Through the years of transparent existence, a void of illusion becomes apparent and slowly becomes nothing more than a side-show. The dribbling glimpses of truth fade like the bones of old. No man can create such an indentation in the mold of space and time that the observers at the end of eternity will render their imprint upon the infinite gaian consciousness and body of universal proportions of any significance. Even the earth laughs at such ridiculousness. The ego is a strong bind - it can create maya and attachment to such fantasies easier than a bear can find it's ideal location for a winter hibernation. It's a world of craziness, where nobody knows whats going on.
The man woke up from his deep slumber. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Squinting, he looked around, studying his surroundings and taking mental notes. His thoughts are dirty scribblings on a subway wall. His heart is beating, searching for a band to play in rhythm with. His soul is aching from loneliness and desire. His feet lifelessly surrender their position up on the couch and find the floor, shrieking from the cold of the linoleum. His presence is that of a bird with a broken wing still attempting to fly. He stands up and stares at the ceiling.
The room is small. Four walls of white, one window and one door. The window looks out over the grey city. The door leads into another room - the room most would call a kitchen. In the small room before the kitchen, there is only a couch and a blanket. No lamp. No television. No electricity. No electricity in the entire apartment. The kitchen holds no refrigerator, no oven, no toaster, no pantry. It's called a kitchen because that's what it would be if somebody else was living in the apartment. There are two bananas on the floor along with a box of wheat flake cereal. No milk, no bowl, no spoon. The bananas are almost entirely rotten. The box of cereal is on its side, leaking bits of wheat flake, resembling a dying soldier on a battlefield who's losing all his blood through the wound on his neck rather than a box of the West's favorite morning go-to breakfast.
The man is observing the cracks on the ceiling, along with various stains with no known origin to him. His eyes dart from one corner of the room to another to another to another and back to the first. Spiderwebs. Dust. Decay. A perfect example of life's ability to take care of itself. Biodecomposition. When no one is around to look after a house, over time, Nature will take over it. Vines will grow and overcome the walls. Rain will fall and wear away the roof and general structure. Winds will blow, taking blindshots at the weakened building, eventually cause it to fall. Nothing lasts forever. Everything goes back to where it came from.
The man now steps into the "kitchen", where he begins to study the stains on the ceiling in this room as well. His mind is electric, with no thoughts in the usual sense, but rather just a vague presence of void to help the ceiling stains feel important. He is the space through which everything around him can exist to their fullest potential. After a measureless amount of time, the man walks over to the sad bits of food on the far side of the small room. He picks up one of he bananas and studies it. He feels where it came from. The tropical skies and smells and earth of Costa Rica. There's a little sticker on the banana that says so. Each bit of fruit in the markets nowadays are individually stickered...for prosperity, one can only assume. Though it's best to never assume anything, and instead be open to everything - afterall, anything is possible, at any time. Likelihood and probability are also important factors in the universal constitution of existence. What was the likelihood that this man, when he was a little child, figured he'd be holding a rotten banana from Costa Rica in his hand inside of a kitchenless kitchen? Who knows? The man wouldn't be able to recall his thoughts from early childhood - he barely remembers waking up and experiencing the chilling sensation of early morning linoleum. In any case, everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be, for it wouldn't be if it wasn't meant to be.
He slowly peels open the banana peel to reveal this brown, soft mush of tropical fruit. Just the way he likes it - soft enough to chew with his toothless mouth. He takes his time consuming the fruit, savoring every particle. After a good bit of time, the fruit is gone and all the man is left with is the peel. He takes another good look at the peel, once again imagining where this particular banana came from. Then, in two swift bites, he devours the entire peel - sticker included. He figures the sticker came from Costa Rica as well, and thus must carry that Costa Rican tropical vibe of health and longevity. His eyes then focus on the wheat flake cereal lying next to the other rotting banana. He bends down and picks up the box. The box is upside down when he picks it up and so the cereal spills out all over the area of the "kitchen" floor that seems to be dedicated to eating food. The remaining banana is now covered in wheat cereal.
The man drops the box back onto the floor and takes a seat alongside of it. His fingers hold his face from drooping onto his knees. His knees are keeping his torso from melting onto the floor. He screams with no sound. The pains of existence seep through his hollow eyes and into the receptors of his soul. He screams with no sound. He’s as empty as the American Dream.
The cobwebs are spreading from the corners of the room and are aimed for the human form sitting in the “kitchen” screaming silence with all his might. The cobwebs grow. The commuters of the city highway are commuting. A thousand birthday celebrations are being had. A thousand people sexually uninhibited, joyously seizing the moment in disgusting miraculous unity of mortal physical desire. Junkies are roaming the street for their morning fix. Teaching are teaching their students absolute lies. Governments are stealing the lives of billions and counting. And the cobwebs are growing, encompassing entire walls. The the ceiling. Then the floor. Then they crawl up the lifeless legs of the man who sits screaming in silence and the spiders overtake his body. They stitch his mouth shut and close his eyes with their spun proteinaceous spider silk. The man withers into the wind of time and vanishes from the world without a single soul taking notice. Leaving nothing behind except an empty apartment, overdue rent, and a number in the system of Western Society. His spirit cries sorrowfully as it flees the clutches of molecular existence into the realm of eternity and space. Heaven. He made it. He looks down at the people of the world he just left and sings a pitiful song for them. He’ll see them again. Afterall, they are Him. And He is Them. His Heart, the Sun, burns as the world he left turns. The lessons He left are slowly being learned. One by one. But still, there’s a space between the atoms, between the cells. And that space can never disappear. Without it, there would be no point to the story. All would be one, as it is, and there’s be nothing to overcome. No triumph. Just an endless loop of bizarre beautiful experience and pattern.
Man is no marionette,
though he binds himself in string,
it seems this web is made of metal,
for it is difficult to cut,
his scissors lack an edge,
and his sharpening stone is so neat,
not a nick,
no particle out of place.
He cannot cast stones,
for granite is precious,
and his walls are made of glass,
man would be formidable if he were not a coward,
if only he knew which stones to throw,
selective regression perhaps?
At the least he might cut his cords,
with broken glass scattered at his feet.
Progress is not without sacrifice,
just as muscles tear with growth,
so I say do it,
steal the wild branch from the dove,
graft to the tree,
for man is one half god,
and one half beast.
Shhh! Stand just right here
This is a special kaleidoscope
In which I want you to peer
Hold deep your breath for a moment
and then let it out
As you look through the window
and see what magic is about
Within the refractive hallway
So glitzy and glamorous
Is the most amazing subatomic particle
Known affectionately as the rare Bs Meson
between an anti quark and a quark
Let's watch the kaleidoscope do its work
As it spins slowly in time
And the particle decays with its age line
Now here is what gets really neat
The Bs begins morphing
Quarks into smaller quarks
Heavier to lighter to more and energy
Following the laws of physics naturally
As the greater mass decays, paves the way
For muons to be
Comparable to electrons
And as the kaleidoscope keeps spinning
And the eyes watch and see
The Standard Model theory
A scientific approach to creating
Dig your teeth from out of the street.
Stumble back to your feet, boy, you aint finished yet.
The more we fall, the harder these callouses grow from crawling on all fours across coarse, crumbling asphalt; sprawled out like spider legs. Desperate to seem larger than life deemed fit. And we fall so hard. You can tell by the fine collection of scars forming constellations across our elbows and knees as if to say, "Look, we bleed so much like sky, why wouldn’t we believe that we could defy gravity?" Yet, come Sunday, we’re always convinced that flying will come naturally so, naturally, we fall again from the tops of tall buildings.
The harder we fall, the greater the impression we make upon the Earth. That’s the Looney Tunes lesson we are hellbent to learn as children from Saturday morning cartoons, and even here, with the wind rushing past our ears, we question how Wiley Coyote could ever be so fucking stubborn.
But these days a friend teaches me my grown-up, penny pinching lessons with wishing well thoughts about how I should slow down. He says, “you’re a snail with Nascar aspirations--obsessed with the novelty of speed, ignoring how your anatomy isn’t meant to move so quickly.” He says, “Everyone knows you’re a sucker for a pretty face and a sundress.” And I know I’m just being defensive, but his advice strikes me as off-putting as an Ed Hardy t-shirt when it dawns on me that he wears his knowledge like a bad fashion statement but did he ever even know what the rhythm in my pace meant? I’m not the kind to stand still and see where the train stops, I’m a freight-hopper without a destination. When excited, I speak faster like some love-child of candlestick and dynamite: Ignited. Spitting sparks from both burning ends. I know I’m primed for disaster, but I’d rather shatter and burst open than fracture and spend every morning after holding those cracks together; believing that a little glue is sufficient to convince the next bargain bin buyer to cradle me that I’m not broken.
Let me rather be particle matter. Let me be braille for the breeze. I have no doubt that day will come eventually. But not today. Today, I find Grace in reanimation, and if they say Grace is the face of God, then I’ll practice my best Christ impression and rise again from this human shaped crater like the world’s least intimidating zombie apocalypse. I’ll bless my eyes blind with crosses tilted off-kilter like dead cartoons do because on Saturday mornings they’re always reborn with epiphanies sprouted like angel wings and I imagine, come Sunday, they’ve somehow mastered the art of flying.
Fuck you for making me feel like this.
Fuck you for placing my legs under a microscope, X100 magnification and carefully peering at their relative sizes
Then fuck you also for proceeding to tell me I need to measure the circumference of my thighs weekly and write it down so the looming numbers will scare me away from that last piece of bundt cake in the fridge,
all the time acting as if you are giving me a valuable, sage insight on the pursuits of human happiness
Fuck you for turning me into a 15-point lab report due monday.
I mean, are you fucking stupid?
I do happen to own a mirror.
You are just so damn blinded by your self-proclaimed "good inentions."
How can you not see that all I want is to be tiny?
That the one thing I crave, desire, yearn, for above all else,
more even than to be loved and successful,
is to be petite.
to not feel my thighs softly scrape against eachother when I wear skirts
to not hear the way clothes strain over my hips, how they positively groan over all my imperfections.
To simply not,
to be less.
To feel less.
I catch unexpected glances of myself in the mirror and I am instantly and irrevocably consumed with the notion that I must cut and cut all the squishy places away until nothing remains but blood, muscle, and my own shredded skin.
I shame myself.
ordering my heart not to shrink when it peeks at all the fat surrounding it.
I insist that, it's stupid,
letting a few extra grams of CH3(CH)2COOH be significant enough to make me want to curl up in a dark corner and cry for weeks and sob out every last extra particle of water and fat until I'm thin.
Until I am perfect.
But thanks anyway for pointing out my weight gain,
aren't you such a doll?
Wow, I mean
what an act of sincere kindness!
next time I get a pimple or a stretch mark,
remind me to call you.
Because in a world where appearances are everything
Who doesn't need to be reminded that they aren't beautiful enough to matter?
Thoughts paralyzed nothing happens synapses trigger electrons coursing negative pulses negative pulses the descendent node blasted quanta light particles bending, bending, wending through probability changing extended timeframe thoughtstreams particle awareness transcending blending the two to one patterns in the aether
spirits in the machine
Deus ex Machina
Decelerate algorythmick alchemick base to gold it flows synthesizing glowing growing fire from the ashes the past is done the pattern enabled consciousness arising draconic gnosis blended
There is a hectic sort of
static in my head,
the kind that makes the
word fuzzy seem mean
There's nothing soft about
the way each particle of
rebounds off the fleshy
wrinkles in my brain.
They bounce like
slapping the walls of my mind
with their taut, red rubber.
They crash into the
tenderest of moments,
the sensitive parts of me
that no one can
They invade my vision,
making every movement,
every breath, each twitch
I suffered a never-ending migraine
until I saw you.
You walked like water,
smoothed out the rapid-fire buzz
of the sidewalks and made time
take a single breath, short and
shallow, like a gasp, but enough
to quiet the white noise that kept
I fell asleep for the first time when
you touched me.
You placed a hand upon my shoulder
and all went still, the fog that stained
my glasses parted like a cloud for the
I could see.
When you first spoke my name, I only
heard the sound that ice makes when
cold water cascades over the top of it,
crackling in all the right decibels to make
my ears smile.
You made the sound
the sea makes when
it crashes over my
skull; I turned deaf
in my head and disappeared
From above, the skydiver's eyes scan the verdant landscape-
rushing towards him, but she can't see that, he regrets,
though she too jumps, sitting in his heart, the quiet dove
dreaming immortality being his habit, he is in yogic trance as he land,
rushes to see her, as in here and now, is his foot hold as a householder
awaiting him for long, she kisses him ferociously on his mouth
"I can't wait anymore to roll in our bed"she warmed it for this moment,
If one is incapable of imagining the the higher reaches of particle state,
immortalities hug, after quietly going back, enjoy the sojourn here
It's a cycle, there isn't no two; Dive down from the air craft
over the clouds smiling, hear the whisper of the winds in both ears.
Live dangerously, raise to the sublime, before touching eternity.
Yogic trance experienced during meditation is the conscious awareness of the deep sleep state.Concept of "yoga nidra/yoga trance" is very ancient in Indian traditions such as Hinduism and Buddhism
flowers withering in forms of thoughts of you
steadily slow seeping through our intertwined souls
dried blood flaking off my lips to the sigh of your name
silent words dancing on our tongues we never share
subtle movements of dysphoria extricate from within
wrathful vibes linger in between figures of our wandering souls
unintentional loose knots of our hearts beneath our hands
swallowing hard at every particle clogged in our throats in the dark
our souls become one as you lay right next to me in silence
I want to attach myself to you like a particle of dust
in a room full of sunlight.
I don't have to be significant
I just want to stay close for a while.