The tower of brahma - 27 - pt. FIVE

09/13/04

The discordians favor my change by providing me the randomly generated combinations of 2 & 3. My entire life vacuum sucks itself into a 5x10 storage singularity, designated number 32. The Freemasons are taking me in with welcoming Orwellian arms.

Illuminated conspiracy of thought space, ideas too big and ancient to die. Lumbering masses of cancerous belief systems slither and grumble across the liquid planet. Flowing to high points of saturated strength, these reversed rivers of backed up dysfunction blacken the heights of humanity's aspiration.

From the roof of the building I can see the city's profile. Satisfyingly smooth and vivid, with the picturesque surround of the finest set design. The eye aligns with the calculated positioning of its architecture.

Sidewinder jetfighter dogfighting yelp into the yawning cosmos of the city night. Silly stoned seeking safe passage across the sidewalk skies. Piloting on reflexes and failed training pod crashes, somehow you know the universe will carry you through this. Faith of the divine flows through you as access to the infinite possibilities of tomorrow shines bright in your eyes.

Like Pluto spinning wild and loose, distinct in my own planetary orbit around the solar center of the party, I am the lone wolf launching echo coyote calls into the still night air. The primal placenta lowers itself upon me and I burst through. Painted stars on a dayglow daydream, the world is reborn before my eyes as I witness the exchange of terror and birthing symbology. Trickster ghouls and goblins of grotesque decend and drop among us. Celestial birthed madmen and women stomping out a tribal dance of our spirit. Submission to the beat, the sweaty swaggering and hands rubbing across your body reminding you of what life is all about.

The savage alterego mirrored and reversed through my center beats wildly at the constricting forces and wriggles its way into my primal heart. Jungle jive jangling and dangling and wrangling my mind into the wave of visceral viscosity. Primate chest slam, rhythm of the slamming shoes, head bobbing to the crowd's sync. Set ablaze by the forgoing of intellect and entrance to sensation.

Beacons of light thrust upwards, a spotlight looking for god and reason and purpose and prayer. Illuminating instead the debris caught swirling in the path of the twin beams of radiant hope. We raise our glasses high and toast the search for meaning and survival in the face of adversity.

Good times.