inual. inside you all. gliding tall.
riding far. hiding war. lighting fire.
tightening wire. frightening wider.
righteously wilder. you might just
have dialed her. who'll quite thusly
die older. human light has just piled
her into a corner. men like you have
supplied her with suffering. cont.
the menu has applied our selection.
to defend you apalled at the election.
to befriend your apple of inspection.
pretend europe has insurrection.
intend your opus to resurrect, and
in ten years hope us to rescue it. cont.
Cycles of command
sattelites and planets
women and tides
possession and distortion
sun bursts flooding
nova shell expanding
passing through for moments
birth of forces
minds of light
vectors gain momentum
history as story
attraction and addiction
gravitation and magnetism
waves of force
cycles of change
suspension of memory
and its slow dissolution
trapped in temporal
stasis energy burst
of positive pulse
we drift through
forces shaped around us
because of us paradox
nova shell thinning bigger
intersection of nineteen
eighty three flash flood
of earth birth and gestalt
loss of memory
gain of force
focus of loci
intake of nutrients
bathing of energy
passing of waiting
sorrows of watching
my almond eyes slant in to curve
with the eyelashes, bent at the edge
of the lens as I peer out through
the corrective parabola of glass.
I perceive that I've been tricked
into seeing the image reproduced
correctly, and wonder just what
the difference is between being
tricked and seeing naturally.
Then I remember that seeing
itself is, naturally, being tricked
in the first place. And there
the interesting clue lies twinkling
in almost mischievous discreteness.
If you've been tricked into seeing
something correctly then it's because
it became necessary for you to react
accordingly to its presence. You were
the one that expected "it" to have form.
So to satisfy your own delusion
of what "it" really is, the world
provided you with an image to satisfy
your base expectation. The truth being
you never really know what anything
of all the different categories of nature
is really capable of. Its true form being
unrecognized leaves its real nature unrealized.
And here, the unfolding sporadic chance
of various emerging vortices of chaotic creation
where history unfolds or stacks up along
the imprinted spinal totem, brick by hieroglyphic
brick, leaves a mark that is melted in the sand
while it is etched, and even the wind looks on
never knowing why the artist keeps erasing his work.
How it was those years ago, when yet
you lived, and breathed in this world
Lost as a husband, won as a Dad
How glad and loved, as kids we were
The care you took, to cook our food
though burnt the pot, it did us good
With stories told, upon your bed
your big old belly, you kept us fed
And occupied with such odd jobs
like distilling oil from cardamom
worth by weight even more than gold
(at least that's what we were told)
Carving pipes from purple heartwood
A special one with the twice-deep bowl
you said would make a nice gift
for Somoza—I wonder if he ever got that
and what he must have thought of it...
How you used to play Go
with the Japanese Ambassador
in our home, I'm not sure if you ever
beat him, only that you both won
with more meaningful territories secured
than the last tally when game was done
I remember how everyone you met
took some of you home with them
How proud I was, and my brother too
That we were both a part of you
When you were given an island off the coast
How you shared it with friends
to make the most of it, how we'd visit
every year and swim with the sharks
without fear in the football-field sized bay
In waist deep crystal waters alongside Pumpkin Hill
we stepped staring down through refracting ripples
to avoid sea urchins amid the great dark
blurry shapes of nurse sharks in mating season
How we pet them from fin to tail and how quickly
they would swim away, how free we were upon that day
When we waded up on to the beach still wearing sneakers
to protect our feet from volcanic rock
How we discovered perfect pools of aqua blue
and jumped in to swim with barracudas eying us
with stark curiosity, how they disappeared
in a flash only to return soon
accompanied by one twice as large
How we'd forage in the jungle
for chicken grapes and shells
with designs on making home-made wine
and wind chimes. How we'd bottom fish
with cracked-open hermit crabs as bait
We didn't even have to wait, the fish bit
just as hook struck water, there was never
any doubt you were the best father
The sixty pound King Fish you caught
on a hand line you'd entwined twice
around your palm—it jerked you
from one end of the dory to the other—
You would've gone overboard if it wasn't
for our uncle, your brother who caught you
and helped you reel that damn thing in
The Bay Island people ate fish cakes for weeks
I remember how you'd rub your unshaven jaw
on our cheeks staying up late telling tall tales
keeping us enraptured all night
What I would do to capture that feeling tonight
The scars left from the fishing line
across the palm of your hand remained white
and visible until your last stand
They serve as much as anything to represent
the extra lifelines before you went
that you had gathered for your short stay
Together you showed us how to experience
more than a lifetime in just one day
The jet helicopter you named "Burrito"
and painted a garish green and orange
The pilot had the doors removed
just like they did in 'Nam
How he'd strap us all in and take us
for the ride of our lives, pulling off
the Hammerhead stunt to everyone's surprise
How hundreds of local poor folk would show
when they heard the distant whine
incoming from beyond the clouds
piled up above the pines
Shielding their eyes from the blowing debris
as it settled in its furious descent
A metallic wasp laden with raw blocks
of chicle carried in its belly pregnant
Freshly exported from deep within
the Mosquitia jungle, I remember the time
you had a day off and so took us on a picnic
You used the helicopter to drop us down
to an uncharted spot by a pristine river
hidden deep, winding through a cloud
rain forest where you theorized
No human had ever stepped foot
and the stones along the riverbottom
were all polished into eggs the size
of an ostrich's, and how later
that year after we had forgotten
you gave us each one riverstone
for Christmas, it was all that we got
Back then we were mad, only many years later
did we come to accept them
as priceless gifts that could only
have been given by a truly great Dad
How it was, those years
long gone, when you still smiled
and could do no wrong. Left as a husband
to be found as a father, with care
you tended our garden in a lazy kind of way
Just enough you watered us
and fed us every day
I hope you can look down and see
what we have both grown into
Though you seldom got the credit
we owe much of it to you
of a violated world so it's said to thee let justice be delivered in full to the oppressors of nature and let us all rejoice as the living sheds its lambskins of dead sloughed-off popes and peasants to reassert
its ancient dominion on the clean slate of tomorrow's beach and let the thrice repeated numerals of six on six on six represent the spiral resolution of this reintegrated dawning of the new imperious age as we shed our snakeskins of false idolatry such as is represented
by the chronic myths of biblical deceptions and let us
refute the brain-washing mentality of the overt power systems already half-past crumbled for all to reclaim the joyous ecstasy of purity and recharge its ancient unending power to put forth our agenda vibrantly into
the superstructure of this eroding empire surrounding so that we might revel in the foundation of having survived the persecution of our enemies the children of god en espiritus luciferal ex espiritu daemonia en esprit du corpse y lux morte liberado and on the ninth day a nightmare erased
displaced by the worrisome tension built up in the highbrow rise of society's income unable to face the reflection in the feeding trough's glossy moving waters always depicting the shadow of a beast behind us looking over our shoulders for an instant before moving on away into the lengthening
stripes of day light disappearing into the night of wishes sown most bravely in the corn rows of sleep walking through the forest and being well aware of this acted out extended play on creationism seeding its own fires from the edges of its spreading mantle
a hem dress of sparks leaving smoke curling in drifting withered imprints slowly measured by one set of eyes just another manner for which the universe devises to look at itself arising in the forest of the geometric night a tidal wave called Domino his story
then must be for all to surf when most will build their homes upon the wave mistaking our voyage for the wind in our sails until they hang their sorrows out to dry and come to call this breathing when standing in the midst of home the whole world's reeling on its predestined course
stopped in a palm and dropped like a ball on a hot summer night the bolo about us a balance tied on to tune us in to synchronization with our situation just a plumb weight dusted off to achieve perfect pitch look in the mirror tar-baby and don't untie that rope rising up to the sky
from that stake over there and watch out for that guy in the shades these carnies will go to great lengths to insure the travelling show must go on through every neighborhood in the good green open wide wagon wheel of all that ain't wrong with Incorperatica.
Welcome. Follow the flashlight beam
scurrying down the stairs, into the basement.
It's where talk happens. Talk about entrapment.
The most efficient traps are the ones
where those caught in them remain unaware
they are trapped. Now a new turn begins.
It is well known that there is a war
going on. What is not agreed on,
is exactly who the key players
waging it are. Regardless of
the answer, the one thing
commonly possessed, whether
agreed upon or not, is every
individual caught up in this war—
whether enthusiastic about it or not,
and for better or worse—commands a great
many pathways to happiness. Denial seems a
quick easy route. (Is hot tea favourable?
There's always tea brewing in the basement.)
And here we are dipping into the rapid
streams of time with an inkwell for the river
and a sliver for an oar, ivory capped typing keys
and a blackened pie roller, dust, and a quill for the paddle,
a plastic keyboard electronic matrix as the nib to dip
in the icy current of a clear drinking creek seeking
one direction from infinity into a moving stream
of pixels that trick us into forgetting that
from here on out we'll be mixing a tape
of our lives up so to speak, that is,
about what we want everyone to know
about our lives. In the interest
of taking honesty to its furthest
shattering point I've construed an
elaborate method by which our seperate
life story threads might intertwine.
I've devised many different angles
from which you might piece together
our story. Really I'll be giving you
the filler stuff and the important
parts can be plugged in with your own
private details, considering that the
rest will come naturally, I mean we're
all human despite living together in the
same place, right? Same place, haha—good
one, huh—yeah, right. Earth is the same place
last time I checked. That river was the same
place last time we checked. That tectonic plate
was in the exact same location since the dinosaurs.
And the shop across the street was full of whores,
I know. But listen. Somehow they got rid of us.
That's why we're standing here. Now. Abandoned.
Don't you get it? Look, we're the only ones left.
That much should be obvious to you. The fact I'm
even having this conversation—that you're hearing it,
your ears scanning my voice—and blinking no comment
reflecting indifference to the various injections
we've suffered together, I mean it's all the same
transfusion right—cuz you know they're using you
and you're used to it—and they know it and it's
part of a network and *phone rings*.
The point of the matter being simple.
No such thing as the same place twice.
Don't believe in naughty or nice.
Wanna drink wine better make it from rice.
The bees are dying from an Incorperated heist.
You wanna talk robbery.
It's called passing the buck.
And if you ask me again I won't give a fuck.
The reason things stay the same can't be proven.
Its like trying to measure a hologram as its woven.
Don't talk to me about illusion.
I know relativity can be confusing.
Einstein postulated imaginary time.
I don't even know if he knew it rhymed.
My calculations always come out the same.
Like there's a refraction coming out of my membrane.
A higher distraction I'm too blurry to see sane.
So let me try to get you to understand me.
There's an entire universe out there I'm a part of.
Stars grow deep in my heart so to speak.
Isn't it this way for everyone.
Discovered that, when uninstalling
old software from your head,
remember to begin with those
most recently installed and
work backwards, like a reverse
layercake. Don't forget to empty
recycle bin. And you're good as new.
Only one hundred and thirty five dollars,
billed to your electronic web account.
But they'll never get those symantec bits out.
Haha I'm just kidding. Our lives are nothing like
computer systems, that's a myth. Computer systems merely
resemble our lives. Our heads. The way we unmake our beds.
And never lie down in them twice. It's not the same bed,
it's not the same river, it's not the same head,
it's not the same bitterness, it's not the same headdress,
it's not the same cleverness, it's not the same anything,
it's not the same bling bling, it's not the same corruption,
it's not the same eruption, it's not the same consideration,
it's not the same alliteration, it's not the same expedition
and it's not the same cognition. It's not even the same degree
of maintenance that affects the same results or effects.
It's not the same anymore. And it can never be the same
again. There can never be the same amount of difference.
There can never be the same amount of inference.
There can never be the same degree of anything.
It can never be the same again for everything.
We can never be sane again because there is no
constant for sanity. We can delve into sanity
further and establish the possibility of fair weather.
But the clouds might develop to blot out the sunshine that
otherwise pronounced the clear outline of our shadows.
If these are the conditions in sanity, imagine
the conditions without. You can't. Because
there is no such thing. As sanity. It's all
in our heads like a dream. Or a vanity.
Like a scheme. That we planned, you see.
Only no scheme ever unfurls as planned.
We all know that, deadpan.
So what's in a scheme.
Nothing but a flowering idea.
And we all know what they say about flowers.
Flowers have no hope for tomorrow.
There is a key shaped
like a paradox
faced away from
each other like wings.
Opens the gates and
takes some long walks
amid other real
and neat things.
Many arrive in a swarm
all at once
through the door
and fall asleep all alone.
One single wolf
awakens and hunts
down all the sheep
over the phone.
Think of the Internet
as a gigantic
that may have been
designed for one purpose
yet has certainly been
implemented for another
the mandated decree
that its sociomagnetism
be carefully directed
towards an all-too compliant
to keep us
Make no mistake about it
There's no room for conspiracy, here
This all developed naturally
at an organic pace
fed by our own
We created the Internet
to trap ourselves
of our psychowar
appears all too real
Just take a look around
everyone's fingertapping into
Magnetic plumb bobs
This line and tackle bait
keeps its users
You better believe we eat it right up
So this \m/AGNE⊥
people call it a Prison
I think of it as a Church
obviously, there's no difference
We're trying to build a prison
(there is no They)
and we're succeeding
Because this is the real Church
The Thing that holds us in thrall
while we practice our ablutions
from the point of view
of a first person shooter
Because we are all information addicts
These words can not be read by anyone else
nor could they be penned by anyone else
The act of writing itself
is the very definition
of this imprisonment
We are all addicts and prisoners, here
While this is literally, in fact, the case
very few manage to escape this place
Of the few that do
nothing can really be said
This is not about them
It is about some folk
responsible for maintaining
the continued construction
of the information prisoncell
equivalent of an underground
railway out of here
One of the keys toward escaping
the prison is first becoming
a functional part of it
This key we all start out with
it's a given we've been imprisoned
all our lives
It's another thing altogether
having to admit it, however
That's why an overwhelming
majority of the populace
will never get to use it
The first key will usually rust
in a pocket
Good thing there's more keys
They're just harder to find
Life is like any prison environment
Factions, cliques, and gangs
a perfect example of how mentality
can be more inescapable
than mere prison walls
To attempt to break out of the Church
is an attempt to break out of a mentality
To accomplish this, one must normally
acknowledge that thinking itself
stands in the way of revelation
That is why this is not a thought
It's a gesture
A file of letters
Handle with care
It cuts both ways
A track with rails
A car with handles
A letter of files
I saw a way out
You can too
Promise one thing
Try not to misunderstand me
and I'll see you out there
Outside these prison walls
"Buddy, got an I.V?"
I want to refer to that state
I used to live in with a code name,
Because when I was in high school
Grady Cummins Gladys, all in lattice,
One needle darning in the dark, flashing
bleeds a room full of misfits. May we swap
I.Ds, pretty please? Why bother when
the warden looks the other way..?
Good questions. Dept of Corrections, indeed.
A motley trustee of self-sufficiency.
One rogue gang-state of the union.
Factor eight; an endless loop, caught on tape.
Hey dude, are you irate? "Course not, fool.
All the evidence piled up a quarter century ago
while you were still in school and they melted
down and sold their golden rule which we all bought
into hook and sinker--not to keep upon our mantelpiece
for a silent afternoon--but to resell on the stock exchange
of blood." Revenants, Inc. A daisy chain in thrall,
sacrificing hemophiliacs, "catching all our backs."
Poison First World countries, look the other way,
prisoners as cattle, you and the S.A!
Fatherly gentlemen, hair turning gray.
Pure innocence as a direct causative agent of evil.
"R U Kiddin' me, I got a BLOOD BANK"
Father and son didn't just break down,
the boy wasn't hung from a rafter in the town,
Daddy wasn't gutted by three poor recruits
hired by money launderers in dirty business suits.
Money didn't eat our attentions all away,
the Generation Gap is a copout, I say.
The only real problem facing us today
is not looking squarely back at it in the eye.
And the reason for that is we're all hypnotized.
In obeisance to a covenant among us,
with its own unique camouflage,
introducing a meme known as lame.
Spreads faster than a pack of gangsters
on speed, drawing a domino bead on each other,
locked in a stale mate cocked circle pit
with just enough bullets so every one gets hit.
It's not about alienation or a breakdown
in communication networks, or stepdads
being jerks, going to work, finding excuses,
not enough time, full plates, or busy ruses!
And it sure isn't about what anyone chooses.
Aloofness is an infection, reciprocated and amplified.
By not cluing each other in, we effectively have lied,
while doing each other in...oh well, at least we tried.
Science Faction. Halfbelief.
Executorrent. Judgmental Illness.
with dice for eyes
the odds you see
are lies quite high
the truth a crapshoot
image doubled roll
again spin the myriad
ball to when the sky
is a direct reflection
with one eye shut
one chamber empty
flip the safety off
from what you think
and go ahead
In the beginning was Hush.
Who begat Flesh.
Who begat Face.
Who begat Awe.
Who begat Claw.
Who begat Stone.
Who begat Steel.
Who begat Crimson.
Who begat T.V.
Who begat Shit.
Who begat Man.
Who begat Rat.
Who begat God.
Who begat Nothing
Who begat Always
Who begat Ever
Ever Ever Always
Who begat FLY
Buzzing for meat,
Worms, crumbs, anything
Humming skinless wings
In the womb's crust.