Ain't No Telling.

"At the darkest moment,
comes the light."

What is it like living in disease?

It's like crawling into a scream
of faulty phonics.

It's like having layers of willing acts
wound backwards, until the seeds able
to breathe and your witness to your
own birth.

some words will always look like they're spelled wrong.

Disease is like the idea of western religion
discovered lonely at the foot of the catskills.

it always looks like it's spelled wrong.

Imagine all those people who actually
took to the vicar, and thought life a son of a bitch!

God darnnit, I sure can't wait to die,
as heaven must be better then what's
goin on here.

"you people. sure are depressing."

I think I just understood what extremism really
means.

I suppose extremism is the 'ism of "literally".

the rhythms, running in parallel lines, how are
we ever to connect.

What is it like living with disease.
It's war.
All the symptoms are the same.

Parallel lines.

I imagine soldiers in trenches.
I imagine pain, and blood. A swelling from within.
At a distance watching friends ripped to
pieces, having love emptied on the killing
floor.

I imagine unspeakable horrors, and having
to distance yourself from all that's happening,
if only to take hold of some sense of sanity.

I imagine thoughts come to you in sporadic
bursts as you manage minutes of sleep.

I imagine all the color in the world fading,
mimicking grey, a fascination with black and white.

I imagine survival and tunnel vision, many
versions of home, visions of bliss and new blossom.

I imagine time stretching out into the infinities,
impossible to sleep with all this noise. This madness
is deafening.
Napalm.

I imagine coming home from war and viewing what you left behind
as a shattered mirror on a tiled floor.
It will take time to piece this mess together again.
( I heard Hitchcock say once " it all started with red riding hood".
or, had it ended with humpty dumpty.)

I imagine waves of frustration and depression as some pieces
have disappeared, and others are two small to grip with
blood on your fingertips.

Like a soldier who has lost the use of his legs, the
world looks askew from this new angle.
"Everything has changed now", you hear yourself whispering
into the reflection of the grocery store security mirror.
* your reminded of the carnival, look carefully.*

I imagine tugging war with fear, and winning only half the time.

I imagine a new kind of confidence, as you realize you made
it home alive. You survived, your a survivor. What,could
possibly be harder than this.

Yikes and away.

Who has the courage to stand in my way, you whistle. If
your wise you look forward to meeting them.
As you will most likely have questions.

I would like to share our rhythms, run parallel with an absolute.

I imagine persuading theology into a conch shell and listening
to the crunch at a happy birthday banquet.

I imagine a star burning brighter as you realize that all your
pain wasn't pain at all. It was quite the opposite.
When they told you "welcome to hell", you weren't meant
to take it literally, as hell isn't colorless, dreams are.

You sense that at the bottom of the abyss sprouted the voice
of salvation.
pictures.
Jesus starving in the desert, prisoners finding god under
clumps of skelp and rat droppings.

The darkest moment was the moment when the real message
of transformation came.

At the darkest moment came the light.

You realize you had it all backwards, and as you were in
the tunnel your instincts took over, and your brain took
notes.

You realize what a gift to have had a partner along the
way.

You realize she took a whole other set of notes.

Her's are more legible.

Parallel lines.

You realize your not afraid of death, and life suddenly
has new meaning.

You imagine a world you can't sense, hidden dimensions,
a evolutionary hurry, a voice from within.

You imagine death as a last laugh, serendipity, impotent to sleep,
Santa's coming.

You imagine death like warp speed, and Beethoven's fingers
have seven joints, and your happy to be able to keep up.

You always knew you could.

Every second then becomes precious, every thought
has a positive charge, your running everywhere.

You sense a purpose, and cannot pretend any longer.
Pictures in motion and "all revolves around
the whims of the great magnet."

The phones ringing again and it's always saying
the same thing.
Never compromise, the hour has shifted.

You laugh and wonder if this has anything to do
with the never ending struggle. As they always
seem to win, it doesn't mean we have to join them.

You remember someone telling you once that when
it ever got hard, you quit.

You were mad, but in time agreed.

And showed him with audacity that
change is as swift as it is decisive.

An obvious example, why can't you see?
That there are no more bears left, all
the men are dead.

It all makes you anxious,
you hope they don't catch you flogging suicide.
you hope. As the generations dwindle,
understanding too much an effort, the
heart gave out like a laughing flatulence.

We are all turtles with shells of varied pattern.

We must try not to stay hidden to long.

A symphony explains to you the nature of you.
and all you want to do is be me.
I mean you.
and now you accept the philosophy of "flow",
and become obsessed with the adventures of
huckleberry finn, so it goes.

first the little things start you laughing,
and slowly it all becomes funny.
Like having to lay your body parallel with
the floor for eight hours, or sitting down
for fifteen minutes to eat smoked salmon on
a sesame bagel.
What the fuck?
You try to explain, and realize your laughing
at your own evolution,
Jesus your watch is slow.

Sex is funny, and you think religious zealots
lost their sense of humor. Severed like a foreskin,
their path was bleak and barren. Lifeless, grey,
not worthy of black, or white. Out of
jealousy, fat with power, they pawn them into
fighting each other out of a fear,
hardly worth the cost.

The jesters make a game out of it,
and chess is invented.

Money is funny, as you pass a playful face over the
counter you receive the right for alcoholic disobedience.
Is that all it takes!
Yes! Seven funny faces.
You play a Violin Concerto In D Major and throw
the secret of money in the air and dance
naked with her curled freedom.
You both laugh a shared
symphony.

Where did you get it.
I bought it.
Happiness?
Yeah happiness, it was easy.

Like drinking water at twelve o'clock high.

You just can't play it loud enough.

the old fashioned flush.

Disillusionment? Sorrow? Disappointment,
Certainly.

And the piece peaks, and the world
swells, we compress, liquored.
Sent through the opening
with the angst and status of an
emperor on his way to Egmont.

Shy.

Sheltered,
a beam,
the invention of lazers,
was illustrated
in the book of dave.

merci geoff.

Chapter three,
verse twenty-nine.

good night.

...gatsby~

Gedankenexperiment.

A thought experiment.

"There are no penalties for breaking the laws of nature,
because there are no crimes: Nature is self-regulating
and merely arranges things so that its prohibitions are
impossible to transgress."

"pa rum pum pum pum"

I played my drum for him,
I played my best for him.

"pa rum pum pum pum"

and then he smiled at me.

Thanks Carl.

They tell me that the faster you go, the slower time moves.
A speed is the distance divided by a time. If you travel at
the speed of light you would hardly age at all, but your friends and
your relatives would be aging at the regular rate.

Journeying back to your hometown after three years of travelling
the globe has a similar effect. With your feet set firmly on
crisp canadian soil, your observations of a storied past, look
odd and bloated. From babies to beer bellies, your eyes become wide
reflected arciforms. Friends understand paranoia, an acquired ego.
You sense lethargy, and try desperately not to sound pretentious
as your sister checks your pulse. Fear tends to the result,
pa rum pum pum pum, Ludwig Van on speed.
You retreat to the back of your mind, a candle burns to light the
way and you wonder where your confidence has gone.
A certain song brings back the rhythms of a softer existence,
the rocking of the train brings you back to a new beginning.

You become depressed, oppressed by ideas, a haunting, hard to exhume.
Taunting, eternally. You wonder of sin and gratiot road, and
the exodus of home. You were not the first nor will you be the last.
Slowly you fall, down and down the well, your armor abused by
a violent tumble.
There you find yourself tunneled into a cave allegory wondering
how different things would be if Socrates was sold but not bought.
You dream about time travel and how it could have all turned out
different. You feel alone as all your philosophy is eaten by
roaches and worms with sharp teeth.
You hear heroes speak of leeches and how they faked death
to sense freedom.
You think this fucked up, you think this crystallized.
You link this depression to an inner hurt, and feel for
the rope.
It burns your hand as you punch at shadows, listening to
the blood drip into the pool below. The leeches cry out
in ecstasy and you start to hate Cake and Christmas.
Pulling back veils, slow, hardly effortless, take my
ear please. You laugh as you realize they're shaped like
fingertips, you wonder who will understand.
All who await wonder at your laugher as you ease
yourself over the edge. Is he Mad?
"Your song haunts me!"
She howls clawing off the bark of her sisters oak.
Eternally I'm yours, it replies.

You look around at the faces who've come to see, and
can hardly sense the jest.
You wonder why, and they wonder who.
They say you,
you count two.
A blanket,
thank you.

You tickle a tightness and realize your skin
is shrunken, ribs with no meat, a skeleton switch-side.

Footsteps at midnight you trail the floor.
Side-splitting side-step, you cry out,
no more.
You sense an end,
but no one links the two.
Depression and this disease,
the brain and the bottom,
fix one and the other is through.

You shout out "this is the best of Beethoven!"

There are holes in you, He says.

And my dreams are leaking out, you reply.

He nods and blankets his face with fast speech
and blows bubbles, you become distracted.

You ruminate about the rhythms that connect us all,
a language you yearn to understand.

He's still talking about odds, and chances, and percentages.

At first his ideas seem perplexing. Like the idea of twelve
dimensions. Voices from within, a conservative state, living in
America?

Jump in line and do your thing.

Jump in line and rock in time.

You believe your answer lies between the lines of
this new language.

Dancing wild, your senses adjust, and simply. Turn off.

And now your gripping at strings, and travelling through
esoteric tubes. Lighting adjusts underneath and they
are all laughing at the ideas of human evolution, of
these politics.

You hear your doctor rock back and forth as if his education
hadn't prepared him for a bending back of flame at the head
of a match, he fell in.

You dance with light and wear it like a bracelet,
they become wings, and you sense a great space
between you and them.

You realize the fight is over, your laces are
untied.
Your flowing with the river, your bright and
beautiful, the instant spanning out like a bowl
of glue over the tile floor. an endless note.
Only two saw it and your seeking the other out.

Phantoms battling for control you reach out to
share an embrace but the magnetism is broken.
and it begins to smell like empty pages in a new
book, automaton believers.

You land and overlook an ocean of stars,
seemingly inhaled and exhaled by chords of
frozen sentiment.
The waves break where your shoes have landed
and you believe in your answer.
your toes squish pattern,
walking round and round like holmes,
the old holmes, toying with watsons
check mate. You make him believe,
and hold back a spasm.

There's a plaque on the wall and
you whistle over to let it speak.

The award said it won,
but regretted
to say,
the world hadn't the answer.
you needn't pay.
look, I like your rhythm,
maybe it's time,
spark a truth inside.
myself which only,
loneliness can dismiss.


She was gone,
but she just arrived.
and began to remember me,
the secret of houdini.

...gatsby~

The devil grabbed, the devil threatened.

I had a dream.
I was standing side by side with crohns.
Crohns was a he pas de she.
And had hands the size of basket-balls.
Outweighed and out manuouvered my confidence
cracked, as the second split my leverage
was lost.
I became aware, and a clock counted backward.
can you see time in a dream?
maybe, i rationalized reason.
what is important?

it, crohns or this devil. Began eating
me up inside. cognizant of a forgotten
pain.
a strength began to well up from
what felt like, a well buried in bricks.
rhyming, resentful, i found the path labeled
in bold color, and took the highlight highland.
the difficult road, the long way home.

why why was the song playing skip skip skip.
a nagging relation, a drunk roommate bent on
withdrawal, have you read him, thomas?
No was the answer, and I found myself
in a distant decision wild in advertisement.
Cool kids recruited by sentient force began
to believe in purpose. Flashing like
methane, popping with presence their tattoo's
sold like michaels memorabilia.
no sound was sleep.
wild in aggression it couldn't be understood.
my nails grew long, rabid was the tune.
internally combustible I felt my insides whine.
tearing and clawing at indecision, when did
faith turn commercial.
laptop faces and faceless books, a horror,
a child's closet monster.
who do they think they are.
28 --- --- resumes received, 28 hired.
pinatas with moon faces, i made
truth all over the walls.
why, we herd howls through halls of
corporate present.
why, is the world we live in.
the phone rang, and spike lees skinny
truth sang out ambush and area codes.
fortune was promised and autographs agreed
for a caricature of eleven figures, not
a contract to be withheld.
wait, as my lion leaped out.
wait, as my adage is received.
wait as spike was integrated with the
evil steed.
greed.
all the while devil was gnawing on a backbone,
a sharp turn,
second and twelve,
what a mix.
quick fix,
give me your key.

seven satan stand-up,
toe to toe.
I faced him, and heaven waited,
as all whose death was not believed.
aching, lonely, bleeding.
the clock continued to whined.

something more believable then a face-off,
like material spread around necks,
the stuff of super-novae,
speckled star stuff.
I'll eat you.
a stumble in the dark,
it's end revealed,
super-symmetry.
it retreated.

the turning point, add in my heavy favor.
how cool are you that paycheck commercial,
sold for bargain, your style is octagonal,
like dead poems.
defunct antibiotic,
curtain cause,
paranoia.

thee who believed in me,
a willow tree.
it is always wise to give
wolves wide birth.
scratch, scratch, scratch
went the pen-stroke,
fish heads and lucky charms.
I lived there.

You'll never know, nor do I expect
you too, a life aimed high.
a talent undiscovered.
after death,
well received,
thus was my dream.

the habitat for life is everywhere.

applause.

...gatsby~

Unification.

Like a beast with his horns,

I have torn everyone

who reached out for me.

but I swear by this song

by this song,

and by all that i have done wrong,

i will make it all up to thee.

Thanks Leonard.

And just as Leonard Cohen

struts past my front door.

seemingly understanding

the impressive rhythms of

springtime symmetry,

the day takes a poetic

turn.

So I beat this disease, what's the

next step, I overheard, while

listening intently to the bad connection.

wires crossed, message in a bottle.

Pick a fancy, make it a dress rehearsal.

I heard myself hesitating order to

the crick crackle of modern technology.

The answer was tickling an announcement,

musing through misinterpretation.

Harness that energy.

Winning at anything is a conquered mountain.

The harder the training, the more determined

the effort, the richer the reward.
I once was witness to a marathon.

I saw men and women running what looked

to me, an impossible race. What are they

running from I mused, catching glimpses

of determined legs seemingly detached

from the rest of their body.

What are they running from indeed.

I find after coming out of a battle with Crohns,

I'm filled with a unbridled determination.

The knowledge that I'm in control of my body,

that I have solved the problem of "internal bad

wiring", simply by figuring out what caused the

flare-up in the first place.

It get's me thinking

about how I can apply this knowledge to

dreams and the working world. I don't know

how many times I've heard, usually in intercourse

with money, "well that's the world we live in".

Insinuating that my dreams are separate from

the everyday comings and goings of money passing

hands. Fighting Crohns has empowered me, and

taught me that I'm in control of my life. How

nobody but I, will hold me back, or push me through

the dreams that feed me energy through the hours

of two thirty through four in the AM.

Crohns has taught me that I'm responsible for my

health. That nobody, not even the greatest doctor

in the world can know my body better then I.

I'm reminded of a teacher who points

her crooked index in my direction, threatening

a future digging ditches unless I accept reading

as a way of life, "No matter what you do, You'll

always need to read!". Thanks Mrs. Steele.

Teachers always seem to neglect to eleborate

on the lessons they continually bark at you. That

by learning to love reading it'll make it easier

to study in preparation for interviews, business

deals, debate.

Whether it's negotiating a price for

a used car. Or swallowing whole what information

your doctor decides to peddle out to you.
If you've not studied, or read everything you can

about the subject at hand. Your either going to get swindled

by a greasy gutted glutton, or led astray by an

absent minded medition (doctor). Not to say all doc's are

bad, as I'm batting about fifty-fifty with medical

practitioners. What I'm saying is Fifty-fifty aren't

very good odds, especially if your a betting man or women.

Maybe it's because in our minds, us the regular Joe's and Jessie's,

doctors are on another astral plane. They sit atop a cloud, akin

with Gods, and Goddess's, they deal out life and death like a

frustrated kid perched over an ant hill.

People have this idea that Doctors are above them.
I used to. Until I watched a doctor in Melbourne who "googled"

my symptoms. I laughed, more like, squealed out giggles,

as this realization took hold. I wondered on the walk home,

who he copied his homework from. Was he some rich chinese kid

whose dad bought his degree. Can someone really take a bribe

for something like a medical licence? Do Corporations own Congress?

I also realized that doctors all have beds in their offices. I thought

being a doctor would be a good occupation to have if I felt

for an afternoon siesta.
Anyone can be a doctor folks. But not everyone can become

a good one.

"How am I to tell the dark side from the bad". says Luke.

"when your calm at peace, studying." says the grenouille with the Kermit like voice.

Out of all that you've learned from your illness. What's

the most important lesson you've learned?

Patience.

If you pay attention to intelligent people. You'll realize

they've a certain calmness about them. Sort of like

a twenty-something with a trust-fund.

They don't get frustrated because they take the time

to understand the situation. Someone whose angry is

only angry because they lack the understanding of

that which frustrates them.

Instead of taking a few minutes. Breathing back

some fresh air, a wonderful wondering while.

Thinking to determine what the lesson to be learned is. Rather then

hammering their chest, or whining a sophomore simile,

where the lesson is lost, and no growth was gained.

Imagine an ultimate fighter face to face with string theory.

A simple image that demonstrates how fast one can fall

into the deep abyss of peonic principles.

Take the time to understand is what I'm trying to say.
Humans have developed consciousness for a reason.

It's what makes being alive so wonderful, figuring things out.

I visualize my body like a circuit board. Each sickness simply

put, bad wiring.
I see myself outside my body, the system administrator.

Thinking, desperately at times, problem solving.

When I need help with a problem, I seek out those who

hold the answers, getting many opinions, and through

logic, utilizing the scientific process, coming to a conclusion.

I met this dude in Melbourne, we're in Melbourne today.

Who subscribed to this magazine whose sole purpose was

to keep the reader informed. Upon subscription they

sent you a mini reader about the history of the world, the

french revolution. Political readers, explaining the origins,

of anarchism, bolshevism, communism, socialism, democracy.

(* I wonder how many people in america who chastize Obama

as a socialist, even know what the #*#& a socialist is.

Not very many, my intuition boasts*)

I asked him "why the hell are you reading that stuff bud."

"So as not to get my information from some schmuck who

get's his knowledge written on the toilet walls."

" Huhg", I exhaled, letting him know I understood.

Letting him know I knew what was going on.

"Huhg" a lapse in time, a triggered treasure.

Huhg.

...gatsby~

A candle in the Dark.

PARIS (AFP) - Scientists unveiled Wednesday a complete genetic panorama of microbes in the human digestive track -- an advance that could help cure ailments like ulcers and inflammatory bowel disease (IBD).

"This completely changes our vision," said Stanislav-Dusko Ehrlich, a researcher at France's National Institute for Agricultural Research, after the study was published in the journal Nature.

Knowing which core bacteria populate a healthy intestine should lead to more accurate diagnosis and prognosis for diseases ranging from ulcers to IBD to Crohn's, which also causes painful inflammation, he said.

"In the future, we should be able to modify the (microbial) flora to optimise health and well being," he told AFP.

"This also opens up the possibility of prevention through diet, and treatments tailored a person's genetic and microbial profile."

More than 100 researchers working over two years found some 3.3 million distinct genes spread across at least 1,000 species of single-celled organisms, virtually all bacteria.

"The study is a blueprint," said co-author Jeroen Raes, a scientist at Vrije University in Brussels.

"The vast majority of bacteria found were not known before. But now we can start sorting out what they do in terms of function, and how they might relate to disease," he told AFP.

The intestinal census was carried out on 124 adults -- some healthy, others obese or suffering from IBD -- from Denmark and Spain.

Using new DNA sequencing techniques, scientists gathered a mass of data equivalent to 200 complete human genomes, Raes said.

The number of bacteria discovered is double many previous estimates.

But the big surprise was not the diversity, said researchers, but the fact that most humans -- despite different diets and environments -- appear to share a sizeable least common denominator of microbial flora.

Previous studies had suggested that there was relatively little overlap, especially from different corners of the globe.

Each individual in the study had at least 160 different species of micro-organisms, adding up to more than half-a-million separate genes, the researchers found.

About 40 percent of these genes were shared with at least half of the other volunteers.

There are 10 times more microbes in the body than there are human cells, with trillions of bacteria concentrated in the mouth, skin, lungs and especially the gut.

Microbes are essential to health, helping to break down indigestible foods, activate our immune system, and produce vitamins.

But recent research also points to previously unsuspected roles in obesity, heart disease and intestinal disorders such as Crohn's disease.

The new research also sets a benchmark in the methods used to sift through billions of bits of genetic code.

"This enormous sequencing effort -- the largest of its kind -- was made possible by the use of novel technologies," said Raes.

With the so-called Illumina Genome Analyser "you get huge bags of very, very small bits of DNA," he explained.

"Putting that puzzle back together again is an enormous task. Many people believed that it would not be possible."

My endoscopy revealed ...

A ascending love of bok choi.

A polyp in tango with rolled oats.

Bleeding ulcers fascinated with the

digested remains of seedless red grapes.

"Amo bishop roden" was what it whistled

up at the snake-like peeping pervert.

The doc and I had a hard time believing

a colon could whistle something aside from

the usual bombastic claps. A quick rewind

brought us proof and another glimpse of a smiling

left lumbar.

He told me he'd never saw such a beautiful smile, and how he would post it on his wall of success stories. To be sure he would forward my progress onto children and adults battling with the downs that come with the chronic outs, of Crohns.

I high-fived the optimistic doc, and bid him farewell. For I felt good about my progress and he too. Maybe I thought my rapid recovery could aid others, when all hope was lost.

Pondering past mis-adventures, catastrophes, and soiled undergarments, what could aid my fellow intestinal inmates?

Maybe I could share the re-discovered beauty of baby-wipes, when toilet paper loses it's silky white three-ply image, looking more like a rough roll of sand paper.

How baby wipes brought back memories of the cool wipe and warm love of mothers caress, sweet relief.

How about some tricks, how flexing your stomach muscles, when the road to the toilet becomes out of focus and just too far away, can save your guests a smelly surprise.

How to this day I wonder why after walking three kilometers, sweating, and silent, looking like a man or women possessed by the greatest of goals, you finally make it to the bowl. Only to lose control one second before reaching your final destination.

How you talk to your bowels like it wasn't apart of you. Like they were a monster out to get you, a scoundrel out for the soul you sold at the crossroads. Alor! Instead of collecting your soul the devil thought it drôle to play a little game and replace your healthy insides with that of an octogenarian's crippled calamity.

Napalm, when the bombs activated and mutilated you lost control.

I often wonder how these diseases came to be. How as I traveled from Gastro-physician to Gastro-physician across this large country called Canada, I never saw anything other then a two hour wait to see the doc.

How when I went to Australia and was forced to see the Gastro, his office looked like an old western ghost town. The Australian doc was fascinated by me, like he only read in stories about cases the likes of mine. "Must be the water." he told me before he told his secretary "no charge" as if I made his day, and he mine.

How auto immune disorders are on the rise and no one seems to have the foggiest idea why. How there are people walking around with bags instead of colons, and how that's my worst nightmare. There must be some other way?

How I'm told it changed their life for the better, and how my goal in life is to attain total freedom, and how it would take just that away from me. fear, paranoia, old Chinese proverbs haunt my dreams.

How I wonder what will happen to me when I am an Octogenarian, and the many fears that come with age.

How my only comfort is living as healthy a lifestyle as I possibly can. Sprinting at my goals and dreams as if I could internally combust tomorrow.

How I walk through grocery stores in my home town and marvel at how healthy people squander their health with giant shopping carts full of frozen pizza's and microwavable heart-attacks.

How the drive-in's at fast food restaurants have a line up half the day.

How cooking a meal instead of watching television can benefit their lives.

How and when they lost their dreams.

I wonder, as I sit on the toilet questioning it all.

I wonder where it all goes,

whoosh.