What you seek is seeking you. --Rumi
The moon gets smaller as the night comes on. Rises over the bay and constructs. Time pink green and brief as love. I live on a flamingo wing as the sun forms gold from shadows and windows.
For a minute in that traffic, the static speaks of rain, machines, cancer and harp seals, trucks, guns, and holy words. Slipping into darkness leaching all the beauty from a slowing day. I make the moment given me.
There is nothing new but novelties. I had my way. Discovered roads, went wild. I remember everything. I immediately forget. I have the memory of a child.
Night creeps on the day. Squawking gulls speaking of their brittle eggs. I feel a landlocked whale who's wandered in bad bays and gorged on fish until he's trapped inside a space to prove how patient is extinction.
If you're seeking enlightenment, this journey ends in the middle. You will not argue. Desire set its talons deep: The constant need to create more creations. To see more than necessary. Feel more than prescribed.
Broken laptop with lucite earrings and eucalyptus leaves. Pineapple and lemon on velvet in shade. Untitled shipwreck. Silk patterns, bright colors. Moving music. Who's fucking my baby now?
O to live in a diva's day. To have one's stimulants used against thee. It was difficult to find a conversation that did not lead to love-poisoning-love. Difficult to find something that wasn't boring or disgusting.
A yellow light advising caution gleams against the last lavender. My heart is beating like a million trains. The darkness comes down like a dagger too eager to rain and thrill me. My mind is over in the sense of seeking.
But all the things we don't-know-why take night on its back, and on the carcass of the moment past new thoughts form like fungi dividing the living and dead.
These are not the sexy epiphanies of brilliant youth but steady streams of task and stat, face and judgment, date and time. Metaphysical dust. The stuff that poets keep clean.
Everything I've tried has failed to solve me, yet a deep hope remains. It must, beneath the pain and trivia. The night is lighter later by a moment than the previous. I see limited men in limitless oblivion.
At first comes a lack of time to unravel complexities. Then an abundance of time in which all these dimensions are clowns to insanity. The closest we get to understanding can only be confusion.
Like an insect who breathes just 24 hours, I see that I am grains of time--a second-by-second guess. It is impossible to do anything but stare. To move on automatic with some vague notion of what to seek and where.
Eternity gives eternity to perfect our deformities. I constantly curl to places my soft parts stuck. I was sixteen. I was twenty-five. Thirty-three and thirty-four. I was tired of looking back and saying that I was. A starving carnivore.
Beyond solution, deep in self-pity, the earth around me seemed to crack. If you pieced its puzzle, you'd see a war crime ripped from the headlines bleeding onto the icecaps while someone gave an explanation why.
Desperate for shelter, I went seeking human connections saying even the homeless find them one warm night under the punishing stars. A moment you wonder Am I the only one? And something says No.
But X is subject to rapid total change. Moods vary, events alter, beauty calcifies. It seems impossible with these gadgets, anthems, and pills. Which keep us going through mayhem, response, and the critics. On the most-pristine oil spills.
I found myself surrounded by needles and cameras, injustice, frustration, and death. Everyone was becoming more evil. The greater the evil the more they spoke of harmony and love. Whoever spoke I trusted less.
No no, I said, that isn't right. It's just self-interest we are exhausted, dying, trying to get by while lucky-few command us to go further faster and obey, and we do, without recourse.
Strip-searched to the skeleton because I had to be, I heard gunshots in the blue and This happens too. Methane filled the air. At night I stared at couples kissing in the bars and wondered about my future food source.
Words curdled, broke down like organic matter into something I clung to, a fungus parsing the living and dead. The things we hear, the things we say, mean little on the day-to-day.
For instance, I can speak of freedom but it feels a speech created for me. Emptying its value on broken bridges, systems. Courts, and cities. The list is endless really. Today a woman was shot for no reason by a kid with no name.
Look around. You'll feel the pain. You'll see it as design. The divine right of kings who do with power what one does, until we're broke and trapped, resigned and high.
I think I'm authored by a secret committee inbred as a pharaoh's afterlife. Any passing luxury sedan may determine how tomorrow ends. May understand the speeches written for me. Why the bombs drop for real.
I will not fear such heroes. My amen ascends to a blue sky and waits for a goddess to reply. After such hopes, one realizes his status is in doubt. That no reply may come. And I will fear such heroes in my time.
Such talk and my head clouds images: Lamborghini/volcano/giraffe birth/commando surgery/mandrill/exodontia/bruise. I set sail on a ship with sails of skin and landed in the annals of pornography beside the wounded angels.
Adapted to a challenging environment. Survived and hated it. Stopped believing newspapers, talk show hosts, antiheroes, the all-powerful dollar, villains, supervisors, the script of heaven above.
Got so high I spit on stars, then felt bad because I knew they're set like me. To die. Avoiding death. To tell themselves: Eternal life is awful. To wait to believe.
To believe in nothing, even disbelief. Drifting here and there repeating words I'd overheard. A puppet of prophets. Or their silent unmoored companion. What am I floating for really?
To doubt the lessons of poets I admired? And the music that I hear. Is it really genius? Or just a crude commercial for an ancient king?
Metaphor clarification innuendo and slur: There's me only at the end of the night. I go to bed relieved of light. Rain oils on the city. Rocks me to sleep like tsunamis of lava under the red-lightning sky.
In dreams I once broke the equations. Everything seemed deep and vital, fearless and alive. I unpacked a neverending train of the biggest-ever prizes. I ate bouillabaisse from the Stanley Cup on a regular basis.
On a drawbridge leading to a sloop in a river braided with fish, Kate Upton and Blackbeard did the whole Kama Sutra. I stood alone in my middling existence looking for such things to put me over.
But X is subject to rapid total change. In time without effort, I started seeing shit everywhere. Bad burgers sat in my stomach like poverty. Fat clouds of silence my art. My words now brilliant for fools.
I'd hallucinate with ease. From pole to pole, it was intoxicating. I lived a life I was not really living. When I woke I'd done great things no one would appreciate. But when I woke, I was the man I always recognized.
Hemorrhaging money. Smoking dope, a golden liver begging more. They put me on medication on medication on medication. I lived in harmony with radio stations broadcasting bland hits and arctic prophets coming true.
Saw poverty, addiction, as an arc of my story til that moment the aggressive walls flaunted photos of paradise in drought. Nothing kills dreams like alarms. But the dream of the next night's even-softer arms.
Woke up jealous to the sound of rain on tin, stained glass, early shadows, velvet thumping, gentle cars, birdsong in a forest of malachite. To sounds I thought the privileged hear. I heard in the distance.
Talked back down from my deluded heights, I thought Love was next to take me higher. The proof is in the wound I was when I found myself once more. Living a life I was not really living. A starving carnivore.
My love was everything you've heard, ultimately nothing to me. A silent siren you tempt to sing by being near. To no avail because she's modest, honest, full of fear.
What happens when the light of god has no effect upon the flowers waiting in you? Do you not ascribe your flowers to a different source when they arise?
I loved for nothing. The get-yourself-together-and-forget-it-man well-wishing friends prescribed wore thin as I found memories in every song. Wondering when love becomes weird. If obsession is wrong.
She's there again in the bedroom. Not naked but not clothed. The bluebirds listen deeply. Silent summer air. Our bodies mortared with sweat in the attic. It is late afternoon, and lace haunts the sun.
I sleep. I wake. I go. And the dream ends with its understanding. In a pile of cloud that never was, the breath of myth in the air. Love passes like nausea. You can only self-eviscerate so long before the torture ends itself.
One day I will embrace what is open before me. It will be free as the beautiful describe. With a dying bird, a kiss on the sidewalk, a window through the world I see. In my eyes, not my fantasies.
Maybe I comfort some heartbroken heart with this sympathetic hurricane, and feel you through the darkness. Toward the hazy spring we end together. Forgetting the punishing stars.
Maybe I don't and you think I have misplaced all that's real of human value. I have grown accustomed to discredit, hear your argument, and won't deny its merit.
We could go round for days but I would still be just a crazy beast with his evanescence hampered by the temptation to endure.
How sad then to emerge as gladiator in a stadium of infinite blood. Given no option but to wrestle with monsters. Living like the spasms of a severed limb, acting out of habit like everything is there.
That's the Great Aching. How can one desire less perfection? Blood light kiss. Form breath rain. It isn't easy for the angels to create these things. To deny what they have made to keep us craving.
Or admit it's difficult to deeply feel as years go by. That your senses are an industry burning up stimuli to leave you a jaded monster complaining the sun today was too golden.
If you're seeking enlightenment, the journey ends here. With meanings mothballed in old words that slug to recognition of long-lost priority and end absurd as the babble of a child.
Check it: Stock-footage blonde and white twister at 00.22:54 show Pagani blown to hell, wheatfields, petri dish, corn syrup, polar bear.
If this is what awaits us, is it not a miracle? Yes or no is either side of the wrong answer. The light that keeps us safe is hot enough to burn. It exposes every vesicle. Supermodel sucking popsicle.
My head nods like buoys in the mint-sea fog, saying Yes. But it's a follower's yes. The agreement of one who lives through another. As Christ peters into Paul, experience proceeds to law that says the days are governed strictly.
All this, and the universe loves me. As it loves you and the rest of humanity. My vanity is wounded because I am not loved especially. At heart I hate equality.
I must be loved above the rest. Be blessed by a butterfly for all you know. I see that now is not the way. So I desire to untangle my desire, becoming more entwined.
People like to say the dead survive in memory, but they fade too. Like words or suns or rock formations. Like a demon to damnation. Everything must go.
Misdeeds and planets, miracles, crowns. Even if that means sorrow and pain. With the juiciest tears ready to flow from drug-company actor on cue.
Diversions kiss together. Clouds roll away. I imitate my angels chewing dip in twilight angles as homeless men give up their Gloria under blue sonnet skies, rainclouds like aircraft carriers sweeping the west.
The starlings and seagulls on the cables of big ships shake their heads like a memory is stuck, and the sky turns another shade of pink and gold and bigger blue that brings the rain.
Accept, indiscriminately, the rainbow left behind. Miracles, become commonplace. Sometimes I remember. I immediately forget. I have the memory of a child.
Of a perfectly healthy human child. Still growing out of her clothing and shoes as if she's reaching for the body of a giantesse who would look down upon me sadly, and drop a giant tear for me to drown.
It doesn't happen that way. We stop somewhere, collect experience and serve it up like a plate of rice and beans. This is what I have concocted.
When it comes I hope the beauty that coped away my saddest days will be released and all the lies will run. I need something different, something clear. But if you need to know exactly what, your journey ends here.
A fog blows over the hippocampus. Obfuscate the clear with me and be like it. Cloud the severity of seeing so much so clearly and knowing more than should be known in the lifetime of a little god. Let no fungus grow when you are gone.
You don't come from heaven either. The blue is black. The dream is over. From here there can be no sobbing eye. You know the way shit works too well to cry.
But I've seen it with you. Felt it for you. Whatever it was. Speak to me between your sighs. And if you find yourself in fear, take these words and blow them to the sky.