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~