Under the Influence

30 November 2009 § 2 Comments

Some greater purpose had come about in the form of educating himself in the ways of those whom had arrived after him, and the dim light in the hallway accented this philosophy in a way only rave parties had in the undistant past. It’s the occasion to play catch up on the theories he had accrued and used to his benefit in arguments with ministers and scholars up to then, time to make them more significant, more than the original ideas that first presented themselves to the writer – before the publisher took hold, before the professors and critics – all failures in their fields – laid foundations of doubt in place of concrete, deconstructive asceticism where the temples would be tombs, and with this persistence their failures were less prodigal.

The manuscripts that populated the desk, the kitchen counters, the bookshelves were icefalls he would never attempt to climb, even as his eyeglasses shifted light from one side of the page to the other when the sun distastefully entered the room where he stood, leaned over the billiard table, elbows dusted blue, or sitting on the floor, back against the intricately carved to be dreadfully uncomfortable cabinets and shelves that dominated three walls. Late afternoon, the bleakest era of any calendar, when neither day or night are promised to arrive or remain, and the entire world appears to be a dream of Midas, and all that is precious is cheapened to the likes of bumper stickers and foul-smelling candlesticks.

And it was in this light the spirit of God flourished, its braggadocio a collage  highlighting man’s hypocrisies, magazine cutouts crayola-d to innocent perfection, photographs of Ferris wheels and correction pen marks drawing Valentine hearts with practiced hands. No moral man could question the good He had on us, and only the Wicked would appeal his judgment.

And it is with this conviction that ‘free will’ is incarcerated by a judge and jury that both have insurmountable issues of masochism, galloping around the concrete jungles built for them to find a power to submit to, after dark, when the world is not watching because it is partaking in its own self-torture, having shrunk to the demands of the Day, cozy in their blankets and chains, behind locked doors for the moment some stranger might wish to seize the Things that have been acquired, and no fear is greater than losing the Things we have worked for, deserve because we bought them, and Own them. It would be a crime to take them away, and often is.

the post-you and here.

26 November 2009 § Leave a comment

I remember telling you about the writing room and all the doorways – on the shelves were other worlds and you can have them all, and don’t stop, don’t stop – it’s not that I don’t want them, or you, or this world but if – can look around and see nothing but the earth in her natural state, then – know where – am at, cardinal directions dictated by the weathervane nearest you, way back there but it wasn’t so many hours ago that it was decided that only one of us had the power to decide. So tell the story like it happened and leave out all the parts that made it special, made it worth what it was, and create now what it wasn’t and prject that into me with passing trains and their origins in death.

Murders are the first course, so let him have his passage now and for the next, he’ll be jumping out the windows, playing tricks he’s always practiced, imagining the jewels that will follow him to the punchline, yes or no, not the stones but those associated with the very trickery, belligerence – he woke up in a daze and forgot about the sun – least to say it shocked the electricity from his heart and gave his brainwaves quite a start to discover that there was a star so close to him and she could make anything happen with a blink or anything else quite as simple – a breath or two will be my last example, and he or they would sweat or smile away all the shattering of bones and coins and some vital organs we mistook for some importance, for some point of view said it would be alright if we just broke it, or carefully removed it and placed it on the table, to watch it move like a colony of ants, watch it work itself to death protecting all those it loves or cares about to some extent, wait, wait, what exactly are we getting at?

Another failed attempt at tapping the subconcious, and now I’m back with you.

I am pressured by the purple sky to see past my own self. Last time I checked, these pages were the color of fake parchment mixed with a little bleach, but now they’re violet and textured, like an instrument I’ve seldom played before and could use some practice at if I were ever to perform, like in that empty amphitheater in Nashville – would I open up if I was there right now?

Would the words pour out of me, to no one particularly around, would my body move with them like I knew how to dance? It wouldn’t matter, I decide, because if there is something to be moved to, like the symphonies in my head, my soul would move me with the power of words and violins – to hell with shame; how many songs are left until the end? How many seconds, how many dances can we fit in before the end?

Characters, Vol. I.

25 November 2009 § 1 Comment

As soon as I hear the music, my feet start moving. I can’t help it. When that groove happens, there’s no stopping it. Salsa, mamba, tap, tango, waltz, even the kids with their break dancing – we’re witnessing magic there. It’s the truest, most soul-encompassing form of expression, and if you don’t put your heart into it, you’re done. You won’t enjoy yourself for a minute until you let go of those shy feelings and allow your body some freedom. It’s the difference between playing solitaire on the computer and going skydiving.

I ask people sometimes, what’s the difference in your day if you just smile once – one really genuine, open wide smile, and they look at me like I’m some sort of loon. But then they’ll get a twinkle in their eye and I know their spirit is not dead, it’s only sleeping, sedated from their daily rounds of the local dregs. After a few seconds, some people will just laugh, and I can literally see the barbells falling from their shoulders, just like in the cartoons, and I can see the teeth they’ve been hiding. I tell them, do this every day. Just smile. That’s your mind learning to dance.

Heartening words, insignificant.

24 November 2009 § 1 Comment

My distractions have led me away from the dreams I have sought to transform, and my attention span testifies to its betrayal. But really, they are mine, one and all, because I lead temporary passions by a short leash until I see another sparkling orb of the unfamiliar and choose to follow it instead. Positions in and around fate are constantly changing, and I am subject to them, losing places as often as I lose myself. Regret is a fictional parade, and moves nowhere.

The West pulls at my heart as magnetism pulls me east, and understanding of this phenomenon eludes me, as does Focus. As a tumultuous result, inspiration tosses me about in ragtime, but I seldom bite back, or chase it – or always. Disappointment is legion, and only intentional breath levels me. For lifetimes I have retained the irritating inability to voice what it is I want regardless of expectation. Priority is a façade, and reflects only the bonds of responsibility. These I will not abandon, for they are mine, and belong to me, like truth does. More importantly, it and they belong to those around me, and I can affect them. I will affect them, because I gave my Word, and I pretend that means something. Somewhere, it does. To someone, whom I may or may not know yet, it does.

Escape is mine, and we have been friends often – but I have escaped the things I love, for reasons I can detail sonically only to myself, and it is my wish to discontinue this pretension, this flight, this grand alighting I have made ceremonious. Impossibility does not exist, and walking on the sun taught me that, while standing on mountains, walking away from that lake underneath the cliff – remember that? I do, and I have banished that memory for its happiness, for its contentment, and I have disputed my deserving of that day. But it, too, is mine, and is yours, too, if you want it.

Winter beckons. The snow and cold calls, and my dreams feature those lost to me. I intend to find that Focus, though we have never encountered one another – and there is only one place it resides, and this location claims no borders on any map, is not kept by governments, not managed by corruption, unlimited. I am boundless and do not know it, or it is taken for granted, not appreciated, not loved, and this is irreverent, depraved.

Presently, I make no oath to the god of change, unless he is me, and I am him. Perhaps we are, and I do. This line of breadcrumbs and featureless terrains I have followed in hopes of some fortunate event ultimately befalling me ends here, now. Faultlines are now marked, I have been down that road, thinking it was the one less traveled, that my passion and patience would reward some sacrifice, and I was mistaken. And maybe I will be again, and again after that, but to learn is my ambition, to inspire my infinite hope, and I cannot achieve these without Truth, or the pursuit of it. My capabilities are limited only by doubt, counterfeit instinct.

And I’ll heed no more of that, if I can help it.

Morningrise.

23 November 2009 § Leave a comment

Those fresh and clear moments, mornings in Albuquerque when I’d be skipping school for some engagement I wanted even less a part of. Winter was always on its way. The sun pale, but not like Alaska – this still had some warmth to it. The air was chill and the birds singing. It could easily be a weekday in autumn, as it is right now. The smell is what a city smells like, everyone’s routine – and I’m so glad not to have one, because this realization would pass me by. This is the day people working indoors talk about how they’re missing the beautiful weather, and by the time they see it, the whole world will be taken in by the rapturous golden glow that is mocking to us all: it says I am the proof that you missed out, I am the evidence of beauty that will never exist again, not like it did today – I offered you the morning, but all of you were working, or slept in.

Spiral with my free hand. Reluctant to breathe in another moment, because I’ll have to eventually exhale – and we’ll all be breathing tragedy by three this afternoon, when exposing body parts you never would to snow, the temporary breathe visible no more to we who called it intervention. To hell with the finalities of December and July, it’s in between we really live, when there’s less trivial design.

Emergency: Trials!

19 November 2009 § Leave a comment

After eight years of poor decisions, two wars, many wrongful imprisonments of Muslims the world over, millions of injections of new and bold prejudices of which this culture can’t seem to get enough, and a whole new era of the American Way redefined (including but not limited to the inability to carry a bottle of drinking water with you on an airplane), we have come down to the trials of the September Eleventh suspects, which at this point are going to be held in a civilian court in lower Manhattan, just a few blocks from their comrades’ last cordial visit to New York City.

For someone whose knowledge of the law is pretty much limited to juvenile court and Hollywood’s Grisham films, I think a few mistakes are being made here: first, that a jury is supposed to be of the unbiased sort – but let’s get back to that in a moment. Trials are supposed to be held in the district of the crime, right? According to Doc Hollywood and My Cousin Vinny, we have an affirmative. So in this case, our endearing president has got us on the right track – just so we know where we are. Now, back to the unbiased jury part (let’s call on Runaway Jury for that scoop – “This is the blood of innocent children gunned down by greedy corporations!” – drag him out of here.) That’s lunch!

Sincerely; how might they find an objective jury in Manhattan, of all places, to fairly try these scoundrels? As well, since confessions have been made, which is a good thing on them, for a severe lack of physical evidence looms over everyone going to be present, we’re all expecting this to be a circus in which these gentlemen have the same rights as the burglar subjected to having to eat dog food because he was locked in the garage of the burglaree’s home, but a circus in which there will be convictions made and maximum sentences recommended. A breeze for any prosecutor – a career-maker, however, am I right? – and what a job the defense counsel has – someone call Bobby or Eugene, they’ll take care of the job!

In a fair, civil trial where one is innocent until proven guilty and tried by an unbiased jury of his peers, the kind of thing that takes place every day in courtrooms throughout the free and just United States of America – let’s say, for the lack of evidence, a very, very good attorney and all of these things considered – the verdict comes back as Not Guilty. What happens then? Do we start again, have someone undertake the monumental task of writing another 9/11 Commission Report, reintroduce all the controversy on torture, airport security, maybe let things go back to normal? Or send another twenty thousand troops to any Middle Eastern country we can suck the resources from, under the universal pretense of War? Oh wait, this isn’t about that.

Only a terrorist for suggesting such a preposterous idea! Why, I’m just extolling the virtues of the Great American Justice System – ‘the system,’ for short. Every person and their republican grandmother is expecting this to be the biggest landslide since last November, though we can’t say anything about that, we can just broadcast the trial – much to O.J.’s publicist’s chagrin – and wait for the unbiased, lawful verdict.

Of course, I don’t know all the evidence they have, I’m just listening to the various news sources saying there isn’t much – and the common sense that says the Guantanamo Bay lockup was one of the biggest cop-outs in American history. These guys committed these heinous crimes against the U.S., and it makes perfect sense that it shouldn’t be a military trial, doesn’t it? Just because they were held at a military compound where their interrogations were outside U.S. jurisdiction and thus open to cage matches, golden showers and all sorts of kinky things does not mean that they should be tried under U.S. Military Law.

No crime by these people was committed against the military or in it, and yet Americans are scared shitless of letting these guys into our beloved country they so violated with their beliefs and penknives – where they should have been detained since Day One. We don’t export our serial killers, rapists, cop killers, child molesters or even our Breaching spies! We lock them up in a maximum security prison, toss them into GenPop, and what happens happens. Leave them in Emerald City, Sing Sing, Leavenworth, and I highly doubt the guards would require much of a bribe to turn the other cheek. Even our Prisoners are still Americans, and some of them are Patriots, and I’ll bet they can’t wait to prove it.

the elements that make up the world are these

18 November 2009 § Leave a comment

It’s just occurred to me that I have no co-conspirator, not anymore and I’d like one that understands and can surf with me and clash – we’d be like tectonic plates, raising mountains from our collisions. Observation is our ally and the impending snow and ice would be seen, zined, and microfiched like christmas lights on halloween, fireworks on the Ides of March, Colorado valleys tramped upon and skidded on, burning pines and reading books on traveling through time because w’ve already mastered space and banished the umbrella definitions of common words and phrases, having carved them into leather seats and replacing them with imperfect verse and extraordinary rhymes.

The recess junkies capturing the flag, camouflaged in miniskirts and cardigans, smoking next to firewalls, wondering about all the things a squirrel can do to a fallen tree, a log, a diary named the moon – what did Ahab say about the fire? Prospects of peace abroad – who is going to change the world?  Don’t put that on me, please don’t – I’ve got enough going for me now, I don’t want to chase any more dreams – so I leave it to you: this plan is flawless, and takes no compromise – just drop this quilt off at the front desk, and they’ll trade it in for innocence, and then we’ll start where we begin.

Where Am I?

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