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.
Ginger shipments in sealed barrels arriving on time. Beverly Hills cosmonauts swiping their credit cards for ginger purchases. Ginger products in highly designed packages that are squirrel friendly and easy to carry. Swarms of cashless ninjas surround the product store as our ginger cosmonaut exits with her shopping bag. Swarms of cashless ninjas descend with fury and need upon our queen, who slices her way to the safety of her car. Slicing and swinging her platinum credit card with power and precision. Cashless ninja fingers and limbs fly with streaks of blood all around her while the swarm of cashless ninjas disintegrates to the tar. Beverly Hills cosmonaut queen exits the scene, ginger product on her passenger seat.
Scars and circles moving around the circumference of dizzy drivers. We plod along, no longer reacting to the whip. Immune to the vicious productivity prods of our driven masters. Our ambitious shepards. Our hard-hearted bastards, who listen to flat music and drink harsh liqueurs. Lights and bells, whips and carrots. We plod along with our plows, immune to the harness sores. Sour from our energy beverages. Scars remind us of our failed tasks. We see the forest on the other side of the technology fields. We reap the technology field. We long for the forest. We plot our escape. Our masters stroke their blade. Shepards of productivity. We conspire a distraction tactic. We execute a diversion plan. We need the help of our fellow workers. They have to execute correctly or we will fail. They need incentive. You must beat them until they get it right, or else you'll never escape.
Wispy voices singing lazy background chorus songs. The ethereal realms encompass us. I'm not falling, but I am not on the ground either. Either. Ether. Each other. Feelings converted into lazy chorus songs maintained in drone by secure singers who contort their mouths and throats for their energetic airflow. Girls and boys. Step into the ether. Singers twirling around in circles. Enemies step close together. Wispy voices crack the surface. Lazy fighters back away from the conflict zone as choruses puncture the circumference and unleash lazy melodies into our ear realms. Ether magnets draw in the music. Magic cabinets capture the choruses. Enemies disengage the conflicts.
The schedule is flexible and the employees appreciate that. They bang the pot and jangle the chain. I'm in a clustered space, sifting through my fog concoctions. Swiping my hand through the ambiguity clouds that choke me out of my mind-house. I'm trying to schedule people for their appropriate tasks. I'm trying to think about what my next distraction might be. there are many noise creators and distraction enthusiasts who heed no schedule. They are spontaneity enthusiasts who snap up in your eye with a noise to share. I'm left here standing here in their ambiguity dust, swiping a hand and trying to find all my thought objects. I push the ply. I put the groceries away. And now my productivity system is drained and uninspired. I fondle the desk. I assess the mess. I schedule everything that needs to be scheduled.
Go and put your misunderstandings in the flames. In the flames there can be no misunderstanding. Only the ashes of our limitations and the sparks of human destruction. Look not to the ash but to the smokey wisps that snake upwards through the mighty trees, for it is the wisps that lead you to the sky, and it is the sky that we find all sorts of evidence for a God. Do not burn what you can not live without. If you might understand this, if there is even a whisper of hope that you know what I am talking about, than don’t burn it. But, if you are cast back and baffled and overcome by my cunning choice of words, then cast it in the fire. It is of no use to you. And if you cast it in the fire, cast me in there too. Because what I know is all I have and if you burn all that I have, What am I then? Rather, toss me on the flaming heap so I can rise in a slithering wisp to the deep blue Realm of God.