11/02/04
"Rocking it out, and taking it in, I scour the city searching for the power and mystery of the chaotic moment. That random coincidence beating back the stifling categorization of structured simplicity. Where will this mad city of beauty and balance lead me?
To Jesus costumes and veggie dogs and everywhere between. Creation sings out on the open streets and celebration beckons from the parks. The air is colder but their hearts are warmer, toasting beside the warmth of myriad bliss and eternal communion. All things are won. The battle has long been over. Spread the word, the gospel of peace, love, and understanding."
"Mocking hellish fright, madness born of spite and ego. Gore dripping fangs of ferocity, gouging out the jugular of society's bloated body. Searing sensations, flickering flames in the darkness of my solitary torment. I can't know, I can no longer tell myself to remain calm.
I am infected with humanity and it poisons my mind. Inclined to stalk and purge and disembowel the darkest of mankind. Two guns in two hands firing a barrage of bullets through the zombie zealots shuffling down the streets. Chainsaw slash slicing limbs, shoutgun blasts decimating torsos, rendering them inanimate once more."
"My god!" she exclaimed. "How long have you been drying your spine?"
I wish I could have responded but since she was a formless female voice I felt it was unnecessary. Not to mention the fact that I felt wild and out of control, piloting a human-mech with animated wreckless abandon.
The rats are coming and surging forward towards me. One by one they creep and scurry.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
The Tower of Brahma - Chapter 30 - getting old
10/18/04
Spider walks over to Fenris, who sits lounging on the couch. Waiting room rock sifts from the speakers as Fenris scratches his beard thoughtfully. Spider slides out the chair and sits backwards, bored stiff splashed across his face.
"So what's the haps?" Spider sighed.
"Same old. Introspection and amazement at the dazzling spectacle of life changing events." Fenris groaned.
"Kind of a one trick pony, eh? Where's the fun and excitement?"
Fenris thought for a moment before replying, "He's off doing his own thing. Lots of Red Bull and vodka nights, and long days of celebrity photo polishing. Too busy to deal with us now that he's gotten what he was looking for."
"That fucker." Spider could barely muster the intensity to squash a bug.
The pair sat there for long days and nights, glaring at the patterns and designs of random dots upon the wall. These dots seemed to connect and words began to form. Physical objects began to break down into raw concepts. What was once sheet rock, paint and plaster became merely a wall, then the idea of a wall, then the mere word. Wall.
Barrier, obstruction, support structure. A montage mosaic of literary thesaurus-esque concepts soon stood before them. Their waning interest in their own existence was slowly being infected with surging power. They knew what to do instinctually.
Spider tied back his hair in a samurai style smirking grin. Fenris straightened his tie and fixed the cuffs of his suit. One swift kick spilled the words to the floor, now just a splash of letters and half-recalled slices of verbiage. Black hole swirls spinning cylindrically into the eternal beyond.
"Nice." Spider stared into the great unknown and felt the blood rush up from his legs, coursing its way through his entire body.
Fenris took one last look at the holding cell he was about to leave behind. A glorious facsimile of life that sat somehow between moments like a bubble adrift in the seas of time and space. Now that they had burst a hole it began to spread.
"Too late to think about consequences my friend."
Fenris was wearing what he thought was the perfect outfit, Tarantino tough guy disheveled black suit, now rumpled and ready to rumble. He looked over at Spider who was wild eyed and tensed and filled to the brim with action scenes ready to tear free from his limber frame.
"Let's kick some ass."
And with that they leapt forward.
Spider walks over to Fenris, who sits lounging on the couch. Waiting room rock sifts from the speakers as Fenris scratches his beard thoughtfully. Spider slides out the chair and sits backwards, bored stiff splashed across his face.
"So what's the haps?" Spider sighed.
"Same old. Introspection and amazement at the dazzling spectacle of life changing events." Fenris groaned.
"Kind of a one trick pony, eh? Where's the fun and excitement?"
Fenris thought for a moment before replying, "He's off doing his own thing. Lots of Red Bull and vodka nights, and long days of celebrity photo polishing. Too busy to deal with us now that he's gotten what he was looking for."
"That fucker." Spider could barely muster the intensity to squash a bug.
The pair sat there for long days and nights, glaring at the patterns and designs of random dots upon the wall. These dots seemed to connect and words began to form. Physical objects began to break down into raw concepts. What was once sheet rock, paint and plaster became merely a wall, then the idea of a wall, then the mere word. Wall.
Barrier, obstruction, support structure. A montage mosaic of literary thesaurus-esque concepts soon stood before them. Their waning interest in their own existence was slowly being infected with surging power. They knew what to do instinctually.
Spider tied back his hair in a samurai style smirking grin. Fenris straightened his tie and fixed the cuffs of his suit. One swift kick spilled the words to the floor, now just a splash of letters and half-recalled slices of verbiage. Black hole swirls spinning cylindrically into the eternal beyond.
"Nice." Spider stared into the great unknown and felt the blood rush up from his legs, coursing its way through his entire body.
Fenris took one last look at the holding cell he was about to leave behind. A glorious facsimile of life that sat somehow between moments like a bubble adrift in the seas of time and space. Now that they had burst a hole it began to spread.
"Too late to think about consequences my friend."
Fenris was wearing what he thought was the perfect outfit, Tarantino tough guy disheveled black suit, now rumpled and ready to rumble. He looked over at Spider who was wild eyed and tensed and filled to the brim with action scenes ready to tear free from his limber frame.
"Let's kick some ass."
And with that they leapt forward.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Tower of Brahma - Twenty-Nine - Dead Gods
10/13/04
The story opens and all that existed before was mere backstory setting up the situation that exists at this very moment.
I awoke scratching my beard. The bed seemed familiar yet completely new. Transposed from one situation to another I found myself and my memory immersed in a new life. Sketchy details float on back to me through alcohol induced moments of blissful, eternal oblivion. No thoughts or feelings rising except those that are necessary to keep me standing. The dulled senses help when I leave the bed.
Outside the cave where I entered this new world lies a city. A sprawling metropolis that seems to be a controlled experiment in the derangement of the senses. Experiences here are made every minute. Polished off and passed out on every street corner. I'm making my way down Delancey and the sun is punishing my eyeballs. Characters come and pass me by, screaming loud their silent insecurities and desires. My innate insight into the human being seems to be jarred and not fully functional yet.
Then I remember why. Beer, shots, wine, and liquor have split and separated what was merged and then put it back together into one incohesive whole. This new me was the pendragon, the bearded explorer of this foreign land. The submerged me was the calculating fighter, the action hero waiting to burst.
I'm staring in my new work bathroom mirror, a replacement for the one where I once stood and became inspired to write about that person I saw on the other side. I'm looking at the man I see before me and wonder how I got here. But I know. Somehow.
Fine tuning the celebrity machine, processing the transactions of the fame bounty hunters. They steal a snippet of a person's visage to sell to the highest bidder and I clean up the kill, polish it, and send it off to the masses to consume, dream, inspect, and scrutinize. Killing celebs one snapshot at a time.
Flowing from my frontal lobe, extended invisibly across the table of 7A where we are about to be served brunch. God's searing flame reflects off the wall of yawning yellow void across the street. The conversations seem far and distant and sadly cynical and depraved. Animal totems charge up those around me and then I hear the ideas come forth, creeping soundlessly, then strike without mercy nor warning.
We are all fragments of dead gods, living out the fragmented battles of ages and aeons. Mixed and matched, distilled from ancient ancestors and blood that comes from the center of the world.
The story opens and all that existed before was mere backstory setting up the situation that exists at this very moment.
I awoke scratching my beard. The bed seemed familiar yet completely new. Transposed from one situation to another I found myself and my memory immersed in a new life. Sketchy details float on back to me through alcohol induced moments of blissful, eternal oblivion. No thoughts or feelings rising except those that are necessary to keep me standing. The dulled senses help when I leave the bed.
Outside the cave where I entered this new world lies a city. A sprawling metropolis that seems to be a controlled experiment in the derangement of the senses. Experiences here are made every minute. Polished off and passed out on every street corner. I'm making my way down Delancey and the sun is punishing my eyeballs. Characters come and pass me by, screaming loud their silent insecurities and desires. My innate insight into the human being seems to be jarred and not fully functional yet.
Then I remember why. Beer, shots, wine, and liquor have split and separated what was merged and then put it back together into one incohesive whole. This new me was the pendragon, the bearded explorer of this foreign land. The submerged me was the calculating fighter, the action hero waiting to burst.
I'm staring in my new work bathroom mirror, a replacement for the one where I once stood and became inspired to write about that person I saw on the other side. I'm looking at the man I see before me and wonder how I got here. But I know. Somehow.
Fine tuning the celebrity machine, processing the transactions of the fame bounty hunters. They steal a snippet of a person's visage to sell to the highest bidder and I clean up the kill, polish it, and send it off to the masses to consume, dream, inspect, and scrutinize. Killing celebs one snapshot at a time.
Flowing from my frontal lobe, extended invisibly across the table of 7A where we are about to be served brunch. God's searing flame reflects off the wall of yawning yellow void across the street. The conversations seem far and distant and sadly cynical and depraved. Animal totems charge up those around me and then I hear the ideas come forth, creeping soundlessly, then strike without mercy nor warning.
We are all fragments of dead gods, living out the fragmented battles of ages and aeons. Mixed and matched, distilled from ancient ancestors and blood that comes from the center of the world.
Monday, June 8, 2009
The Tower of Brahma - 28 - we're all the main character
09/23/04
Everything is different.
Where am I? Who am I? How did I get here? My eyes open for what seems like the first time and I see the world lies before me, open and blossoming wild.
In the dark my naked sensitivity cries alone.
I am a writer. Writing down the words of my life as they click out the drama. Alternating thumbs slamming letter after letter, casting the spell. I'm walking down the cold New York City streets and putting something down onto my handheld portable device. Digitally drawing the chalk outline of my former self. That crying monstrosity, whining and misaligning my life.
He is gone forever.
I'm twenty eight years old now. My next stage falls from the tree of life, and I'm loving that freefall plunge to the ground. I started writing a book and then the story became my life. I have seemingly tapped into some positive force that is guiding me towards some amazing adventure. The lines between fiction and reality have blurred a bit, and now it seems as if I truly am the main character. My story has just started and like a stone skipping across calm waters, segments and situations play out with the dramatic resonance of perfected life.
The lights dim just for us as incidentals blink out of existence. She has guided me into this life, reminded me that I am at the controls, and inspired me to plot this mad journey across time and space. I stare into her auburn eyes and see the divine infinite that lies between us. Although I can't fully see it, I sense this void between us is composed of layers upon layers of story. A mosaic collage of personality pasted up, each fragment a puzzle piece given to us by those we have and those we had in our lives.
I used to feel sad about this space, sitting in this dark alone, these walls and barriers preventing the sublime merging of our souls. But my intentions were wrong, my perceptions skewed. They're decorations, accessories, costumes, and yes, occasionally walls, damming the flow of turbulent and tumultuous change. We're all fragile inside this singing white light.
I walk tall these days. Upright and confident, looking people in the eyes and not turning away. The mad poet has birthed the king deep within me.
Everything is different.
Where am I? Who am I? How did I get here? My eyes open for what seems like the first time and I see the world lies before me, open and blossoming wild.
In the dark my naked sensitivity cries alone.
I am a writer. Writing down the words of my life as they click out the drama. Alternating thumbs slamming letter after letter, casting the spell. I'm walking down the cold New York City streets and putting something down onto my handheld portable device. Digitally drawing the chalk outline of my former self. That crying monstrosity, whining and misaligning my life.
He is gone forever.
I'm twenty eight years old now. My next stage falls from the tree of life, and I'm loving that freefall plunge to the ground. I started writing a book and then the story became my life. I have seemingly tapped into some positive force that is guiding me towards some amazing adventure. The lines between fiction and reality have blurred a bit, and now it seems as if I truly am the main character. My story has just started and like a stone skipping across calm waters, segments and situations play out with the dramatic resonance of perfected life.
The lights dim just for us as incidentals blink out of existence. She has guided me into this life, reminded me that I am at the controls, and inspired me to plot this mad journey across time and space. I stare into her auburn eyes and see the divine infinite that lies between us. Although I can't fully see it, I sense this void between us is composed of layers upon layers of story. A mosaic collage of personality pasted up, each fragment a puzzle piece given to us by those we have and those we had in our lives.
I used to feel sad about this space, sitting in this dark alone, these walls and barriers preventing the sublime merging of our souls. But my intentions were wrong, my perceptions skewed. They're decorations, accessories, costumes, and yes, occasionally walls, damming the flow of turbulent and tumultuous change. We're all fragile inside this singing white light.
I walk tall these days. Upright and confident, looking people in the eyes and not turning away. The mad poet has birthed the king deep within me.
Monday, June 1, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, May 25, 2009
the Tower of Brahma - twentyseven - Part 4 - White Triangles
09/08/04
Gut wrenches and heaves out the pain. Droplets of liquid nostalgia run down my cheeks as the exhumed pain bursts forth and escapes into the ether. Opposing viewpoints invade my core self, and flip the switch. The light is born into my heart, and I have won. I have made it to the other side.
Oppressed by tyrannical self-sacrifice, seemingly self inflicted, but knowing now that I had been controlled all along.
Spider sat in the driver's seat spinning the steering wheel with a madman's fervor. Fenris lies bleeding in the back seat, clutching at the pain, grasping at his insides. "I'm not going to make it..."
"Do you want to make it?" Spider calmly turned to address me as the car spun crazily across the landscape with a blue-screened intensity.
"Yes." Fenris choked up between bubbles of blood.
"Then let go and look down."
I looked down at my stomach and saw that the gore was gone. Not only gone, but taken away completely as if it were never there at all. I felt lighter all of a sudden and felt euphoria work its way up my body, cell by cell, nerve by nerve. Electric fire dance of my soul.
The car explodes and I'm left sitting in the middle of the street, cobblestones pressing into my flesh. I stand and wobble, finding my legs. Still drunk and stumbling from the numbing intoxication of my mind. Step after step I walk towards my fall. I see it on the horizon. Time collapses and I am suddenly wavering on the edge of oblivion. Waving hands and flailing arms, internal gyroscope flux towards a tippy toe drop. Then the push.
A firm hand shoves me forward and the momentum spins my built up revolutions and forges the fire in my insides. Revved up and roaring, I feel supercharged tenacity singing through my veins. Pounding, pulsating, power erupting beneath my skin and with a flexing of my arms the wall shatters to splinters.
My other arm lashes out and the far wall is atomized in a telepathic sunburst. Arms crossed, muscles tensed, I slam my hands down to the ground and the remaining fragments of the prison I built for myself crumbles to pieces.
I am naked. Alone in white nothingness. The void reflecting back the sheen of my self. The pure and utter love I have kept from myself. A beautiful and splendid man standing firm and tall. Lines and wrinkles come and burrow into me as I wipe away the boyhood haunts and etch out the spirit of man.
Spider and Fenris extend themselves outward, creating a unified being. Trinity divination, mythic mysticism, and the blade comes smoothly from the rock.
Gut wrenches and heaves out the pain. Droplets of liquid nostalgia run down my cheeks as the exhumed pain bursts forth and escapes into the ether. Opposing viewpoints invade my core self, and flip the switch. The light is born into my heart, and I have won. I have made it to the other side.
Oppressed by tyrannical self-sacrifice, seemingly self inflicted, but knowing now that I had been controlled all along.
Spider sat in the driver's seat spinning the steering wheel with a madman's fervor. Fenris lies bleeding in the back seat, clutching at the pain, grasping at his insides. "I'm not going to make it..."
"Do you want to make it?" Spider calmly turned to address me as the car spun crazily across the landscape with a blue-screened intensity.
"Yes." Fenris choked up between bubbles of blood.
"Then let go and look down."
I looked down at my stomach and saw that the gore was gone. Not only gone, but taken away completely as if it were never there at all. I felt lighter all of a sudden and felt euphoria work its way up my body, cell by cell, nerve by nerve. Electric fire dance of my soul.
The car explodes and I'm left sitting in the middle of the street, cobblestones pressing into my flesh. I stand and wobble, finding my legs. Still drunk and stumbling from the numbing intoxication of my mind. Step after step I walk towards my fall. I see it on the horizon. Time collapses and I am suddenly wavering on the edge of oblivion. Waving hands and flailing arms, internal gyroscope flux towards a tippy toe drop. Then the push.
A firm hand shoves me forward and the momentum spins my built up revolutions and forges the fire in my insides. Revved up and roaring, I feel supercharged tenacity singing through my veins. Pounding, pulsating, power erupting beneath my skin and with a flexing of my arms the wall shatters to splinters.
My other arm lashes out and the far wall is atomized in a telepathic sunburst. Arms crossed, muscles tensed, I slam my hands down to the ground and the remaining fragments of the prison I built for myself crumbles to pieces.
I am naked. Alone in white nothingness. The void reflecting back the sheen of my self. The pure and utter love I have kept from myself. A beautiful and splendid man standing firm and tall. Lines and wrinkles come and burrow into me as I wipe away the boyhood haunts and etch out the spirit of man.
Spider and Fenris extend themselves outward, creating a unified being. Trinity divination, mythic mysticism, and the blade comes smoothly from the rock.
Monday, May 18, 2009
the Tower of Brahma - Chapter 27.3 - Son and the Moon
09/01/04
Submerged. Exhale. Inhalation of manhood filling my lungs, gripping my chest with a firm man's hand. Breathing is labored and exhausting. These turbulent times are beating the soft parts out of me. Forging firm and stern from weakness and shame.
I bask in the mirror of lunar delicacy, driven to a point of singular unthought. My mind is still and ripples only occasionally, but lies quiet and calm under the moon's cold, marble touch. Moonlit massage sends shivers down my spine and I am whole.
I begin to slip and fall from its grip and I flounder about flailing, reaching for something to cling to. But the cold moon defies me, its warmth and glow the mirrored brilliance of the obstructed sun. It cares not for me or my woes, or me at all. It is a rock in the sky, spinning like clockwork, spinning on until our final days.
Lunar fantasies come crashing back down to the dirt. Firm soil, rich and ripe for growth of something from the smallest of nothing. A seed planted will produce something that serves a purpose in this world of practical necessities.
The light of the moon still reigns down upon me, but I do not regret my fall from its splendor. Instead I cherish my brief moments wrapped in her arms, when it had transcended the reality of science and became myth just long enough for me to feel the ancient female flow.
Leaving her is hard, but I feel firm and stout. I feel chiseled and cold. Stuck in funk and the mire of an unquiet mind. I please myself through her, not feeling my own intense emotions but rather escaping into her pulses of exstacy. Feeding off her intense submission to the power I wield, I grow stronger and more alive.
What do I want? To cast the light and warm the world? Doing what I can to deliver unto the masses long summer days basking in my warm glow. The earth trims my light and paints the moon as part of our dance. From full to new, from new to full, our hide and seek games with our carousel hearts.
I can never own the moon, nor would I want to. She is splendor and beauty, basking and coming alive under the son's loving gaze. To capture her is to deny her that which makes her so appealing, her independent death and rebirth.
What would the sun want? Is it simply there to provide and burn on alone in the dark void of the unknown cosmos? Where is its purpose and desires? Buried deep within its swirling gasses and supernova heat lies something that we will never see, but something we will never be without.
Submerged. Exhale. Inhalation of manhood filling my lungs, gripping my chest with a firm man's hand. Breathing is labored and exhausting. These turbulent times are beating the soft parts out of me. Forging firm and stern from weakness and shame.
I bask in the mirror of lunar delicacy, driven to a point of singular unthought. My mind is still and ripples only occasionally, but lies quiet and calm under the moon's cold, marble touch. Moonlit massage sends shivers down my spine and I am whole.
I begin to slip and fall from its grip and I flounder about flailing, reaching for something to cling to. But the cold moon defies me, its warmth and glow the mirrored brilliance of the obstructed sun. It cares not for me or my woes, or me at all. It is a rock in the sky, spinning like clockwork, spinning on until our final days.
Lunar fantasies come crashing back down to the dirt. Firm soil, rich and ripe for growth of something from the smallest of nothing. A seed planted will produce something that serves a purpose in this world of practical necessities.
The light of the moon still reigns down upon me, but I do not regret my fall from its splendor. Instead I cherish my brief moments wrapped in her arms, when it had transcended the reality of science and became myth just long enough for me to feel the ancient female flow.
Leaving her is hard, but I feel firm and stout. I feel chiseled and cold. Stuck in funk and the mire of an unquiet mind. I please myself through her, not feeling my own intense emotions but rather escaping into her pulses of exstacy. Feeding off her intense submission to the power I wield, I grow stronger and more alive.
What do I want? To cast the light and warm the world? Doing what I can to deliver unto the masses long summer days basking in my warm glow. The earth trims my light and paints the moon as part of our dance. From full to new, from new to full, our hide and seek games with our carousel hearts.
I can never own the moon, nor would I want to. She is splendor and beauty, basking and coming alive under the son's loving gaze. To capture her is to deny her that which makes her so appealing, her independent death and rebirth.
What would the sun want? Is it simply there to provide and burn on alone in the dark void of the unknown cosmos? Where is its purpose and desires? Buried deep within its swirling gasses and supernova heat lies something that we will never see, but something we will never be without.
Monday, May 11, 2009
the Tower of Brahma - twentysevenpoint2 - For all my feelings I'm heartless
09/04/04
I sit back and take a long look at the screen in front of me. Digitized and dazzling, I have become embedded into a carved language sculpture. Suddenly chapters had appeared in place of my pain. Months had passed and life continued without me. I immediately spun around to share my newfound fiction with those in my life to find they were gone, evaporated by time's passage.
I stepped outside and ghost town blues whispered through the lonely suburban streets. I walked on towards my future and the world dissolved into a nostalgic mist. Lines of homes all cut from the same cloth, row after row of variations on a theme. Similarly different in living out the same story. Every house a different fragment of psyche. A fractal reproduction of the replicating viral lifestyle. It is among these plastic castles that I see that awareness is selling out, taking comfort for safety and the joy of being part of the machine.
Disillusionment.
Apocalyptic details strewn about the land. Laughing fools celebrate the sad sickness of their souls. Accept the pain, love the disease, praise the decay. Fantastic ignorant fantasies. Fucking lies in a shot glass, swallowed down hard like a bitter bitch. Wallowing winters succumb my sweltering humid summers, and I am again devoured by my own silly daydreams.
Enough of these dry, single revelations tossed back, bellied up at the bar. Frightening fictions breed like fractals fornicating on the hot, sweaty streets. I am alone and dignified in my manhood. Responsible and empowered, alone and terrified.
Women swarm to cover and protect in self serving manners, but I will not submit to charms and spells of a duplicitous nature. I hate the vulnerable beast I show to you, shamed and born of gallant grotesque.
How do you know how to be a man in the land of selfish adult children? How can I walk among the inferior that I put upon a pedestal, afraid to be exposed as the wannabe I know myself as.
Alone in my loneliest hours, separated by thought and deed, I feel remorse and hate and anger and love and a sadness that sickens me to my core.
I love the pain. Inflicted, inflection, virus mutation. This nightmare of persona must have an end.
I sit back and take a long look at the screen in front of me. Digitized and dazzling, I have become embedded into a carved language sculpture. Suddenly chapters had appeared in place of my pain. Months had passed and life continued without me. I immediately spun around to share my newfound fiction with those in my life to find they were gone, evaporated by time's passage.
I stepped outside and ghost town blues whispered through the lonely suburban streets. I walked on towards my future and the world dissolved into a nostalgic mist. Lines of homes all cut from the same cloth, row after row of variations on a theme. Similarly different in living out the same story. Every house a different fragment of psyche. A fractal reproduction of the replicating viral lifestyle. It is among these plastic castles that I see that awareness is selling out, taking comfort for safety and the joy of being part of the machine.
Disillusionment.
Apocalyptic details strewn about the land. Laughing fools celebrate the sad sickness of their souls. Accept the pain, love the disease, praise the decay. Fantastic ignorant fantasies. Fucking lies in a shot glass, swallowed down hard like a bitter bitch. Wallowing winters succumb my sweltering humid summers, and I am again devoured by my own silly daydreams.
Enough of these dry, single revelations tossed back, bellied up at the bar. Frightening fictions breed like fractals fornicating on the hot, sweaty streets. I am alone and dignified in my manhood. Responsible and empowered, alone and terrified.
Women swarm to cover and protect in self serving manners, but I will not submit to charms and spells of a duplicitous nature. I hate the vulnerable beast I show to you, shamed and born of gallant grotesque.
How do you know how to be a man in the land of selfish adult children? How can I walk among the inferior that I put upon a pedestal, afraid to be exposed as the wannabe I know myself as.
Alone in my loneliest hours, separated by thought and deed, I feel remorse and hate and anger and love and a sadness that sickens me to my core.
I love the pain. Inflicted, inflection, virus mutation. This nightmare of persona must have an end.
Monday, May 4, 2009
the Tower of Brahma - twentyseven - nudeerection
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?
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?
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