Nae Veu Untra

Septum dark in the inner sea. Forgotten espers keeping the binding of the manuscript sealed. Welkin for deux. Walk on the line to Fate Reigns. Never sees the outer reach of the machine he’s inside. Later emblem du nails the whole stitched scene. Emblematic of embers off a coal cracked up into the dark cold night air. Whole beams of moonlight come down and rapturously swathed. Dreams I am the man obsessed with shapes and structures. Who writes about the incompetence of being alive and not seeing these things. Seeing these things only slightly enough to be considered alive. Waiting wars with the rest of the people in the room. For the door to open and the next one to walk through. The eclipsed edge of the face of the woman speaking I imagine the camera’s lens warping round to come through and capture the semblance of from a side I can’t see. Cities of ionic warp energies making up buildings of growing shapes which only appear to be growing because we’re shrinking, going farther in now, becoming attuned. ¶ High beams the surface deleted. Incomprehensible moral dilemmas. Fortitude in the gust the wind pushing your body away from the shelter of the buildings you’re walking between. Sucked out of the ether. The spirit dissolved in static burbles the televisual snow going sea of rose in cathode ray tube. The armament to divide, to waste, to give me over to. Watch while the saint descends to tell me something I can’t remember afterward. I wish I could. Watch as the trash-bag boulder shoved out floats in the bog. Not to get driven to. But where we all within us while connected in a way depose the light for making images on our eyes. The surface of the sea of static snow flushed deleting the high beams of my car as I drive cutting through the darkness at high speed in the night. Watch as the high beams cut through. Tending to salvation the ever going over prescribed floor falling forward meeting your face as time bends. Watch as the syntax warps and becomes you. Watch as the scene shifts and a thousand days a thousand nights pass while you look catatonically out a window through the center of a single sunset. Watch as night becomes day becomes night again and everything halts and we falter and the floor meets our face. Too for you the dreams you had where an engine made you work with the crew you were the elder of to deliver life somewhere. Having to space out the infinite perils having to wait out death. Watch as the sun calls it curfew. Only one only a million-million ones coming unfolded into the wake of the everlasting gorge watch as the sight recedes and all is black again. The verso of birth the being born again, the need to deliver life somewhere. Inherent to the heart of the mind. The way that nothing goes quite as well as you hope but then what did you really hope for? Getting always exactly what you want. In the sense of lacking. Despite the change in everything you can touch always going on.

Entirely oh-known disproportionate to stream. Published all in a book somewhere that hasn’t been written yet. The words I gave to the mirror’s eyeball a hair’s breadth through the glass from my own. Do day, were I to tell you I still sometimes have flashbacks, would you believe me? I was run over by a train, and mostly those have stopped. But I cannot describe many things. The grass still in a nonwind floats for me as though it were all underwater, sometimes. I hear angels breathe in my sleep and wonder what it must feel like to finally die. How blissful it can be. And I roll over and hit the disposable vape bar and feel icemelt flood my lungs and coarse exhausted through my capillaries. And I watch the people of the world celebrate their observations of one another and feel happy and strange. The strangest sort of strange. Undertow foreverlong wavelengths. Ripped in half by an undercarriage going godspeed. Would I then open up my heart to life and let in the warmth of the love of everything? Would then maybe finally understand?

(If Or When There Is Nothing To Be Salvaged)

An intensity he gave to the poems he read to himself—by way of his voice. We miss you and the way you’d say things. And “How did it go, again?” would we ask you, if you could listen. Now, forever locked in your internal maze as we watch from the outside your catatonic eyes follow the sunset into night. As you asked, “What do you want me to do?” upon the return from a dream. Well, just let it be. Leaving one dream for another. Satisfaction comes when the hands forming the words don’t have to try, and there is a great care seen in the act of letting go … the perceived will to write. Oh, Author Without A Name. Is it time to go to sleep or wake up? ¶ Quest to retrieve the long light become our selves at home. What more could you believe in? While your spirits from forever ago walk through the walls of today. And do not feel the warmth of the light on their skin. While noise and light and motion all go on at the same time, and they fall through the core of the earth. Poppins the little white dog of the house who ignores the metal fencing she can walk through and surveying the world immediately outside. The music going on through the windowed walls. The people inside thronging in communion. All of them happy-seeming, grateful for something or other, each one. The peril of being a human being alive. With time to risk and a heart to beat. A point to breach. But at least you can know. We were all standing at the turning point. All of us, in some way. Still are. Contending with principalities. And being alive. Hard to be one with the self is at all. The castle floating over the bridge was our destination. We could not know for sure how to make its towers out. They were often invisible in the daytime, but when the moon got involved—well, that was a different story. This dream or that saw my courtship with a divine lady go struggled between different campuses. Some of which were lost aloft broken cement streets and clean-cut sections of open waterpipe. And this and that were all their own stories. I can remember only but glances of. The reality untold is that all this is the story. You or I can see only but fragments of. When the castle floating over the bridge dragged itself down and the ghost of E and I watched from the verdant overlook as it crumbled the bridge to pieces as though it were made of toothpicks. Water the soluble paper shred inked with “guilt” dissolves in. Nothing of this life all the same, I don’t think. Huge plumes of metal beam linkages falling through the water. What does frost and forever say? Because comma set demanded I write the next line, I did so under the demand on sight. It was not a decision my body could’ve made for me. But who knows. When tomorrow’s afraid. This was all just the next grove getting widened out. And readied for the truth to make its way. I set out to find it, and now, I wonder: have I found anything? Did God curse me to be blind for making an idol of some other thing? This I wonder, too, as I let down my guard in the night, watching riverspray.

Told The Algorithm

I told the algorithm to give me what I want. And it did: a Liquid Drum n Bass Music Collection on YouTube. I am just about all set up. Writing to it. Although I’m not too sure as to what about this is so sacred, I can at least feel it. I am tired, and under the duress of a kind of nervous energy, but I love the moment well enough. I truly do. I feel at peace with who I am and what is going on. ¶ I am aware that I get to choose what about the shit in life I experience speaks to me. I am aware that it is a great deal a choice of mine. There are things—many precious openable books—I can look into. There is a path for those who seek it out. And anything is possible that you can make true in your heart and believe in. I truly believe that. It is all vague and very big picture. But take today, for instance. I can use the prayers and instruction my sponsor gave me to use: the serenity prayer, the 3rd Step prayer, and asking to be useful. I can do these things earnestly and start my day already having given up the things outside my control right up to my higher power. Whether or not I know what that is. The fabric of reality; the universe; the planets’ alignments’ variant rearrangements in the vast vacuum of space; gravity; some greater more intelligent being who knows the truth; truth itself; who knows…; etc. I can actively do that and maybe get out of the house and do something with my day. I can be an active participant in my own life. I can actuate change in myself and the world around me just by being. Actively. Just by doing. Soft are the words and hard is the way. It is worth it, I think, to expend some real effort into whatever you do. That is how you get something out of it. Paying attention, looking at what you’re doing, being a part of it and engaging and interfacing with the world around you. That is surely a key. To something. Who knows. I used to think I enjoyed the vagueness of life, but recently it’s the vaguenesses that’ve been giving my spirit a hard time, I think. I The real self-given test is to render the test trivial. Maybe. Insofar as to overcome the problem is a natural course of action. These buzz phrases, too: “course of action.” They ring some bell-like stimulus inside with which we can resonate and come subconsciously closer to understanding what is meant when it is used in what is said. Something like that. You see? There: the last few sentences. They were not so much realized; there was not that effort really put into them; there was not the trudging through language to communicate a meaning. The sentences seem more vacant. There is something perhaps palpable, on a spiritual level, missing. ¶ So then, to return: life for all intents and purposes (another buzz phrase) has already happened. You get to choose how to see it. That is one of the more comforting ways I know to look at things. I think there can be some real solace in that. Though it really is difficult to wrap my head around. I just know that there are beautiful books and things to be done, including writing and reading and interacting. I don’t want to waste so much of my time self-criticizing and worrying anymore. I want to enjoy my own personage and who my soul feels it is and to enjoy that and every aspect of myself. I want to savor being a person. I want to appreciate the life I have and to bless myself with the power I’ve been given to do so, however ably I can. So I can forge my own destiny, here, and it is all in the eye of the beholder, see? You can determine for yourself who you are just by judging the reflection of yourself you see in everything. In the sense that everything is you—the world your mirror, because you take it all in through your own experience and senses—you are able to see aspects of yourself you would otherwise be blind to. The things you enjoy about other people are character traits you possess. The things you revile in the world are judgements you could very well levy against yourself—you are. There are feelings; feel them. They are there for a reason. And if it is to teach you what your truest self does not want around or to be, then that is a good reason. Learn from your mistakes by way of the feelings. It is a good thing, to be able to feel. It is an example of the empirical fact that people change. And that change is a constant. ¶ So then I wonder a little about maybe why I haven’t been able to feel so much, recently. What it might all mean. Maybe, as I trudge forth, and continue down this path, I will be able to feel again, because I will be ready to change. That is something I’d like to believe. Either way, the truth is the absolute for me which most represents what I want the most. If it is true, it sings all on its own. I hear and see it in the people at AA. I listen to their stories and shares and little conversations, and I hear the truth in and through them and it inspires the truth in me. What I want, I get, through their presences. It’s really something else. There was something to do with “growing along spiritual lines” which was said. And many other instances. At a speaker meeting in Provo, Utah, I heard a man who’d been meandering a little suddenly spout some bolts from the blue, one of which was “I became everybody I judged.” And it was so true. It was like I could hear God speaking through him to me. I think, now that I think about it, to simplify and purify things, my higher power is Truth itself. That’s as far as I can really understand it. The fabric of reality—the core of the ultimate truth. Who knows. I love appending that. To the end of my thoughts on the vaguenesses, because it feels so true to me: who knows. Maybe I know. Maybe I just have to, with the conviction of a living, participating person, take up the mantle of truth by admitting how little I know and giving over that powerlessness to Truth. Abandon myself to God. All that. Who knows.

Clear Haven from Heavy Heart

 

In the center of the hallway a shadow rises. Becoming the wanderer of the lone buildings through the night inside of which fear grows. Painting a picture of the ghost you saw. When you were a child. In the sleep stupor of the bathroom in the morning. White tile. The redundant climbing sun breaking clouds up through its shine. Cocaine a few months ago up my nose. Nothing new to talk about. There are Pegasi the Lord of Drugs prepared for me on a chariot I was supposed to steer. But I never did. And then, on the edge of the mountain we climbed, I thought I saw God, and I called out, but it did not respond. If it even heard me. Tomorrow’s lectures going out of sync with the lips that deliver them. I need to go to the store to buy a book in the capitalist mechanicus. ¶ I had a dream. There were scientists saying I had to get drunk who consulted with a god by sneaking over the fencing of his pool. A large beige house. The brain’s subaware treatment of the moment mostly deleted content you can’t regain access to. ¶ Unaware of what to write about or who to be anymore. But you knowing who you are somehow like a dream. That being not quite enough for me. Stepped out the door as the drums slammed on in the song. Same sum still going on. Getting calculated. There are tomorrows you could never be prepared for. There are samurai waiting in the eaves to riddle you. Great noons to moonlight. But I’ve slept in today. I’ve slept in, and tomorrow is gone, too. But right now I am in the sanctum of the breach, where lost people in tattered clothes root through the walls to find a secret truth they know nothing about the nature of. And all we are becomes what was once real. Clear and bankrupt. Something stupid. Bed lying become a sport I compete in against all the other sleepers invisible behind walls along with the few out in the open under the eyes of God. Tantrum prayers the one who loves me prays. That I will maybe see the light. Though who knows, maybe this is all I have. Creeping suspicions nothing is wrong and everything is right. The need: Must not buy into the verso. Of that. And the school terror of going down slowly through a fall and not knowing where you’ll land, if anything will catch you. Remembering past versions of a life this one is supposed to be the product of. Not knowing what it felt like to be who you were. Not quite knowing who you are. Not understanding, but laughing at the jokes. Because who is supposed to say. Who is supposed to determine the shape the light subsumes. I and my cannon mouth hurtling nothings back at the sweet universe blessing every bit of me. Not wanting to become well.

Little Sober Realization

The spirit that walks with you walks with me too. I’ve heard it in salvation’s rings. Though I know: every living person walks alone. Our stone is not in tune; it’s no damn use. We spend money we don’t have just to try to laugh. We spit on the debt accrued and call it rude and feel so blue. I bet one little bag on the life I had just to try to laugh. I walked from the path that’s right in the bit of light that made my shadow shed. When I confidently cried my eyes to red, I felt all right. ¶ I find it strange the process of feeling shitty about writing. I can sometimes get so overwhelmed by how pointless it feels, reading it back. But I think as long as I try enough, I can find something like truth to say, something true to me, and that somehow is bearable at least. Maybe its being true to me gives me something like hope. I’m not always so sure. Even if it’s a sad truth. But I have been very happy to walk. I will walk alone for however long it takes to get somewhere. I am very happy, to walk.

Before The End of Time

Because I’ve only just become able to understand. Surrounded on all sides by everything. My anxiety can be let to eat me alive. If it is so allowed. Otherwise, who knows. There are too many options sometimes. There are too many ways things can turn out. Though. Even the way my hands repose is just as much a signifier of these and times and times and times. Sometimes things don’t make any sense. And the senselessness wills the snowballing of dents. I become a bird above an airlock trying to fly against a vacuum’s pull. I have no clue why or to whose order I owe the things. There are processes I still can’t understand. Even as the madness takes hold, there is a part that can stop it all. It is a man convincing himself he is crazy, just as capable of being sane. Imagine, though, that the one thing that makes one crazy is believing they are crazy. Isn’t that a trip. The seed of the idea is the problem itself. Were it this way or that, who knows. Then when you find yourself above or below the pinnacle, will you know? There are journeys we’re on that comfort us for forgetting. Where we’ve come from what we’re doing what’s been going on all along. Who can tell if it’s this way or that that we’re meant to go. Who can tell how a meaning is meant. Why am I as much enraptured by the shapes of the letters on the page as I am by the words and their meanings they create? Is it because it’s all relative, inside me, anyway? Is something really wrong with me? Who is to say? Against what measure or what art. Who knows. “There are sometimes too many things” across the spine of a book. My eyes twitdh and throb and my body jerks sometimes in my sleep. Backwards. Like I’m being pulled. To or from where I have no clue. I would like to learn though, at some point. ¶ Then what brick by brick step must I be arranged to climb. If I live in a town of gloom and who I’ve become is not the same. If my grammar abandons its rules, so long as it helps my point, who’s to say? There are ad infinitum streams to say there are ad infinitum things. The theoretical library full of every type of book imaginable, including the ones which include the library. Similar to Borges’ intimations. And then there are other rooms with other people at other times. If there is really a good or bad way.  Again on the multiphasic emblems the time decides. If one part is wrong, the rest all get thrown out. That is the way it typically goes with these things. Maybe the very best way to start it out is to imagine a frame getting drawn. I don’t know. But I like how a friend said about why humans like to watch fire so much being supposedly because there is no distinct pattern to the flames, and this stimulating the brain. I’m not sure how but I’d like to be able to do that with my writing. Or maybe I think that’s what I’m already doing. With all this nonsensicalness or whatever. I want to open a door of light and fall to sleep inside. With no distractions from the tired blank array. To take on the weight of a slight ray and warm myself. Become all one. I feel like a stranger unable to understand. Why anyone is kind to me. Through a lens turned destructive against myself. To not understand. Why I can’t understand. A billion light years out from one moment to the next. Not a single clue only blue-blue blue. Noble noble hey, hey. Runs from hell-bent angels ensue. Why would I want to understand when I just have to get away. Then what more could I have to say apart from the same old thing? Blue while old the cold veins disarray. Nothing but a Saturn setting itself on rings. Nothing while us on our way. Told from the perspective of the light. I’m become my own the end of things. End of bureaucratic problems, with them all, all the time. Maybe some time. No one stays. Only a little later. We all find out ways. Maybe a little later. Who knows. ¶ Then there are days. So some of us say. There are days. We make a part of ourselves open. They become the we we were wanting all along. All for ourselves. They become nothing we become one. How can I parse this bit for you? What do you think it says? The engine leads the manuscript along a supply line. The Readers take a look or two, as it passes along their conveyor belts. Not one part is recognized; not one bit is known. The publisher prophesies what is his own. I do not know. It is satisfying, though. Read each word. Let it fall through your head. That God can recognize what is wrong with you. There are problems. All the time. Everywhere. You don’t need to be apart to get away from. But which you feel so keenly you’re in distress. Not the only thing to be read aloud. The man at the mouth of the mirror watching himself get closer as he leans in. Watches his eye. I dis-apart come clean with the coke up my nostrils. Breathe steadily not known just yet. My face is a runaway paradise gone strange. Not this once I like to listen to dissociative songs. With underlays of off piano over which the ambience of a room plays in which some date is talking to you. Not me not my voice on the stereo. Not my voice on the record. The staunch despondent the road that says “die” the nomad who must walk it down. Twisting away the camera lens which records me looking into it confused. Become anguished long darks set apart by song. Become the one strong thing still in the guitar and synth wisping away. Lapsing over the rock glow of my pills in their containers. S.O.S. distressing setter down of light things. Whale’s slow heartbeat. Ringin’ out. Baby’s laughter. That was yours. When you were a child. Tomorrow’s anvils coming down hard. Yesterday’s forgotten gray fading slowly just recently bolder than it is now. The tablets on the wall mirroring your face wanting you to suffer in silence. Having wants, being inanimate. Rough exposure “But it was only a fantasy. The wall was too high as you can see.” ¶ Now can you please lift me up, God? Again? Show me when you’re being so honest. I cannot tell the sky from sea. There are reasons I should not see. I know now I was not alone—all this time I’ve been on my own. Come back the siren quire forever in deep. Come back the truth you’re forgetting now, don’t forget, remember. Remember. Remember.

Early Morning Sleepless Squabbles 1

About some of these things, I can’t even read. Much like how you are what you eat, you are what you consume mentally as well. I have not been doing the best in that regard. I could do better to put something good into my ears and eyes. Speak some good things out my mouth. There are times it is just second nature to idly sit by through the day and do nothing. But the fixation on not doing anything is just as much a problem as the not doing anything itself. If I were to really change, what would that look like? Are these all just testaments to how I’m like a battery getting perpetually charged and recharged? Just material—some material thing? I’m listening to “Echoes” by Pink Floyd. The sheer quality of their studio recordings is incredible. I really admire that. It’s also kind of peaceful and profound to me. Their songs let the instrumentation and ambience sing as much as the voices do. “And do I take you by the hand – and lead you through the land – and help me understand the best I can.” Just a kind of a lilting from one line to the next. I am trying not to idolize things so much anymore. It’s very easy to do. Some of their music seems slightly boring to me, in a way. But I also like that about it. I think there is a need for some boredom in things. The problem isn’t in the boring parts. The problem is in how you treat the boring parts. You can either let yourself absorb and come along or stay behind and shut it out with meaning. I’m tired of always looking for meaning in things. I’m too symbolic. I need to just be. Pick and choose. Realize I’m investing in whatever I’m giving my attention to. Give my attention to better things. Don’t judge so much. Let what is be. Be what I am. The watcher watching things. Even now, I am thinking too much. ¶ The light upon the hall calls will I never be the scented reed that smells like waves of fields the winter wrung. Candles lit beneath my feet feel like a cool white whirl of air that courses up my soles into my eyes. No one has to stand alone, and no one has to understand. The way we want the truth to be is wrong. I come to pass my open mind with eyes that see for once beyond myself to where the door is buffering. I see then through the rest and don’t relieve my body of its weight; I am not what I seem; I am to seem. So what with all I think. Right now I am able to feel my own body but do not really ally to it the way I think I often would; maybe I do so more, now. I am typing something out. It is almost ritualistic. At this point in the song, I can almost feel my soul floating through me. Into my body with its veins a little tight, my back arched, on the couch reaching out to the keyboard. The voice is just another sound. The voice is round and comes out loud, even whispering. To what to where my heart connects I pride myself on little things. I have to think or else I have to be. Don’t this don’t that do whatever I say. In the vocal range of Mickey Mouse. Or Alan Watts. Or God. To determine for yourself your own higher power. Mine is a thing, for sure, though I’m not all too aware of what it is. I know I have a name, a true name, I just don’t know what it is really. Or else I don’t relate. I do, however, really enjoy tapping into my own body like this. I do whatever I can whatever I must whatever is necessary to adjust to the harsh this the harsh that the next thing the true fact the big lie the dumb con the wrong place the right on. I know I know I know. No one knows the same. But I do. And I know. And I know. And I know. I am in the process of becoming either crazier or more sane, and I am coming to become less concerned which it will turn out to be. All I have is this little tin crumb of a moment passing by slippage out my hand the one lonely ornery true thing. I get pulled out like I’m doing acid, but I’m over three months sober. Must have some of that in my spine, still. Either way, I love you love you rosy true way out there where beneath all that weight I’m passing on. Sometimes you just have to let yourself tap a little longer into the chaos. Fingers made of words pull the page apart. Then there is no longer any you or I and only the mindless forever, whatever the cause. There are parts to play and I know because this could quite honestly go on for forever, because each forever can contain another one and each one is muddy black tar-soaked clay forming the shape of a person behind the page behind the lens pointing the camera at the thing that becomes the words the very words on the page and even when I have no vision left or hearing or words I will know and be in touch with that still tune going on all the time inside all of us inside everything. There is no respite from the vibration of timeless space. I am my words I am the space they take up I am the space I am in I am space itself I am the fabric of gravity’s reality, maybe reality itself. All you have to do is see your eye. The black hole at the center, sucking the light in. That is how you’ll know. Heavens to Besty. Don’t we all. Jumbling scrabble, scree despondent waiting on a the edge the width of the eye of a needle each little rock, each pebble on the mountainside in space.

How did you get to be so sad? Oh. I know. It’s not so easy, once you’ve gotten used to it. To have become the shadow of yourself. To be cast across the floor while you stand. That is the essence of what I mean, here. My writing is indulgent. It makes me sick. To no end. And I cannot seem to do anything with it the way I once felt I could. I cannot seem to feel about it the way I once did when I’d read it back. I am dramatic, overly. Even now, I am moaning. I cannot get away. But there is a light in the essence of the slow. The seeming freeze that takes hold in the wake of the world ending upright. I don’t know. Sometimes I just have to let my mind lose hold a little. Spout some nonsense so I can feel like I’ve done something. I just want to create something, and be proud of it. Sometimes, I think. That is all I want. I am not the most consistent. I don’t really read. I could do much better with doing a little more of that and a little less probably of writing about how I can’t write. I may just be actualizing all these fears. What I mean to escape keeps confronting me. And I do nothing to service my own ability to face. I’m so sick of it. I want to do something real. I want to make something. The work as a being of its own. I’m so sick of being in my head about who I am. I’m so sick of caring so much what other people think. I’m sick and tired. The expression. I’m sick and tired.

So Thens

So Thens

(bespoke to self on the actualization: life doesn’t have to always make sense. At least say something, so long as it is true.)

 

Let’s begin with what we were really inspired by. Sitting in AA, the woman with the intellect said something about sitting in the void of not speaking. Biting the tongue until it falls off. So something like some true inspiration may just be able to take hold, now. What is the course of love? How can we know? Jest in Junes, Mays having passed, about the future’s all-wilds. Quest to the beach where sun do shine and waves do splash, hey. I was somewhat aware. I would not let myself make any money or be any responsible, though. Oh, what a life the lazy man leads. Being a loser for the sake of filling a need. And I have been there.

            But laid across my open mind, the ocean’s rind of splendid dross as set in buoys floating out beyond the sandbar were just surface spots above the lots of life beneath. The fishes circled fishes circling. I came to orbit on myself a bit more than I’d care to tell. But either way, the end was not in sight. A long-told passage out of time sits wary in a slate of stone and seems to mean that someone’s suffering.

Man, bemoan your little spite; it matters not the cause or care; it only serves to keep you where you are. Just get up for this once today. Control yourself if you can. Exercise the will to live at all. The passage read that if you tried, you at least did that before you died. The passage ended midway, buffering. The stone the stencil pairs its rod a soft dull chisel ´way bespeaks the ending of the things it handed down.

Test

This is a teszt fo shoooo, though, y’know, you edon’t alway know, y’know? So what we got here, funky junkies, is the reason the blast zone so big. We have here the exodus to a massive state of RUST. Wait up, hill cats. There ain’t no more road for the lone nomad in the Exclusion Zone. Hiya!