the Tower of Brahma - twentyseven - nudeerection (edit)

08/26/04

I run from the setting son and head to the East, seeking enlightenment from dawn. But it is dusk and crashing all around me is the day's possibilities. The cold vacuum of night is ensnaring me in the promise of union. They sleep soundlessly, resting and interacting in the astral chat rooms of symbolic imagery. Mathematical equations running psychological storytelling through pop culture lenses. Novel lives.

Life is fun when you're remaining detached and aloof, riding along, absorbing the rollercoaster simulated sensations and channeling them into concentrated fiction. A story about how exciting life can be as you unravel your identity, strip away your self, expose yourself naked and raw and reeling before the cold hard stare of the frightened masses.

But life is discomfort, upsetness, awkwardness all spinning in a mad Shiva ballet. Collisions of ourselves against the others in our lives, bumper car disasters pushing us off in a new direction.

Run and hide behind broken sentence structures, grammatical shrapnel, and a vocabulary enmeshed in babbling incoherency. A false promise of exposed obscurity, hidden in the fog of poetic phrases, I am naked and shivering. I hope these words can save me.

I'm thinking about suicide again for the first time in two years and I have come face to face with the life that exists above and beyond these words. Who do you call when you're sitting alone, more alone than ever? What friend or family member do you call? Who will deliver to you your salvation from this pain that is called living?

I daydreamed longingly of my funeral as a teen. Wiped out of existence forever leaving behind a dead body in the ground. People gathered around in a much too late show of support, with murmurs of regret passed among them. What could they have done? Why did he do this? Would any of them try to see into my life and get to know me? And would they let me know if what they found was worth keeping here?

Fantastic images of self-obsessed, morbid, decadence adrift in the possibility of some deeper connection with someone, anyone, even posthumously. Why do I need to deny them my presence to get their attention? What do I need that their mere presence can't give me? Why aren't their words enough? Selfish, egotistic self-termination can not be the only answer to my longing for a soul deep connection.

Endymion dreaming eternally, seeking respite and the continual hum of divine lucidity. What is this poet's longing that aches deep within me? What true love can fill this hole, so profoundly unfathomable it defies explanation and exorcism? A tumor of need, desire, and longing grows at the bottom of my soul. I seek relief at every oasis of consciousness, stumbling mad and dry through mirage after mirage.

My cross is blazing behind me in the distance. Ahead is a fortified structure jutting out from the sands of space/time. A private building standing indignantly alone amid the wasteland. The X of my genetic map points to this Oedipus Complex.

I sit outside the doors for years, my skin growing thick as layers of dead skin push their way to the surface. I've waited so long that I have forgotten if I ever even knocked in the first place.

I know I visited the many small huts and shacks along the way. Paying my stay with the labor I gave. Empty priestesses cuff me down to the bed frame, begging to be loved. Loved? A mission, a quest for love is where I began this journey, crossing the landscape delivering lessons of vulnerable opposition.

I don't know love, nor life, nor anything at all. I have learned the mechanics of our search, seen the revealed puppetry of falsity and obsessive need. Psychological leeches seeking comfortable symbiotic life. Where is the spirit and beauty of love everlasting?