Posts Tagged With: Prose

Pre-Travel Ponderings

There is something which changes the mind before traveling to a foreign land. As if in preparation, the mind renders the sight of daily routine into something naked & foreign. While driving the same roads in the evening, I hear each creak of the gas pedal as the body hims & haws across chipped pavement. I pull in the salty breeze and let it tickle my nose hairs. Copper sunshine pierces through a veil of stormy clouds. The hills of the Humboldt coast are like so many healing bruises with peaks of gold. Gusts from the ocean whip through me. Going to far on a one-way ticket, I wonder how long I’ll be gone for. Have I always been gone?

I look out onto the bay, following salty dock posts and depth markers stretching out to the breakwater. How many men have lived here, worked here, died here? Who inhabited this land before us and how did they live? Did they toil, live, and die like we do? What will the land look like after all the men have traveled away or died?

Will I be here again?

I have a job here. I have security. I have a bed to sleep in. If I stay and work a few years, I can make a lot of money and build a life for myself somewhere. I should think about my future. What if my health fails? How will I afford the hospital bills? What if my mother falls ill & I am to care for her; how will we survive?

We will survive the way all creatures do. We will eat when we are hungry. If there is no food we will forage, hunt, and fish. We will work gardens and raise hens. If the land is fallow and the hens are not laying we will dig through trash cans and dumpsters. We will attend Church dinners and wait in line at food banks. Onlookers will gaze down upon us but we will stand tall, knowing that all creatures are equal in death. We will eat silently with gratitude and we will share.

When we are tired, we will sleep. We will stir the coals and throw on a big log. We will make our beds. Whether they are beds made of feathers or beds made of cardboard, they are beds just the same.

Here in America, even the poorest of bums are rich on a world scale. We have nearly constant access to clean water. We have electric outlets and wifi in nearly every town. We have churches that hand out blankets and clothes.

Whether I have the finances or not, I will live how I live and I will die how I die. I will die like all things, which also live.

Here, “poverty-stricken” is a term meant to inflict damage upon a mans sense of pride. These things cannot harm the man who possesses strong will. The truly poverty-stricken are those unable to find food, warm clothes, or clean water. They may die as a result of their poverty.

What am I? I live under the table eating scraps. I collect enough to live & travel. I was dealt pocket Aces. Each time I capitalize on currency exchange by taking US dollars to foreign countries, I use my Aces against 2’s and 3’s.

It’s the game of men. Most men play by the rules or else find themselves alternately victorious and defeated by alienation. There’s that saying, “it’s not cheating if you don’t get caught.” A chosen few live as true kings; above, beyond, & without the games of men.

This is our privilege and this is our curse. Playing the games of men has dangerous consequences. We can dimly fathom the interplay of cause and effect. Like ocean waves, we are subject to laws of rhythmic correspondence. The surface sings songs knowable, yet beyond the depths lies a darkness each man imagines yet few men can prove. To light this darkness & catch a glimpse of the all-pervasive pressure is to make friends with enemies & make sense from confusion.

A handful of cold sand between my toes, I piss with the wind and light no cigarettes.

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Long-Winded Midnight Rant #36: Intrepid Emissions of Insanity

am I the only one
who feels justifiably insane
around the clock?

Hand me a language built on opposites
point and name the objects before me
explain how to explain explanations with more words
one word implies another, generally in terms of polarity
good references bad
we call this “rational”, “logical”, and “acceptable” on a relative level
as opposed to “irrational”, “illogical” and “unacceptable” on an ultimate level

this form of communication
doesn’t hold a greasy candle
to a hard look in the eyes
keep your eyes on the prize
(the prize is you)
and you are fucking gorgeous

But still, we don’t see it;
don’t breast feed the babies,
give ‘em the bottle.
Is there not a whining child beneath all these layers
just begging for Mother’s Milk?

I can’t even ask such things because
some sexually repressed cocaine addict
named Freud
made a whole bunch of assumptions
weighing massive burdens down on upon all.

no, I don’t want to fuck my mother,
I just want some goddamn milk!

for once in this whole wretched wheel of life
I want to feel
that I actually belong in this skin
to feel
that someone understands
loves without expectations

But no, fuck no, we can’t go there
it’s too much emotion, that boy needs therapy
it must be chemical imbalance, yeah that’s the one

Oh, thinks he’s talking with God?
He says he sometimes reads the thoughts of others?
He believes he can conceive past lives and future events?
We’ll just file those altered perceptions under the heading:
schizophrenia… yes, the old shizotypal personality disorder
unveiled by psychedelic drug use
and exacerbated  by preexisting mental illness;
fractured ego, that one
he won’t accept the name we gave him
he keeps saying he’s eternal
and laughs when we ask him to name it
Let’s twist his words and style him a self-declared messiah

Send me your finest shrink
I’ll box his head right in with mine
blow for blow,
they’re boxers, I’m wildstyle
I’ve been there before
I’m here again
and it reminds me of a joke:
a psych ward patient claims to be Christ in form
and the psychiatrist claims to be a doctor
and they each think the other is crazy

Onto the next one
she can’t hold tight,
hanging loose all over the place
feeling strong tides of emotion
screaming, laughing, crying
perhaps she is bi-polar?
Those pendulum swings are awfully extreme.
We live in the land of polar opposites
she’s acting out the madness
while polar bears drown in salty water
and Americans drown
in salty French fries and salty margaritas

Does anyone else feel this way or am I alone here?
anyone? how about this,

what the fuck
is in this so-called food
they serve in these institutions?
You know, hospitals, jails, state schools…

You ever work in a corporate restaurant, deli, grocery store and see how much good food gets tossed?

Does anyone feel the rumbling of  stomachs ‘round the world?
does anybody hear the rumbling of the tectonic plates beneath their feet?
do you feel the sun dancing down on your shoulders?
the rain singing misty songs of ebb & flow?
the songs of birds in the morning air, leading a magnificent example for us all?

And now I am expected to do something about this perfect mess.
ALL ON ME, right Dad???
Old Uncle Sam, chewin skoal and drinkin Budweiser,
you fat bastard.
Hey Lady Liberty,
you dusty old pregnant bitch,
have you got something up that dress we can use for this?

(On the real, no disrespect meant to the *real* lady liberty,
Cleopatra / Mary Magdelene
The real lady liberty is not a statue.
Check the history.
Cleopatra and Caesar, sitting in a tree
making a secret baby named
Gnosic Gospels have been discredited
because knowledge has been discredited
the word Gnostic
is derived from Gnosis
meaning, “to know”
as in “Gnothi Seauton”
“Know Thyself”)

Damn fucking straight, I’ve lost it, gone off, scattered the marbles.
I’ll be sorted out by morning, don’t worry about it.
Snowballs can make avalanches, folks. It all starts with awareness.

The air tastes like aluminum particles
Now, what the fuck was I doing again?
Oh right, back to Mother’s Milk
nectar of the universe:

Om Mani Peme Hung

Categories: Prose, Rants, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Nightmares Before Moonburn

This is the sort of thing I like to do on an empty stomach, with hot tea. It aches and soothes my perceptions; they soon radiate with a jagged propensity for chaos and universal truths. I will not fully relax, specifically so I may write with wry survival wit. This way, predators can not overtake me. I must remain a step ahead, while I elucidate prey and sin with syntax.

I invite you to take a seething sip of my soul; it will carry us away from contentment for a brief and painful repose. Do not fear, savory flavors will follow the initial burn. It is not my intention to dwell upon dark matter. On the contrary, I aim to observe such things with ferocity & fervor, in hopes to understand that which eludes. When allegory meets alchemy, these literary incantations will invoke inspiration from the deepest reserves of some lost ink well. The only authority I speak from is my own, for I am author here. It is in this lobby that I speak candidly, with few reservations.

I wake in the morning with tooth powder on my tongue; caked onto my molars. They’ve been grinding away. I cannot rest fully, for a wicked brand of malevolence masticates my subconscious sanity. It is fear. It is anxiety. It is pain. These things complete darkness while the light is gone. Deep beneath a tepid glow, the moon casts shadows behind symbols. Each one represents a reflection of the opposite. I dream of polarity and correspondence. If my sun must produce warm growth, my moon must produce frigid decay. Pain exists with night because pleasure rules with day. It is metaphorically accurate. Gravity pulls one with the other; you get my drift. I am not bothered by any specific things, as I am simply disturbed by the motions of feelings. There is a gentle sway with the wind, even while my mind is still. It gathers force when I feel. I know it is okay, though not always right. My frailties shall be displayed upon a mantle, where they will become brittle by innocuous glares. Why are you here, anyway?

My soul cannot fear such things, for my true self has nothing to hide or to protect. So why all the nightmares? The bravest parts of me breathe during waking hours. I am courage. I am calm. I am calloused. My hands have waxed and waned with pursuits of perfection. I have healed my wound only after I had sealed my tomb. Self-destruction is like interior painting. With black gasoline, you must cover everything with an even coat. The old color will not be seen. Each brush stroke is a tilting bottle. Each dip is a plunger pulling. Black as charred remains, the absence of color will seal old memories as if they were simple scratches on a wall. The final push needs a certain type of friction. It is kinetic force that drives a match head to conjure its purposeful will. A certain fiery bird of resurrection comes to mind. Energy transfers between pin and shell while oblivion coughs from the mouths of barrels heard ’round the world.

And what of this transformation?
Is it not valuable?
Is it not beautiful?
I see it behind chugging engine fumes and wishful thumbs.
I hear it between wailing sailors and city sirens.
I taste it under sauté pans and on credit card tips.
I smell it beneath city compost heaps and drunken panhandlers.
I touch it on the palms of love and the letters of goodbye.

I am self-destruction.
I am self-formation.
I am the multiplicity of desire & ego.
I am a mutation of self & soul.
I gave up what I wanted to be,
and started being what I already am.

And it is all so… beautiful, here. I haven’t arrived at the final shore which summons me, but I know I am on my way. The things that keep us up at night remain hidden until we open our minds fully. So I wonder: is my house haunted now? Are all the ghosts and demons my own reflection in a broken mirror? Am I doing the right things? Am I following in the right directions? Am I speaking the full truth of my heart?

Perhaps that is what I am debating: truth and self. Do I wish to live or do I wish to die? And by which hands? My own hands will sew no more seeds of self-destruction. Here, I shall remain until I burst into flames, yet again. The devil set the match, but I gave him the fuel. I’ll love him until my dying gaze, wondering to myself, “If He could end my days tonight, would I delay and stay?” Much work has been done and there is still more to do, so I pray that I can finish with a touch of grace and gratitude, for that is what consumes me so; not fear, not desire, not knowledge, not health nor wealth captivate me. I have turned into cool fire through grateful love. It burns of itself & sparks with pure soul. I do not fear scalding palms while shaking hands with the devil; the Almighty made my hands strong.

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