I once held onto the wonderful tapestries of stories long gone
That no longer even apply to the reality of existence
The stories that never existed anywhere but the romantic images of young poets
And artists prophetically penned in the language, which seemed so perfect
Until everyone and everything realized that we cannot simply rely on the stories we tell ourselves
And in an instant everything was destroyed and everything else was born
As it all rained for days, sleet and glass sideways, ripping the world to shreds
For god had finally shown himself
And his name was systematically comprehended by generations of scientist
Objectively reverse wiring the brain into a complete knowledge of everything that can never be understood fully
And proof of fact was there on the page for all to see but none listened
The word was too great to be understood
And so god left man again
To toil in the teleological
Like a blind shepherd who had forgotten that he was once Jesus
And that he held the key to everything that is and what should never be

A wise man once said "of that one cannot speak one must be silent"
But i think its worth the shot

There was once a man who lived only on a moment-to-moment basis
That man was named I
And he brought the wind of a thousand starry butterflies
To the ears of ***** and things that never heard of such words
His life was broken down to be consumed by troglodytes of stone
And everything was left the way it was
Because in the brief glimpse of unattainable wonder and profound and intense clarity
He and all the others knew that it was but a fleeting glimpse
And that language and experience had permanently marred the white glimmering crystal of pure lucidity
Nothing was as it could be ever again and choices were made like computers programmed to make them
As a great cataclysmic storm of righteous godly entropy funneled itself
Through a sieve of perception
Granting all the trembling palmers the strength to carry the burden
Weighted in the sarcophagus of matter and form
Eudiamonia left forgotten on the slopes’ broken ladders to ecstasy
in union with god in harmony, onward christian soldiers
For all was contained within the realm of everything that was before
And even the forgotten was not forgotten by the whole
As the egg grew larger and smooth to the touch
The ******* son of Pan and Athena threatened forever to crack the brilliant shine of that crystal egg
And then something else happened in the middle that I forgot about until just now
Because I was left unfinished as the sculpture of flawed marble
On the workshop floor of Michelangelo
Words! yes language is the mind
A construction mathematical and taken for granted
The one great masterpiece bequeathed by Nature
Was the squishy erector set built in perfect logical syntax
Only to be rediscovered by its own unknowing creator
The Sublime is but profound confusion

Our movement was never there
All we had was grand allusion
We were always far too self aware
Sublime is but profound confusion
And drugs and things were our default
The mind divine, carved in basalt

Language were the tools we had
And everything else just fell into place
For nothing stings like Ignominy
and ignorance just ain’t that bad

Because when it comes down to it
The only way you can really look at the world is with the objective lens of cold numbers.
But what is progress anyway?
Is it worthy of our toil?
As the mind attempts to foil
In its complex poor design

And why the disjoint anyway
The existential crunch
The winds and birds are here today
With frozen scaffold, mold and clay
So we ride on, the wild bunch

I live at the ******* mall
And I’ve got that eternal beauty blues
for in the end eudaimonia
was all part of the clever ruse
The point of what? I ask of you
Cause there was nothing else to do
Its true

Sometimes I just wonder why that’s all

Flights of birds, bucolic minds
our Tortured, Analytic souls
The mind boggles as the heart dies
when the autumn brings the cold
as so the white dwarf shines

I just came for the free ride

On the Crest of That Beautiful wave
described in words that signify
all the wordless, senseless time  
for bleached are the ones on the road, freshly paved
when the relationship is master and slave

Sublime is but profound confusion

There was a message there for a second
But then state farm came in like a good neighbor and broke my train of thought
And that was beautiful in its’ own right
Like paint mixing to brown
As words only confuse everything
And emotions are like real gods

I bring you to the ends of our own expressible thought
on the edge of a cliff that cannot be crossed
a cliff and an asymptote
that is never perceived

Real Gods are in the pudding,
in relations between lines
in laws given and unbending
objective, quantifiable, and beyond my description
they are in the unending study and toil of the labors of love
a thought

but not in religion
unless you think about it like that
which you are always free to do

because sometimes the only way to show the inexpressibility
of life, nature and all is
is in raptures of revelation

Some people may tell you that there are no brakes in life
But I’m here to tell you that there really are no breaks in life

Unless you count sleep

But they may say something like "life has no brakes!"
well I’m here to tell you that life really has no breaks

unless you count death

and Shakespeare would say "tis life brake-less?"
So I’m here to tell you that life tis breakless

Unless you count that bit before life

Do what you must to curtail the will
In order to rage against the coming of the ill
Be a slave to your master instead of his
To penetrate the darkness and chaos that is

Starve yourself from the comfort, animal
And carve out a bone from entropy’s thigh
Because humanity exists only in memory
And morality is but a ruthless cannibal

But why get caught up in the question why?
For in the end we all simply die
and give ourselves up to the endless ether
without feeling or presence
a shadow of vibration of a wave of energy

There is a certain unplaced quality to the whole thing
Like it was never planned to look as it does
And the fact that it is the part that we aren’t supposed to see has always appealed to me
The ripples and cracks
Fissured by time
As a clash between flux and permanence
And will bent by entropy
A rusted staircase like a lonely island dangling and looking weak and unsafe
And who knows maybe it is
For the paint is chipped black frosted like ice
But it is hot and the air is heavy
As it always feels in a place like this
For there is rapture in a place that feels like it does not belong
And like you do not belong there
I contemplate the number of feet that stood right where I stand
I think about the installation of such things
I think about the man who stood and wrote his name in paint
About how that got bent like that
About when that wall fell down and when that glass broke
The stories that touched this particular spot only for that brief moment
The stories in which this is not even a footnote
Where the organic flux meets the rigid industrial
And all coalesces into a barren scape hidden away
And forgotten for it fits in neither picture
As the romance of the days that it saw beautifully have long been realized as nostalgic and useless
And a brick may fall and hurt someone
Or they may just tip their hat and continue on their way
But despite all these things I have a sense of blindness
And sublime captured by a world of temporary distinction