Sunday, December 18, 2016

a dream of eating shit.

sticky film, a gas problem- even
a gas leak

fungus excretion

protesting any more
small hints at rejection, which mean

nothing and
are too small for interpretation, until the day
you wake up, and
molecular studies are your only friends.

no known cause for the slow thought.

swallowing semen- plainly
following narrative, is all- nothing so innocuous
as following assigned protocol
of asceticism
among asceticisms, many who literally
dig their bones
into the top of one's head- "i am

your spiritual teacher," they remind you; 
"i am god choosing you.
"i am
preparing you for your fate

of exposing as many discrepancies
of the heavens
as you can sleep on.
"yes, it's totally going to be lonely.
"

etc., it's time

to be as asleep as possible; make substance
of shadow
to become repulsed
by shadow. vision quest

for those infected by parasites, us
breeding grounds. major depressive
disorder. recurrent. ongoing.

that upward cast light
from far below
making the sky feel bad- source
of the storms-

young suns dying young
after winter passes, when it's no longer normal

to be the poster child of defeat
and all the masks that once were
have been given away

so there's no soul left, either. just so you know.

we are the same wild boar
until suddenly, we are not- spring

bursts from the ground. i watch you
make way to the
horizon

fooling around with others and shit.

i remain where i am, repeating, "life or death, isn't this?
life or death
life or death.
"

the pinnacle of poignant
as reviving imagination
past romanticism is out of the question.

i've lost patience waiting for it to be okay
to try
a seance for the living. i'm picking
my skin off again, looking

to becoming a parasite myself.

pure white.

the hypnosis starts
once a gun is fired into the open sky

doves in a panic leave their nests. the birds that are pure white.
this is a place
nobody has been to before.

a series

of rhythmic currents introduce themselves
to one another, evading me.

a seduction distances
after unexpectedly
spilling its guts

into the center of vision
where it meets god who says yes to everything.

punch between the eyes.
good old punch between
the eyes. whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

cartoon stars result
more than anything
you're not supposed to need to learn about

stuff whose knowledge you don't know what to do with except say you love life. it will count one day.

the dream i've been assigned to call
has no name
so i say anything. producing heat.
my iceberg drifts in the northern oceans with me stacey on it. here we are being together, heading toward

my only child, heaven, who is also hell,
resentful of being named,

as it was their bared hands who'd molded me from mineral
and fat of the earth. i am what i am made of. the sum of all evil is a safe guess.
to fight against it
is to lose touch.

in my lap many feathers i didn't notice had gathered.
this is a place nobody has been to before.

Friday, December 16, 2016

power politics.

"[...]once you've seen it, keeping quiet, saying nothing, becomes as political an act as speaking out. there is no innocence. either way, you're accountable.
"

Thursday, December 15, 2016

predator's cowardice.

that gate
giant old gate

remains open forever. ready
for everyone. embracing.
anyone can handle these vibrations

if they'd let themselves.

crossing over
requires only little tokens-

keep up
with what's going on in the world, for
instance. don't

you care about that?

this is the father, the
great duty

i'm referring to. mr. easy-peasy.
if you can't be cavalier

than that's your ignorance
you're mishandling,

and you've got a lot of learning to do

as soon as you stop suiciding.
bad life as per
bad karma- you've offended

atman, duh. this is your fault.

typical human. selfish.
no ancestry; absence of youth

on our hands. ne'er do well. had a chance, and denied it.
shithead from hell. the ancient dead.

giant stomach and little mouth.

we must work our way up, says
king kong of the tribe. prison mentality.
all "let's sell drugs," or whatever.

worms until
we are worms lined up, in it

for dirt and the sounds we make
under the earth

until the beak meets us

and that's what you get, for turning
the grandmother
into a body of antigens. for missing the forest

for the trees.
there are no secrets left. oh,

how transparent our negligence is; does seem to be
the root of it all

wouldn't you agree
that a good example of this would be

how we give our shit away
to anyone

that doesn't resemble ourselves
but always is us exactly
at the end

of every fucking day?

yes, how endearing, our desperate plea
considering
we've robbed ourselves
for ourselves-

the intimacy is all thrown off,
pornography omnipresent;

permenantly fried
from miseducation of dimensionality

and
if there's any true bareness left
then that's a glimmer of hope
we ought to surrender

to the good people-

the owls

very old souls

threats
to that which seems evil in ourselves (though
is only naive)

that only we
reject.

and if we surrender
just this once
than the good people will forgive us

and
we can all start over again
start from scratch-

wouldn't that be nice
at least considering

how nice we'd consider ourselves
and how we'd feel all rewarded
which matters

considering how obsessed with rewards
we are?

it would be the logical thing
to do, anyway

considering
what we give is worth
how much it saves us

as we equate worth
to our being saved

for half a second.

how quiet the voice is without this crying
for help. never
have i known silence so well

now that i abuse it, so
afraid of it. practically asking for
the swoop of the owl

to ambush me.

and soul is now a feather, a keepsake
of a betrayed dream

that really ought to cross over
is the point i meant to make

not that i'm an authority
on the subject.

Monday, December 12, 2016

hear me, mistress.

i embrace
dormancy today. called by shadow

to silence. wisdom
doesn't need a voice, don't

we all know. fire

takes my eyes
to see
for its cruel longing

what it can gather. in return,

i'm given protection
of its shortcomings
when liberation

is a foreign dream, foreign
as in
never known it before; maybe

read of it in stories.

i face the west of the sky, waiting
for the sun

to drop- a weapon of wind,

like myself, though i

am one joined
with weapon

of earth- a stray web, haunted

by spider, whose love
walks its fate toward

my barely wiggling, narrow
vacancy; toward

the vibrations i send
from my limited
struggle

who calls
to entertain.
my will floats away- a ghost

to become within those foreign dreams, maybe.

be they the devils.
the poverty of the nation.
of a dying childs.
a neglected houseplant.
an animal being prepared

for sacrificing, slaughter, extinction.
be the image
i have not yet embraced feeling yet.

atman, hear this.
may my suffering be made clear.
my degenerations
have been repurposed

for the greater good;
upkeeping
the essence of fertility.
giving

as to show devotion.

stars of the dirt. stories, millions
of the trees.

at times, i did my best.
may

the next life be spared
from a black fate, from
a replication of its former.

hear me, without
flattery, and

without execution.
hear me address you

as an equal.

it is now
that the sky
is a calm place. cloud

wrapping around my body. white forest.
freedom introduces itself

at strange times.