I look around, see eyes down
Ears turned inward
Not wanting to be disturbed
Or inconvenienced in the least way.
But there are two
Who gaze into each other’s eyes
What lurks beneath this disguise of love
I want to believe that we are not
Trapped in the frame of a robot
Thanks to the children
I see filled with this thing
That seems to harden as time brings
Us closer to I know not what
I will find the beauty in the inward turn
This human tragedy will become mine
Why does brown makes me think of fire?
Even though black or red
Should take care of that better.
It doesn’t matter
It’s what the dream said.
As I was laying in bed
The world was descending upon me
As I was rising to the surface.
“Brown is the color of fire”
Is it the end of Autumn
That makes me think of losing everything.
But it’s the start of Spring
When everything is new and green.
Do these words try to convey
Some meaning some command to obey.
Or is it just a dream to be lived as a dream.
In colors in fire.
In everything that mixes together
When I’m away in the hills of slumber
I see and hear things better
I need and invasion. To strike down the division. To unify and collect the sides into a tangible reasonable sensible selection. This cynic’s soul is suffered enough. It’s time to rebel against the moronic incest. My brain is in two, a troubled machine. Let’s bring in the troops to level the field. It’s time to end the Civil War reenactment. I need my country to be invaded.
The incessant neeeeeed to be right is ok, but the rifle butts on the door will perhaps distract long enough to see what’s real. Personal belief is out the window on little tissue issues. We need wood stone and steel again. A purposeful means. People to inspire dreams beside an addicted symbol of insecurity and self centered greed.
I’m ready for the coming invasion. Bring in the hordes to pillage the stores. Turn the fight to an actual enemy, instead of the twisting baby ideals of a televised mind. Sound the alarm and watch the petty fears and differences disappear into a unified front of warriors. Our blood will pool together on American soil as one red wave.
We’re hurtling through space at a million miles per second.
Deal with it.
Cast down, the full white face of a clown dies alone in the big tent, surrounded by elephants. He’s protected by a mourning shroud of trunks swung low, at half mast, a ceremony for the fellow they knew as Chuckles.
He lay in the sawdust, a fallen hero of the failing circus. A mysterious whim of death unburdened itself upon him.
The sadness is coursing in a wild frenzy around the ring. A gleaming white face is slowly fading into black. The soul of the artist rises fluidly, a tumble, a calculated fall, a snap to attention pop a flower from its lapel. Nobly it drifts up past the trapeze, he always wanted to fly with ease as they did. The company troop cheers a roaring “hoorah!,” and sends the pure spirit of the man formerly known as Charles “Chuckles” Morton, off smiling to opening night at the grand unknown show.
0 4 0 5 2 0 1 2 – the combination to the future. Digits have taken hold, swarmed and calculated our humanity. It’s not so bad, when I can get away into hills out of radiation’s way.
I’m like a paranoid alien-snatched renegade, waiting for the day the operation will be made. For all of us are to be disposed of, like so many articles of clothes of finicky consumer bodies fit with colorful bits.
My courage must be quick, undoubting, or the fans this shit will hit. Keep a low eye on the overhead situation. Always know the quick route to the underground compounds.
I hate to make such frightened blade running sounds, but the sun will start to don a dimmer light. The days will seem like disco Vegas nights, never knowing when to sleep. We’ll step out of body into dreams, regaling memory chips of better days before the neutron winter haze, when flowers lined the steel passageways.
Probe the data deeper still, before when grass coated feet roamed the hill and salvation seeped up from the ground and rained from the sky, pressing hard between this mortal goodbye. The future was so far away, the following afternoon or maybe the day after: Saturday.
Yes, Saturday was the bright and illustrious future. Please don’t make me go back—forward to the digitized black and video sun. I don’t want to lose the inclination of the hill I run. The composite formulation does not compare, nor does the filtered ventilators to this wild grass perfume air. Please, may I stay. Let me live in this state, even though I tremble knowing that this too is an algorithm, a bio-digital meta vision. There is no escape.
[unsolicited hopeful response follows]
If you can imagine what you’ll see, it’s not even close—beyond the construct of a low-voltage synaptic random access melancholy. But I indulge… What if this numero-visual race, and this endless hurtling through black space is suddenly understood to be a great journey, through the mythic dually proven hypothetic plasma-driven emotional magic dream heart, into the bright hot molten core of this Saturday?
“Mannish Water
Ram Goat Flavor Soup Mix
with artificial goat flavor”
Advertising this?
Really?
Is it good?
It raises so many intriguing questions.
First and foremost…
No, there are too many.
I must have it…
To know.
To take the artificial goat
Into my soul.
Envelope it
As it warms me through.
Then hopefully I’ll know.
Where the artificial goats do roam.
Some days I’m inspired by everything I see in this town. It’s mayhem of beauty. I hear in every sound the ring of perfection. When the sun hits it right, the magic explodes into fractal macabre of color. Intensity, androgyny, moral decapitation, inconsequential activity congealing in one great masterpiece of form, function and majesty.
Many have seen the alternate inversion, equally sublime in darkness. To live here, you must share the secret. At the same time, keep the secret deep in hiding, lest the light escape and burn the eyes of the infidel. Protect it well warriors. Your reversible image is not for all. It may be misunderstood.
What starts so seemingly big, ends in supreme insignificance. A nervous feeling, a throbbing sinus structure, a number of swishing thoughts through the mental membranes–all conspire to fabricate a reality of facts.
Then I look up at the early April Sun, warming my face from more millions of miles away than I can understand. This perspective is not a thought, but shift of reality, and it comes slamming into earth like a meteor, a contextually small particle that can easily disrupt the temporary function of another larger particle.
The science may astound, but it is the vast mystery that fills me. The insignificance of it all is what makes me feel grand.
How did I get here?
You’ll never guess where I am.
In the belly of the Titanic.
Deep in the sinking heart and center.
I return to the scene of the crime.
Ten plus years later.
A hundred million tears later.
Since it all tumbled down.
The city blood rushes on.
Renews itself with fresh oxygen and steel.
Only its memory holds the pain.
Its cells are strong, resilient.
The fire forges a new change.
A broad and ever expanding skyline.
A monolithic heart of darkness.
No intrusion withstanding.
It pumps and breathes on.