. A mass dancing mania was reported in the Middle Ages. I raise them Acid House and early Rave. I raise them gospel churches and shopping centers, our collective need to stand among others.