joseph-ashley-eaton
American
I am the 24 year-old author of two published books, "Night's Ocean View" and "The Imagination Engines," as well as a semi-finalist in poetry.com's International Open Poetry competition and World Poetry Movement's open poetry competition, where my poem "Where the Melancholy Rain Drips" is published in the "Stars in Our Hearts" collection. I am a member of the Golden Key International Honor Society, as well, and a professional musician, artist, animator, and amateur magician.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
A phrase followed from some strange, onyx, snake placenta and spittle covered book,
From which phrases are chanted and sewn inwardly, perversely backed into the bladders of demons and spewed from the nostrils,
Solids and seeds of dollars and oil.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase not written as we have been taught, shown in action
By those blocking fruits, pinching fingers at the ends of urethras
To keep children from being born.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase preventing man and woman from marrying,
Withholding, slothfully, idling, waiting,
Placing plugs in all our orifices.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase stopping perception: touch, sight, hearing, smell, taste, And any others if there are others,
Saying it alone will fill your mind.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase keeping us working with the unidentified,
The unfamiliar, the unknown,
Keeping us discriminating, nepotizing, judging.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
The summation of rejection,
Instructing us to reject those things around us except what we already know.
And what do we know?
The Cover-up.
One tarp can be pulled from off this particular hidden item in the garage,
That can be assured,
(though the rest may be inveigled away by filibustering and hidden, but hopefully not):
"Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged Thyself" is The Holy Bible verse to be followed.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
"Abscission of Eschewal”
If I am still, I can hear the voices.
Chimes of advices, softly spoken, coronate in neon in my peripherals. Messages, abscissas from the x-axis of words and sounds, just parallel, float their fog of transmission to me.
“Touch that wall,” a voice’s suggestion nudges as I crookedly gain my balance by clutching the flat surface of this white wall, one fourth of the surfaces confining the contents of a tight enclosure. Just under the ventilation shaft, the wall is vibrating. The voices are louder near vibrations.
The enclosure, with every surface bleach white, is a bathroom, a corner taken at the edge of the convenience store off the four lane highway by the high school.
Its sink compacts spotless metal into its design, and the crafting lines visibly run parallel upon in its surface, reflecting generously to the bags under my eyes. The soap dispenser’s cubic structure cut into a visitor's vision like the blade of a pencil sharpener, showing every pixel and every angle of my face inside it.
Feint grooves dig into the wall in the shape of a triangle and a pair of scissors. Opposite that wall, a door with no handle stands; in the place of the handle rests only a circular lock. Behind the door, I hear a sigh, a winded slurp, the kind joggers give after high speed exertion on a morning run.
I hear the air rush, hitting the nostrils.
I hear a whimper.
I push the door open, slowly, and the hinge pops in intervals as it wedges open.
In front of me, a stool sets with a touch screen phone running on top of it, and a limp woman curls in a ball upon the floor, facing the bathroom. Her eyelids are missing.
A video plays of her on the touch screen phone on the stool. In a Skype window, she, a brunette girl with duct tape wrapped around her mouth, flickers in the thick black mire of what appeared to be another lavatory with a single fluorescent light with faulty wiring blinking a white glow upon her matted, unwashed hair. A black frame and darkness outlines her figure, filling the rest of the room. Her eyelids are missing in the video, just as her eyelids are missing in person, but she grasps to consciousness in the video, and she turns her eyes frequently with nervous twitches, wheezing and whimpering in the Skype window on the phone.
“Incoming call, 785-135-1581,” a white screen with green buttons interrupts.
I touch “Accept” and pick up the phone.
When my ear touches to the phone, I hear heavy breathing.
“No breeding, Jonas.” a male voice whispers.
“How do you know me?” I ask.
“Mating. They want to keep you from it,” the man continues.
“I won’t let that happen,” I assert.
“This was in protest, the first. Eyes open, so they can see,” the man says on the phone.
The male voice I heard on the phone, The Heavy Breather, inhales and exhales.
“Are there anymore?” I ask.
“I didn’t need anymore. Find out about her. See for yourself.”
I check her wallet.
I see credit cards, visas, and a 5x7 with her standing behind a podium in a lodge in a small town with a banner behind it, and a picture of a man racing on foot, crossing a finishing line with an arm outstretched in front of another racer to prevent him from finishing.
On the banner, a slogan reads, “Keep unborn and unflowered: cleanse the youth.”
Seated before her in the lodge are several lawyers, doctors, and town leaders conversing, smiling, and greeting.
“Look what they’ve done, colluding together, excluding us. Leaving us alone. Partying while we suffer. Those in The Colluded of the Equinox kiss their wives and girlfriends and children in public they hoard and tell it all to us, flaunting their miscreant deeds. They hide in shadows and do every wrong thing, but they only rarely do wrong in public, and they are never together at the same time. They keep hidden company. They rejoice in their evils, oppression. We live not more than a few miles from them, wherever we live at anytime. We live with them. One sin from an unlucky man is worse than a thousand sins from a lucky man. Is that it? Is an unlucky Christian worse than a lucky atheist? They spew their mantra: 'It’s so much worse than you think.' They tell you you’re not what you think, that everything you know is wrong. 'Submit,' they say. You know what I did? I did what I wanted. This woman on the ground before you is what I wanted.”
“All this to stop from reproduction? This society…” I ask.
“I hate it, also. Be it willing or unwilling conspiracy, it is still conspiracy, high crimes, ” The Heavy Breather responds.
“Crimes before whom?” I question.
“I don’t know,” The Heavy Breather admits.
“I know some. First, they stare. Peeping in your windows, following. Then, records, whole security camera videos, receipts in stores, gone…written in ink that disappears. Records of existence...gone.Wherever you were, you were never there. That’s what they want for you, to delete every backed up conversation, memory, and recollection, so they can instill new things. I shopped in stores, and the devices were amnesiacs,” he recounts.
The woman on the floor moans and stirs, but she settles again feebly.
"They can't get rid of all that at once," I interject.
“No, but they keep scraping the little details of life away, proof of life, covering them up. They have cleaners, cleaning up our little spills of progress and success. Witnesses, like the devices they own, are amnesiacs." The Heavy Breather asserts.
"Even if the electronics are wiped clean, they must have seen us at stores or parking lots, somewhere. They can think for themselves and put it together, right?" I ask.
“Those that remember us have no incentive to continue those memories. The Colluded of the Equinox brainwash. Married people are telling the ***** not to get married. They force celibate priests, figures in white hoods.
The Colluded of the Equinox force people like quivering lures, closing doors until the only ones left are of seclusion and chastity. They are in all religions, hierarchies, in every ruling body, replacing reproduction with work, with ‘purpose,’“ he continues.
The body on the floor twitches as I hear the Heavy Breather grunt on the phone.
“These are their protocols. These are the Colluded’s motives. The Colluded condemns displays of affection, physical acts of love, reproduction. The Colluded controls the population. The Colluded tells the women to focus on each other and obey advertisements’ models of how they should behave and look…conformed and emotionless. The Colluded are survivalists, locking the reproductive organs of selected citizens to save money and keep control. The Colluded use the magnetism of credit cards to lock your urethra…the tingle you feel when you sit down on your credit cards in your wallet…it lowers your ***** count,” he growls.
“The answer came to me. 'Write your message on her insides,' said the sentence that was scrawled within my closed eyes in neon. It should read: ‘She threw us a stone instead of bread, the way corrupt people do.' You can go, now. I have work to do,” he suggests.
I heard a motor crank on the phone.
“Should I expect the authorities here?” he asks as the sound rumbles in the background.
“Carry on. I didn’t see anything,” I reply.
I grab the cell phone from the stool, press the 'End' button, put it in my pocket, and walk out of the bathroom, pushing the woman on the floor with my foot on my way out far enough from the door to close and seal it in front of her, nodding to the convenience store clerk as I push the glass door open and walk out into the street, cranking up my car and leaving to the open road.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them.
How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection,
Prove its sanity through continued suggestion?
Deductive insurrections stirred in memory,
A rumble, causing sediments to crumble,
Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble.
Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors.
"Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns,
Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns,
Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows,
And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap.
It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains,
The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins,
To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed,
To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains.
"Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated.
He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject,
And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion.
I thought it was done.
The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
Chapped Lips (BrainRAPE)
Women have brutally ***** my mind, cursing my physicality.
My eyes are celestial ghosts.
My pores are drilled against pine pieces.
Little fingernail pieces…
I clutch my hands together to guard my fingernails from buzzards.
I **** chicken gizzards into my mouth, raw.
With chapped lips.
They have chapped lips, all of them.
Chapped lips to **** in their food.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
The smell of mint and clorox steaming across the face,
Under the epidermis,
Flying in the room like swarming mad no-see-ums,
Shooting up the nose and around the nasal hairs in blasts.
A distant garble, advantage one.
Pulling from limb and lattice of the mind, scavenging, advantage two.
The prediction and observation, advantage three.
Assertively convinced, advantage four.
Being rooted, advantage five.
The smell of mint and clorox,
So patternless,
So striving and belligerent.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
I Side-Slipped,
Ripped out my own spine and licked the bone all over,
Pictured punching an overcoat tailor all the way through,
Past the goo and let the blood run down the grooves
In my arm
As I step through him and his new hole to the other side
A place of fortunes where no one can be absent,
Where we are all present there at the same time,
One misstep in rhythm away from taking permanent residence.
I Side-Slipped
And heard a saxophone and a trumpet on my way there
From a gravel creek
And saw the wind fan the flames from a rectangular set of candles bronze and peachy in a Freudian blur of a parking lot.
I Side-Slipped
And now you can wash in me everywhere
In a tub with the inscription, "Eyes and class are proportional."
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
My left brain twists, and secanol comes flowing,
My eyes are square moon bases, nonagonal PVC behind them
Accounting for a dialing rhythm of split modular beeps,
Air-packed and dew drop sized, but only held by felt feelings.
They pipe in.
The Opener Screamers
Open a pal, a pulsing pill of pep talks and peptides,
And scream my way into tomorrow, a sleepy cheetah with anxious acid reflux.
My right brain does a sit up.
My left brain twists, and secanol comes flowing.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
Empty hearted
Nothing pulling you one way or the other
Bone clock
At town square
Where the table is talking to the chair.
"The chair speaks at 12 o'clock!" the table calls.
The wind howls through the dusty streets
And the typewriter of the the town sends what the chair speaks.
"Hey . -.-- .," the chair speaks
"Where it divides you."
"Divide and multiply."
"Don't blink, for it thinks to nullify."
Doorknob is a beating heart
Bleeding sharp objects to the floor
Screws, razors, and knives bled to the floor.
Walk one way, on carpets.
In through the back door walks another
Ethereal form,
Soft outline.
He's a calculator puking formulas
Puking squirming formulas
With only two buttons
Divide and multiply.
"Life = add, subtract, divide, and multiply."
Understanding: simplified
But Hey . -.-- . seems to nullify.
Take a chunk out
No ****** recognition
A piece of wire from the chin up through the nostril,
Oneself at the back door.
Threatening to sleep,
Twoself.
The couch sleeper
Chiefing at the end of the couch.
Threeself
Craving, longing, slinking around,
Fingers as crooked as trees and wants,
Spines for legs and spines for arms.
A cough through the walls,
Fourself
Forceps
A cough through the walls.
Dish detergent surgeon,
Pieces floating in the water.
Water, a shower surfing on a person feeble in the shallows,
The selves (listen) twitch together and, in time, strike by the hour to
Hey . -.-- .
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 7:04 PM UTC
I hit the ball.
The ball winds down a grassy corridor, gleaming in the fall's orange glow,
My breath stifles, closing a moment, and it all starts to bend.
(inhale) Bending... (exhale)
A troup of lizards march up this chalky hill, and a curve lays like a lanyard discarded, groovy and misshapen
And they walk with detached, floppy fiddle strings across the green to apprehend the ball.
The ball eludes them and redirects to the rough, and the hole sits, agitated and circular.
(inhale) Bending... (exhale)
On the couch, I stretched.
Thinking and wondering why gnats never sleep.
I'm at the apartment, one thumb over my left eye looking at the exterior of a DVD,
Thinking and wondering why gnats never sleep.
A closed mind in transit with a DVD lodged between left and right brain,
Left eye socket with left brain in
Right eye socket with right brain in
I press my thumb to my right eye, and the DVD spins, tickling my brain and playing.
(inhale) Bending... (exhale)
I putt.
Gently, one flinch from the right arm.
Loosely holding the left arm in place.
The ball rolls again, grinding the grass beneath.
It has the gumption to gather its matter and mass.
(inhale) Bending... (exhale)
Click.
It is sunk inside its cubbyhole.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
Though the faraway look combs through the glances, the heads lowering and longing
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
The icicle street of perturbing yellow parallel lines and molasses traffic that seems to rake the people across pavement into curvatures of avoidance keep me running.
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
I repeat it, a gesturing phrase, recurring, as I watch the transcendent glow, a denouement to a one-sentence story.
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
Could have: (What will save the moment in untickable preservation?)
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC