When there are thousands of words given to the same thing I sort of go nuts looking for the right one way I’ve seen to say it, decorated with all the baubles—for this, my anger bobs up unceremoniously like a rock gone buoyant, without sense or poetic foresight, it just hits me like a stinging ladybug and compromising to my selves, I can never conceive any rational solution to the principle (don’t go don’t go)—the reality of human experience then drifts further from me as the state of the beam of light given to my consciousness sort of wilts in boredom with the conceptions I’ve created for it’s play, the sleepy words I use over and over, even though I know there are better words for the same sentiments.
What is going to say it really in the end is way back here beyond reality where I truly seem to be, where it feels so pampering nice, not a second of this terribly bland society world——they all say it and I say it too—I’m burning with furious energy that sits right below me, that’s my gut, not my tummy—I want the quick trick to show slick matters of the fullest magic, I want to command the positive approach for grasping an unbleached reality where best memory bad memories worst days, they collapse into a single image Art that we can all agree is the best—no, not the best, but just that’s it, that is all there is…but what good what good are all these theories? Nothing comes of concrete mourning of lost ideals, and less arrives by the stream provided by the side, less the way of preservation, but the washing continues and the deluge lasts too long—but it still lasts, so is there any way to say it’s lasted too long for in truth its lasting as long as it needs—but this is blather, we all bark, shut up, philosopher!
I can’t even force myself for a revolution because the madness comes over me when I see the machine using poetry as its deadliest weapon, and I wonder why should I bother to innovate art if I can only feed into the waste—the concepts the advertising artists bring upon the skidding crap of our entertainment appetite makes me furious, putting planar partitions into place, mastering every new year into a summary of this is that, what was so important, so we can know having seen it that then there was truly nothing important, and we can slink back into the dust, into the dark, feeling sick…and that’s when the full billion dollar industries find ways into our homes—when we have taken flight from anything real, when they’ve given us the FRIGHT!
We have to know by now that there is no American Dream (Thank God, we all say, I don’t want to be bothered). We now just want to learn to get by smooth it over and shoot some demons on a screen—we wouldn’t know a damn thing about true madness even if suddenly all our appliances turned to fudge and that fudge leaked a thousand creeping mandibular parasites! They’d still be licking the blood from our faces as we called tech support, ‘hey techsupport we have a problem’ but no even then that wouldn’t be a problem, even, not even a situation, no because it would be expected: We’d suppose it (and the television would verify) a clever marketing ploy, an immediate obscelescence for the sake for profit, and when the fudge was mopped up and the parasites were latched away from the corpses, the assholes could sell us the same thing but they’d say Guaranteed Parasite Free, and they’d sell us free fudge too, as a joke, as in, look at us, we were in on it all along…nothing would stop the inevitable slow downturn of great progress, the click then click then stop, but everything would launch our expectations of a new renewal, it’s in our very psychology, it’s a constant humming noise that for whatever reason (I’m in no place for paranoid speculation now) is trained/trains us to tell differences between what we want and what we have.
It’s a great hammer that pries out nails from our spinal cords and then pounds them in again, and then does it a few more times, each time finding new places to release our precious spinal fluid, our precious integrity, our precious freedom—we call out god, Freedom! But that’s the call that god damn hammer took so much training, all those months buried under commercials and focus groups, to recognize—so to saying Freedom like with a capital F, from underneath us the hammer comes flashing like a furious whip dragon no! and then the parasites lick their long tongues down our urethras, and that’s when we know that They finally have us from head to toe, and we are lost to procreation and office jobs, to car issues, sick chickens, passive aggressive spouses, confused self-identified faggots, clinging doomed brats on the legs of beefy man-boys wearing sports’ t-shirts…doomed!
What, do you call me destructive because I look out over our tallest structures and wish for a great sandy wind, a progression of natural elements to indifferently envelop everything we’ve spent so long to make, to lap over the cities and kick its heels into the sand like a dog covering its shit? We’re leftover lumps, lumps no less no more than the lumps around beautiful tree side brooks, around long embankments of cottonwoods, twisting currents of mountains—the cities our buildings grow have so many small holes for creepy persistent flora, then fauna, and it is only left for time to find those holes. The zoological society of greater science could never conceive of what a wonderful place their research facilities could be if they were overgrown with enormous firs, enormous panthers creeping past laboratories and roaring, scaring away enormous fawns, and trampling enormous blades of grass—oh, but these are cruel dreams for me, they are so vivid, so potential, yet I’m living now this time when I am this creature man who lives in a can, when soft soil is layered-through with concrete coverings, when still we keep nature’s enormous possibility inside deep beakers for our empirical study—what a waste!
‘Write what, what do I write,’ I wail, and I wrap myself from head to tail in the fear of my own mind, shivering from the cold of a thousand billion dead and dying possibilities, and myself standing prepared unsure within the middle, myself full of action or not, of potential or rot, to peel back layers upon layers of false perception in my own brain. I can not! Theories shot, I wonder what, if whatever written is all forgotten, perverted forms of nature’s song, what do I write that is not wrong? I can not say, or see, or simply be, I can not go or do, or remind you, or tell you—I can not, I can not! Society, you are doomed to die, and die by nobody like the likes of me, but I, what am I? Can I cry for a way for words to fall through from the sky? Can I stay still enough for soft winds to wash over me? Can I write out the perfect simplicity? I am lost, friend you reading reader, lost along with you, but I am here to say maybe something for someone else like me, grasp into now with a whisper in your ear, a breathing whisper beyond the concept of You and Me, to say for you in a subtle key, “Hello there, this is nowhere, and where it meets, that is Free.”
