On the Question of Context: December 2012

Monday, December 10, 2012

National Ave - A Start

When I began what would become the opening of a thousand eyes I was already on the run. I was running from my parents mostly as they had seen fit to put me to the stone. I was running from my brothers in arms but they wanted me to be safe. Most of all I was running from the crazy danger disease I had contracted from the man in the moon. He would call out to me in a fury of controlled substances and mind bending animal dances. And yet I could say that as long as I can be sure of my memory all I wanted was the purity of chaos and numbed sleep. So why would I run from my demon that would seem to be my familiar? Well sometimes when you run from the sun you are falling right into a star. I fell into a pattern of running while under a red
dextromethorphan
hydro
bromide
planet
no, an orbit
pulled with
The Gravity is what Dr. Light would refer to it as. He would say we were all pulled by the great magnet into our little waltzes. So as I was crashing into my future not expecting to survive the fury I came upon Super D. It was he who came to me, to be more accurate, if one dares care for that sort of thing. My start can be traced farther back into infamy, but for the purpose of nothing I will start at the area of greatest possibility and most fantastic confusion. Super D showed up at my house without knowing full well who I was and how we had previously met. I had sold him LSD that he had said was the clowns make up even as I was flying my spaceship with this very fuel. In fact many had ridden that roller coaster but Super was always riding at least six to ten dragons so how he could tell there was no proof in the punch was beyond me. I will return to this later, as the most important, or should I say damning, thing to point out is that Super D came bearing gifts
of syrup and
chaser, you see the
tuss tastes like anger
and reason has a cost
you slam then you chase
with chocolate milk, and wait
hoping you avoid
the violent vomit, which
would often improve the overall experience of mental cliff diving. Super D said he had never seen anyone chug a whole 8 oz of max strength without stopping. I ended up with a nice pink stain on the collar of the tuxedo shirt I loved to wear minus the tux. It was just my style to be right out there in the open sun for observation. Would it be wrong to say I felt pride? I have often said that Super D was one of several fathers I have known. He was my addiction professor. So he stood in awe of my need for the adventure and chugged his disease just like his son. we had done this right in the kitchen of the home of my parents. In a ceremony of goodbye I knew time would have it's way with me, and I would lose more than hours and days. We thus began
our desert tusscapade
the city, no the mind is
filled with strange creatures
when you get crooked, the eyes
give you away, but not
as much as the slurred
pretentiousness dream
sequences, one would
foolishly believe
Bring one closer to the magnet. Super D offered me a place to not work and eat his food while he worked. This would never last more that 87 days. I had become a fly in everyone's ointment right around this clock. Mr S Bean was also living, well making a mess of things as it were anyway, in the same group of college party domes. Mr S Bean was providing many of the recreational journeys. He was a supply master who had been schooled by Super D, of course he would never concede that, but we all knew he was number two in the cut. Well I had been spending my hours skulking around his dungeon, but was fake home at the time, when Super D fathered me. He too had a father who was not
made for the game of emotion lending
you have got to be the best at
every thing or you will die
to me, words are bells ringing
in the rain. My skulking was becoming unwelcome. You see I had been banned from Turned Stone's house by his aging father master. I had been the source of Turned Stone's emanate downfall into corruption. Being outcast, exiled into the far away. Super D was always the man for sensing those cast aside like he. I was very near the the brink when he found me home alone. He ensured that I had found this cliff and set myself upon the wind. What I did not comprehend until now, is that I was ready for a fall
ready for my base
to be cut down, you
see it must wreck itself
to make it new
here in the quagmire
I found you, found
you singing, no, writing
painting too, and
as young as the milky
way, born of star dust
always turning
Back to the 8 oz victory. From then on, for an entire sun season we found out about time. It was not long until Super D came to resent me with my procrastinators creed. After I moved into his home with Evil J, I was meant to Cinderella it up, or so I claimed. Super D and Evil J would supply the living space, and I would supply the stolen Tuss and the absolute need for substance. They would work and wake me in the middle of darkness to find some kind of danger. They would teach and I would leech. I did do some of the most interesting brush strokes I will never again see. That is something. I even found a new kind of mind for writing. One time while deep within the fields of a maddening bender shift I found out that I was in love with a word. Could I just let my hand loose? I
began with random
reason building lead-
-ing to more than I
could have ever known
how deep this would bore
into my skin, my eyes, my all
encompassing rage, my sun, my
search found me forward along a path to now. There were those who came into Super D's room and they would ask. What is he doing? They would speak words at me, which are lost to one who rides the red sea snake anyway, but this time I was a sheet of paper. I swear to you I was a pen and a dagger. This was so different to me as I was so very involved with the Trifecta of collaboration in acrylic. But they knew then that I was not to be trusted, I was ready to slip. I passed out for several hours, or days. When I woke or was woken up there was such sadness and fear of the possibility that none of this happened. The pages were gone for nearly 5 years. You
stole more than my words you made me
your own you
for this I can only love
you as a son hates his father

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Descendant

Here I come to sleep

This stone, this elegy of the son

And weeping, did sleep as the mountain

Can a page have dreams?

This stone of son and man, weary

Here I came to sleep

Can a word have a child?

The discontent of winter nears

And I weep and dream in the machine

I see steel in your bones, your future

Your hand becomes my alchemy

Here you come to sleep

Carbon will bear witness

Is mankind worth the word of metal?

So weeping, I sleep as the seed

A man is born of a son

And made stone in time

Here we came and slept

And wept in an endless sea

The Right Name for Confusion

a big aficionado

the blue screen of possible

failure is not

an option

the screen door

the white screen

an endless body

no, isn’t that blue

aficionado

big

a bigger name?

you see, the she, the he

is we

Monday, December 3, 2012

eight billion years v3

eight billion years is a difficult

measure of time to wrap ones thoughts

around. it has been pointed out in the science

and astronomy community that this is how long

it will take for the sun to burn itself out. In a grand

blaze of galactic fury indescribable in intensity and

magnitude, all that is our corner or infinity will be at

once dust which will become other dust and other stars

will be born. in the final hours this god of our past will

decimate all that was once holy. growing to one hundred

times its original size it will eat we who knew for certain

what time meant. and yet will man be long since burned out?

will we beat the sun to its final destruction?

will we beat the sun with nuclear fury? the number of nu-

clear weapons on the earth is immeasurable. there are enough

to explode any earth in a cartoonish manner, several times

over. is this born out of a sense of necessity that no matter

how much people rebel against the onslaught, we can purge

them. we can remove the need for life to exist in any manner in

many new and interesting ways. this many times over. many times

over. should we watch them all burn? these men who just simply

refuse to respect how the rules go. is this the security tax that must

be paid with blood and confusion? there is a purpose to the machine

we are told. the complex is multifaceted and military in drive. we are

the economy that poisoned reason with a need to be normal and connected.

what is the nature of a god’s inner turmoil, is god still the sun?

what is the nature of god’s need for placement in the light?

does god make us or did we make him? what is positive reinforce-

ment? we need to die in order for our real lives to start. we are

not whole until we meet what made us. if god made us

does he want us to die? are we our own best excuse to do wrong?

if to die is to be one with eternity then we kill to be in the light.

we are made by a being that wants us to die to be close to him.

does my god have a thousand arms, a million I’s or the atom as heart?

cliché to even ask. the sun is very much still the god that we

worship. he will, in an impressive gesture bring us all within his bossom

and birth new star stuff. in the heavenly flames of hellish fire new life is

made of our emotions. our minerals reduced to a state of chaos by the

sun god - gods son. eight billion years will suffice for at least one

of the answers. in the final flash all thought will be made stone.

the equation is in the final flash, the stone, the elegy of permanence.

we see the god filled with turmoil, the innermost nature of which is

flame. stars, always the patient ones, will beat the sun to its final gesture.

what is the nature of god’s need for placement in the light?

will we beat the sun with nuclear fury?

eight billion years is a difficult measure of time, the sun

growing to one hundred times its original size it will eat we who knew for certain

what time meant. we can remove the need for life to exist in any manner in

many new and interesting ways. if to die is to be one with eternity then we kill to be in the light. we are made by a being that wants us to die to be close to him.

what is the nature of a god’s inner turmoil, is god still the sun?

will we beat the sun to its final destruction?

eight billion years will suffice for at least one

of the answers. in the final flash all thought will be made stone.

eight billion years v2