Imagine mapping your consciousness on an untouched palate strewn across a landscape devoid of all sight and sound where a natural human is afforded the freedom to intuit true reality. You are deaf to the voice of authority, and blind to the manufactured lessons of good and bad. And you navigate your environment sans the concept of linear time.
My thoughts unfold onto paper, as I transcribe the shared frequency of existence. Broken apart from the true essence of nature interrelated is the human condition, and its struggle is self-perpetuating.
I share compassion for the birds with my brother wind, respect for the towering grandfather oak trees that provide the deer with shade, the sun and I have come to a familial understanding, and my sister flowers curtesy with empathy for an oncoming angry storm.
These are not metaphors, but understand that my interpretation is limited in its articulated form due to the words provided by the human language. The truth is, everything is multidimensional.
Words house the literal, but they are both fact and fiction. They are metaphors and analogies, and they overlap repeating because the frequency of life is everlasting.
And therein exists no death, just motion absorbed elsewhere. And, as such, my use of words speak to the dead and living alike. Because what we have been enlisted to accept, is not actually what we are seeing.
Recognizing the shared frequency gives new meaning to our manmade fabrication of linear time. The truth does not begin and end, rather, it is a tapestry ad infinitum, and, at times, it rolls-over onto itself to remind us of our roots.
The following essays are what I have seen in this new sight.
"the rambling echo of a bubble skipped at a 90 degree angle across a meadow of tree bark half-peeling"
Tomorrow plays in retrospect before the habituating verbs reenact their preconceived actions, once-removed. Their faces reflect blurry (but with pristine clarity) against the fogged bottom of glasslike spring water. Before the present happened, it moved in past tense where happenstance reinforced destiny: the moments-in-time grew weary and still against the tango foxtrot tactics dancing upon a shattered floor.
For a heart to break in expectation of a lover (never met), life will unravel in reverse until circling-back again and over its predestined memories.
They swapped vows with the cavemen, but the intent of their dialect was lost in due manufacturing. They could feel with their intuition but the exchanging nouns were not yet conceived, and so they walked away. Backwards.
Melancholy dreams strike a bass chord, but are nonetheless fleeting in tenor stone.
They fainted rapidly, and in a slow-motion succession, into the dark clouds that hung heavy in an everlasting blue sky.
To mock yielding before judgment is better than not, but the illusion grows great against a roulette game of forethought and scattered intellect.
If the date of death is catalogued as next year, but today is trapped in the veil of yesterday's pale widow, will tomorrow's willed mistress stand ready to defend? It has become impossible to decipher the inverse of falsely not false; is that not true?
They say a time capsule of prophecy was buried above the surface of the ocean floor, but its contents were flooded in the tidal wave of droughtful afterbirth spooned from the excavation of thieves in this nation.
Ill-defined free will
Burns contemporaneously as
The hiss of their resistance resigns
Dissipating until surrendered and
Traveling through a social hourglass
Of time and their projected reality
Where linearity is ignited and
Humanity--as a whole--will revolt
He scored the magnitude of her enthusiasm, but it barely registered. Judging the worth behind her silence, often he found more sentiment in her noise. And walking alongside him on reversed perpendicular bridges, she almost stumbled into the reflected sky. But instead of falling, she was swaddled. Stabilized by the serenity of the clouds passing below, she was able to continue on the path to its end.
"That bird over there --
The one with a red chest:
The bird is sitting in the tree behind us, and its chattering prosody is noticeably familiar. Chords of melancholy are released on its song, and I am moved to transcribe the notes that are played.
It is like the twice-removed cousin you saw once at a funeral: nature is drawn to identify through instinctual recognition, but with the frequency remaining just foreign enough, we choose to disclaim it.
But all I can do now is watch you roll your cigarette. Your intention is careful. And it is mindful. It is as though you are handling the delicacy of a Lotus. [Like the time we discussed the segments of an orange, and how they echo what is sacred.]
And as I watch, I consider how many more cigarettes you could have eventually rolled if you had just preserved all of the scraps you have dropped over time.
It feels like an angel is eavesdropping on us. Or maybe it is the sun. Hidden, its warmth is shy today, and I can relate.
There are too many scratchy fibers encasing my coconut skull to effectuate any thoughts with real meaning. I hear the fragments splash in its crowded vacancy, but the nonsensical order sounds like the white noise in a warehouse.
She loved to witness his intelligence. His transcendency was palpable, and she prayed it was contagious.
She moved closer to him on the bench because his mind was peyote and it felt good to get high.
Suddenly, I am flooded with curiosity about a stranger I sat next-to on the bus yesterday. Her ivory skin and red hair reminded me of spoken word. As we shuttled darkly beneath the retiring city, I stared at her feet which were crossed uncomfortably against her weight. She had a bumblebee tattoo on the top of her right foot. I wanted to ask her if she had a reason for choosing the right foot over the left. And I wanted to tell her that it seemed she was subconsciously crossing her right over left in an attempt to avoid smashing her bug. In my opinion, of course.
But I decided to goof-off on my phone instead.
Time is a wave: God jumping into the ocean as we assign linear meaning to its slow-motion burst, but, really, it is all just one Pollock mark on the surface of Earth.
And then it is over.
I want you to write a poem about me. I want to see myself emerge from your flesh, and through your eyes. The thought of it excites and frightens me, all at once. I can't help but wonder if the bad will marble the good, or if the good will marble the bad. It really doesn't matter, either way. And it doesn't even matter how the verses unfold or what metaphors are applied, because:
I know that you love me.
And you --
In a way that
Could never describe.
"the day the pods opened and society emerged on the winds of stifled anger"
Lucidity, here and there:
My stomach rises to my throat as I
brace myself for my imminent death
But fate cast its schedule without notice,
and so I evaporate into limbo and wait
I don't think I have been conscious for days, but I could be wrong. Tangibility is an abstraction now, and its negotiability is debatable. And truth was cremated. Its boney fragments were grated into dust: Truth is an illusion and it is forever trapped in an urn hourglass of time.
Begotten is Existence for
She folded prematurely
And into herself
Her magnetic fields
Were opposites sparking
Negative dormance birthing discord
And War erupted
From the fire in her gut
And, as for me, I am lost in a nightmare for which bread crumbs are frowned upon.
The weathered hands of my ancestors reach for me, but they are limbless and dry.
And I cannot find my way back now. Because back to tomorrow means retracing yesterday, but yesterday is today, and today would have been tomorrow. But we died too soon, and we are left with nothing but words.
No one exists because nothing is real.
What is and
Is a projection of
My created reality.
Everything is blurry, but, when I try to explain it, my voice slurs with the same slant as the definitions.
And You are my Comfort. But Comfort is created in the bowels of Fear and it exists only for its Creator (ultimately evaporating in the Light).
But tell me: Can you see what I see? Lie to me.
I am confused by your Mirage because it resembles shades of Reason. If I pinch you, will you flinch?
If passion is a serpent then shoot me up with its venom. Humanity is extinct, and all hope is lost.
The world hangs heavy, burdened with loss:
Bland food keeps the gluttons busy; and,
The deviants are occupied searching for love in a dry well of promiscuity.
I am surrounded by strangers clothed in the familiar, but Deceit waits around the corner with a knife.
I don't remember my birth; I was raised by a faceless mother and my father's voice belonged to the wind. My own children were placed in my open arms, but my womb has been forever barren.
Streets lined with faces gone mad are laced with delirium and they spit their anger at my feet. Their cavernous mouths hold ghosts with a dying sense of Awareness, but they are gagged and drowning in their own saliva. I offer my tongue as a tightrope to clarity, but they cut it out and serve it with gravy.
I awoke in a stadium
It was lined with broken bleachers
The spectators heckled me
Like caged beasts craving blood
And the racquetball machine shoots yellow darts at my palms, and my hands burst into flames with each insatiable epiphany.
I tell them that empathy doesn't exist, and they grin with delight—as they watch me skate barefoot on the thin ice entombing Humanity. And as I lose my balance, they wager their bets.
Is the blood smeared on the underbelly of disillusionment mine or theirs?
The clarity of our existence triggered my coma, and I want to wake up. But my subconscious rhetoric saturates my wit and I am drunk with confusion: I can't escape this new hell.
Here we are
Amongst the cannibals
Awakened with horns
Under Victory crowned
We are alone
In the lustful crowd and
Their hologram of power
Where they trample love
And I reach for you
But you are asleep
The windows are fogged with an ominous sadness. It distorts the faces of those on the other side. Despair perches on my back like a scoliosis hump, and my nightmare is the new reality: A festering infection for which I am immune.
Today the sun is pulsing with heated knowledge. Its radiating beams are caught in limbo, and they hover anxiously in despair.
The unspeakable urgency of this day triggers me, and a familiar tune begins to play on my turntable. But the record skips.
Perched to my back, my monkey clings. He speaks in his native tongue, but, with overemphasized syllables, his words blur together.
There is a breeze today. It whispers to me in the same collective voice of a child's choir. Unearthed memories disburse, but they are lost before they are found.
And as I sit here, hunched below a crooked oak branch, my gut festers with my melancholy nerves. Why does one long to return to a place that never existed?
The humble clouds are finally forming and they pass between me and the sun. With deep relief I nod with appreciation, for now I can take solace in the stillness of the shade.