COMPACT SHOCK RESISTANCE

Rest in all your futures. Did you become what you’d want to? Did you let the light in, to change, to change you? I for the sake of a thimble’s drunk paired the saintlike honesty of the rink in lime with my mother nature’s most sacred face. And that meant nothing at all to the lot of you. But what love spreads over everything, now? What takes you in its hands and lands? As I was sat down at the -writer and clacking the keys, do you know what occurred? I became a figurine human, doing the winter work writing the thing. It was a page onto which ink glared, in the light, and my hair tossled in the draft from the door agape where ghosts entered, who politely curtsied but did not know that I was not the owner of the manor there. And that it was not a manor at all, but a room in my parents’ apartment back home, where I wrote whatever pseudo-fictions I could because I was afraid that I did not know. And I did not, so I put the words down anyway. Do you know what it means? In illustrated forestry I compare my idle sitting around to the journeyer seeking safety among the plant life. What was lost who could not know? Down another street, the wind like a wraith in the cold night air starts to take you. And gusting about you over shoulders round your midsection, blowing your hair forward as you clasp your coat shut, falling on and around you, it will be as if a hurtful armor had just taken. You will wake and you will wonder, What have I dreamed, again? And it will not occur until later, because you will be doing something that reminds that nascent forgotten part of you still in there about a moment in the dream to which you are recalled, at which point a fragment will become remembered. But only a fragment, and only for a little while. Still even traumas get forgotten, flashbacks and all. The point as it were had to become, ultimately, that it wasn’t a bad thing, whatever you had to write. It was merely a reminder that words put together could mean even greater things. And who knew anyway what it did or who I was. And what did it matter anyway? You were going to die at some point in your life. At the end, maybe. Why give into judging your contemptible work ahead of time until it’s totally unable to materialize? Who cares where you go what is following you fate-wise. That sense over your shoulder you have to turn around because who you were in the past or the future—at some other, in strange-another-time—is catching up with you right now. The eternalistic look at how to be or what not to change amagrophoedically linked to the willow pesting of your chest’s swimming fish sensations. And this-is-all-wrongs being faced with nothing-is-wasteds. No energy together forgotten altogether. You came here because you wanted to write. At my beck and call. Nothing. The whole rotating room’s intersecting light beams’ spinning shadows of window frames. Together with you in the middle, where the story still goes on. But A does not get to B. Or else, something like a nonsense jabber of a page gets linked: Again, we do not owe you to the nothing there. But who were we when the day was done and it had potentially been revealed that all that nonsense actually meant something real? Actually mattered, and made sense, and in such a clear way that you find yourself unable to believe you could not see it before? “Why don’t you glimpse up?” Freshest ice my neck pops. Rhododendron forgetmenots whispered off the twined body of water. In a fresh estate where you can’t get any work done. Because heavy magnets attach at your head and pull your thoughts this way that way all the time. Even now it is hard to find the net. That caught the limb to the point I made, which fell off around the third act. The one in which my avatar died trying to save the narrative, but was maybe redeemed. It is up to interpretation. Only the reader can understand. Though most of them don’t seem to understand. I held a magnifying glass up to the page because the footnotes were so small it required it, and the minute text read: “… all of man an island unto himself…” just like that with the ellipses and all bracketing, and I began to wonder why I had written it here in this form and what it had meant. This was a story we were beginning to tell ourselves even as it fell apart. This was the bird that reads through its cage the world it imagines flying around in. I do not go so lightly, though. Becoming splintered swept. Far and away. Behind myself the recording soul—the approachful head blooming into flowers as a record scratches forever. Disturbing the peace. What of me and you? this here donny says as I begin to slip unconsciously back into the old habit of terser syntax. Unable really to understand, shifting into and out of autopilot again and again. What occurs becoming that this maybe too closely resembles the formation of a narrative. Given the self. Abolish these thoughts for once and for all, if you can. Or else change it. You have all the permission, friend. This is all a mere exercise. You can play along if you’d like. What comes first is the tap of the keys on the words which appear, and then… the tinkering clicks and clops of the mind rallying its chambers to interlock and lace with red. Blimey all the dog fog coming in makes it look like the world is even cuter, if stranger, though this is what we all are. Come together over a unified sledging of tomorrow away from whatever it is going on today. To exceed the limit of the mind and come up with gleeful entropic ends. Which split and enervate the field to which they belong and disperse. This one time, this forever at all speeds: wrapped up into itself though we all know and we all get torn down some way likewise side to side and forever. And we could not seem to place end to end. But I am just beginning to get started. It would seem. The rage inside the heart of the world is coming through in the eyes of love. And it loves, as it looks at me. This black hole the world over already become rages, and rages, and loves as it looks at me. What do we dispense of knowing so little we’ve already given the end its credit due? What do we owe to the richness of the spilling out always all things over and over again across the face of life? Is this a washing away of the mind? Does the pointlessness seem to rigidify a split sense? Do you find sometimes you cannot attain? And what can you not? And who knows? Who would ever read so much of such a thing? I want. I come up from the murk of the deep end all too swum to swim and still distend myself so my head is risen up and at last again I can breathe. Splay my hair as I shake it out like a lion’s mane. Wave up ahead and get lost all the time as we all are. Together in this terribly gray expanse. All of us reacting off of the shock of life to the ongoing nothing getting turned and turned off and on. Trying to eject yourself when the autopilot has taken over and set you up for a crash course into the ocean. Did you ever really know what you wanted, and what you would still believe? Could you possibly have ever? Are you already broken? Do you not understand? What is wrong? Can you not believe? Wake up.