I'm walking in the sand with Jesus, along an abandoned beach, when a flash in the sky knocks me on my ass. Jesus helps me to my feet and we walk looking up at the story of my life, which is playing on quintuple speed just above the sea. When the movie catches up, and it is jesus and I both on the beach and on the screen, I notice the tracks in the sand made by our feet. Things get complicated. Words are said that can't be unsaid. Feelings are hurt. And now I'm in a skiff boat rowing into the dark waters. Impostor Jesus is getting smaller and smaller back on the shore. He's waving his hands. He's throwing stones. "Walk out to me if you want to be with me!" I shout, spittle spraying in passionate shots from my mouth. I row and row. This supposed savior scoffs and turns and shrinks with the horizon.
Set the tone. Type your mind into the writing zone. Give a nudge the clogged sludge that oozes through your block of brain. It's all concrete and rock, but a little heat and pressure and the flow will return. Look, I've got too many ideas to communicate to tolerate the unmoved mind. I've got too many truths to spew to accept inactivity. I am standing here with nothing but my swimming shorts and this pool needs water. I am in my snorkel and eye-mask and there had better be fancy fish to look at when I submerge myself. Creativity lurks under the surface, behind the artifacts of the visible world, and I need to submerge myself deeply into it. I need to lose touch with all these things I can touch. I need to shut down to power up. I've dipped my toe in, now I need to jump.
Heart-taker. Pulsating organ wheeled on a linen-covered cart. Red-stained linen fluttering in the hallway breeze, while the orderly rushes along, dodging nurses, doctors, and alien family members. Heart-taker. Pushing through the hospital hallways. Trying to find the host before the organ stops it's pulsations. Desperate orderly looking for the home of the slimy lump. It could be anyone's, really. They're all heartless. Eventually the pulsating stops. The heart hardens. The orderly catches his breath and slides to the floor along the wall. After a puff of grief, he checks his phone. [NO NEW MESSAGES]. He calls his mother. No answer.
Coffee house gestures pummeling my perception systems. Swirling fingers activate nodding heads, while inward leaning speakers trigger affirmative eye-brow raises. Struts and leans. The flower queen rubs lip balm on her lips like they're on fire. Business leaders share their enlightened visions with listeners who do not see it all as clearly. Gray-haired men research journal articles to familiarize themselves with their new careers. I've never met any of these people, and none of them will ever touch me. So many strangers making well practiced gestures. And there are so many coffee shops. So many coffee shops, like gesture pods, spread across this great planet - this planet, which rotates and moves around the sun making its own orbital gestures.
I look out too many windows.
(It diminishes my thrive)
Why chase just one thing
When I could chase five?
I start too many projects
(I've got lists of all my lists).
I work until I can't -
Until the strength escapes my fists.
Why do I sabotage my efforts
(With my unholy hocus-pocus).
I'd be a great deal happier
If I could force myself to focus.
I'm tip-toeing fancifully down all my restless miles. Statues wink. Students snort drugs and click their links. The strange days are going away. The common days are filling up the page. Salient memories are punching my eye. I'm pushing on your face from the other side of the mirror. Tip-toe dancers twirl around me with their foamy lattes. Immigrant mathematicians pull their stocking caps down low and focus on their glow. Wrapping cords and the clown's new town. Nobody watches where they walk. Nobody honks their horn. Snowmen are on the brink of extinction. Who has time? Kids today roll their snow piles on their pixel plates, with a finger and a swipe, in their homes by the fire, in their Breaking Bad pajamas.
You step onto the bus. A puff of smoke. The floor jolts. The platform is a surf board moving you along the darkened city. You find a seat in the middle and are surrounded by liars. Hopeful little liars, plumped out and gorged by fatty foods and sweetened beverages. You are surrounded by piranhas with bad teeth tapping on their device pads. The platform stops and starts and stops and starts in a procession of stutters. Horns honk. Wheels roll. Stars in the sky are on hold. You get off the bus and thank the driver. "Uh-huh," she says, and thrusts the lever closing you out, casting you into the world. You wait for starlight.
Dabble. Drebble. Stubble. Babble. Words fizz up the bubble pipe. Rolling hollow plastic tubes for suction magic, pushing bubbles up and down. He rides the psychosomatic cult coaster up and down and back around. "Let me off, I'm sick." But you can't get off this ride. "I'm not thinking right." But you never were. Otherwise you wouldn't be in this cult club to begin with. Friends are facades. Smiling faces with gestures meant to look like love. Soft clothing to mimic warmth and an accepting affect. But they are simply the ride attendants escorting you into the cult coaster. They are ushering you into a nauseating ride that will leave you dull and whored. And you only have to be this tall to get on board.
Aches and pains like crashing planes, and burning eyes like flaming rings. I inflate, then deflate. Fake a smile, nod to strangers. I sit down with good feelings. I'm blurred-out, smoked. Burying dreams under the dust of fatigue. inhale, exhale. My hope is secured in the summer, around the corner, on the other side of the hill. My significant other wants more from me than I can give. My insignificant others are taking too much of my mind. If I stay home too long I feel disconnected with God's great wide world. There birds and things making noise in the trees. There are revolutions being ignited in the neighborhood streets. How we are suppose to live is transmorphing all the time.
Sometimes you do good. Sometimes you see what is right. Sometimes you don't. Do not burn the bridge if it is foggy. Do not throw loved one's over the side of the boat if they are groggy. Togetherness is all that matters when the fog clears. Joy is waiting on the other side of the magic prism. We can't seem to get to it. Peace dangles from a cord on the other side of the magic glass. We can't seem to touch it. No matter how hard we bang against the glass, or strike the dazzling prism, we stand here joyless and violent, like bumble bees trapped between the panes of a window's glass. Our bridges stretch too far into the fog and we have to rely on what others tell us. Our doctors are all bribed to sell us stuff instead of curing our wounded things. Why not just ditch it all and travel. Maybe there are places without fog. Maybe there is a different path that will get us behind the glass and deep into that prism thing.
Sweet belief. Pouring down the valley. Warm belief. Keeping the scared adolescents cozy. Belief destiny. Looking for gold. Trying to strike a cord. Trying to ripcord the pull-string. "Get this engine going." Sweet belief machine. Rumbling through the library scenes. Strained musicians pluck their noise objects. I'm on the hunt for a place where I can be alone for a while. I'm on the hunt for a space where i can look for belief gold, where I do not have to always be on guard for realtors and independent contractors and their boring stories of what their customers had the gall to say to them. I'm just looking for some place to rest my muscles. Belief muscles. Stretched and pulsating through my religion-robes. Belief pistols. Shooting blanks in all directions.
Nameless wanderer punctured by the superstitious commoners. Boyhood interruptions. Adolescent misconjiggered. Nazi propaganda causing crass actions in the bored farmlands of a dying nation. Nameless path-maker looking for a better hiding place. Naive journey maker, tapping on his superstition collection. Mapping out his punctured wander journey. Crass masters slap him into place. Exploding fragments of abandoned capsules. Escaping. Capturing. Toxic sisters rub the bounty. Military soldiers protect the toxic villagers from the Nazi bandits. Boyhood interruptions get corrected. Adolescent wanderer returns to home.
Death starts the wimpering melodies and jumpstarts gaseous theologies. Death activates the draw bridge and shuts down all communication devices. The connection portals close and we are left standing here cold, longing for the warmth of the one we lost. Draw bridge visions scrape the theology advocate. I'm standing in line to greet the lover of the lost. I'm licking my teeth to make sure there is nothing there that shouldn't be. I'm planning my approach. Strategizing my affect. I can't tell who is more uncomfortable by the encounter: me or the lover of the lost?
My sidecar approaches me with a cup of room temperature lemonade. She is sad, too. We all are. But what are we to do? All of our draw bridges are hanging open and our theologies are gaseous.
You're not listening to me. I'm telling you everything is connected, so everything crumbles. Every thing that is connected together falls apart together. We are temporary illusions of a universe that oscillates between connection and disconnection. We're tight-rope walking in the middle of slow motion disintegration. Disinterested visages diminishing moment-by-moment in cosmic steam. We are dumb creatures driving smart cars. We have smart phones. Smart Water. Who are we trying to convince? Who judges us such? Where is the measurement system for my genius flow? We are cartoons drawn by crayons. Dew drops bathing in the sun, still low on the horizon line. We are connected together and we disconnect together.
Beauty is fleeting.
In fact, it's speeding.
"Issue a ticket!"
Beauty is neuter.
A bitch in the thicket.
A bastardly suitor.
Beauty is needy.
A grape in the thistles.
And the idiot whistles.
Beauty is precious.
For the rich or the simple.
A heavenly message,
Or an unholy symbol.
A dangerous passage
For the dumb or the nimble.