Calling

weell, so here is the room, spinning. sometimes i want to scream, ya know, cuz i have absolutely no idea who i am or where my mind is going. absolutely. bean bags form mountains into which i sink. but i feel so good sometimes, when i finally settle down inside of myself and say, “yeah. i’m here.” but then everything flies apart. come, fly in the teeth of the wind. but we need to be grounded. we need a solid beat that drops in order to get through to these kids on the streets, man. gotta cultivate that mask that distances the emotions while molding them into understandable forms. ever noticed how pop singers are so goddamn sincere? it makes me sick. i’ve never felt that sincere about anything. the things that really get to me come in the form of dreams, you know what i mean? they give you these indescribable feelings and fill you up with light and then you wake up the next minute and you have to take a piss, and you have to get on with your life. what i’m trying to say is that i’ve lost the ability to define myself. and noone’s helping me do it; in fact, people just tear me apart, claiming parts of my heart, exploding through my dreams, reverberating in my thoughts. so i wait, i hold back, looking for a space where i can stand and look at it all and understand. sometimes i look into another person’s eyes and this light will flash out to me, and i don’t understand. there seemsto be something going on that i have nothing to do with. what are they trying to tell me? what is it they want? what is it i want?
should i want something?
ha ha, now the funk starts to settle down into that groove where you know that it could go on forever, and then it suddenly turns the corner and you start looking around and noticing the little changes, the little interplays going on all around up in it. let me describe a vision which i have just received. let me relay to you some information downloaded from the network of my mind. brought to you live from the energy source that now sits in the thick of the scene. this is mc duod, also known as nothing in particular. i see this: i see waves. i see bodies. i see a rustling forward, a tentative meeting of the sunlight on the crest of it, twinkling with motion, wondering, rolling away, darkening, deepening, swinging, building, desire, emptiness, rushing back up to light with intensity, exhaling, knowing now what is there from what is not. warmth slapping into itself. there is an air we breath, there is a space we occupy. sharing. clutching into oneself. pushing away. climbing back. alone.
beauty only comes out of dark places.
and then everyone comes out to look at it, passing by, shining. it calls to them. it speaks to them. it sings to them. oh, god, how scared everyone is. they think that if they follow the voices they will drown, they will be left
stranded.
well, i guess they’re right. i feel lost. the only map i’ve got is the stars in the sky, and they don’t tell me much. they just shiver their dead light silently in the vast stillness of the night. and yes, how beautiful it is. it stuns you, it touches a place inside of you where all you can say is “oh, how beautiful,” as if it were a painting you could buy and hang on your wall. but here it is, every night, ready to overwhelm you. and what can you say? what can you do? there it is. and then you’re turning to look at the person next to you and you’re talking about tomorrow, or about yesterday, avoiding the depth that sits charged inside of you, the hunger that waits to swallow you when you’re alone.
yes, i know. it drives us forward. we are the stars now, shining constellations, randomly created pictures of the moment surrounded by an unfathomable darkness. light spitting into the void. life happens somewhere. the light catches on some piece of dust floating by and the music suddenly floods together, the spaces, the silences become part of something else, a song that moves between two closures, vast emptiness and exploding lights. there is a mind listening, connecting the distance with imagination. there is a heart feeling, connecting the distance with love. there is a body pulsing, connecting the distance with heat. and here i am, sitting, the room spinning. and there you are, sitting. i don’t know what your room is doing. i don’t know what your mind is doing. i don’t know what your heart is doing. but i know that it is beating back to me somewhere, sometime. i know that out of this distance there is a wave that travels into the ocean, i know that there are fish that move, eddying with the currents, i know that you will need to eat, i know that you will be hungry, i know that there is a bird singing, calling outside of my window suddenly, i know that i need to pee really badly, i know that i will rise from this chair and do what i need to do, and that you will rise from your chair, and do what you need to do. just that. just this.

Advertisements

re: dispossession

hey, i hate to tell you but the world is flat, and square. i get my information from mars. you’d better listen.
the good news is that we can set it on fire.

(they have machines sent encircling a distance, maintaining for 24 hours a day 365 days a week the image of the earth as blue enfenced rotundity. turn on the weather channelTM. they will tell you what the clouds look like. they will predict the weather for you.)

i get my information from the voices in my head.

i’ll tell you about our world. this world is flat. this world is square. this world is split into claimed sections, pieces of a pie, all orbiting around the belly-center of the united states of america. Russia may be big, but it’s split
in half.
that’s right. our world exists in the form of image. our world exists in memory. pure memory space. now you stand for what you’ve truly accomplished, for all your successes, for all your purchases.

what have you accomplished?

oh, so you’re filed. oh, so you’re squared away. watch the tv and let it tell you what you look like. you are square, and you are flat, and you can see all the world with the push of a button, with the opening of a cover, with the click of a pointer.
hmm. it’s got pretty good special effects. hmm. can it keep your attention? hmm. it’s cutting away for an advertisement. . .

what
are your purchases? where
are they from?

)i get my information from mars. they’ve sent their machines there but they
can’t get a lock on anything. the truth keeps
shifting.(

so where is the good news? they feed you with all the latest disasters, with all the latest deaths, with all the gruesome images of their tragic wars.
where is the good news? that’s right, open up your bible. that’s right. fold up your hands. that’s right, you should be ashamed. that’s right, you’d better open up your mouths and pray.
alright, now try opening your mind. try looking at the world in 3d. try looking out the corners of your eyes. try listening to the sounds far away from you, to the sounds close to you, to the sounds inside of you.
it’s trippy, isn’t it? alright, now look at yourself. alright, now look at yourself.
where is the good news?
yeah, bend your head down to the board and bleed your fingers til they’re raw. yes, gather together with others in fear and fill the space of a place-time with sound. yeah, sit your ass down and listen.
yeah! get your ass up and dance!

where is the good news?

the good news is that we can set ourselves on fire.

the good news is that we can light each other
on fire.

the good news is that the world cannot be contained. the good news is that we spill out over the edges. the good news is that no matter how hard, straight, and square the information is, we can put it in our mouths
and we can swallow it
in fire.

american dream

What is the future you’ve got stocked away in your heart? Gonna make it? Gonna make your parents proud? Are you holding all your happiness for that distant rock in which you’ll plant your flag and secure for all eternity?
Someone’s walked on the moon. It means nothing. We have gotten
nowhere.
Generations upon generations of people building mountains of money out of other’s flesh and blood. Someday, they tell their children, we will have it all. Someday, we will escape. Someday, we will be safe.
And so there is fear, and there is darkness, and there is locked rooms, guarded.
Open the door to your heart and let me in. I’m starving. Do I have to prove myself to you? Do I have to speak your language?
How close to the earth must I sway, sweeping in the wind like a broken tree?

fever

Gadhills the iron fleece! Jujubeats in the rain, Circe lets down her hair and sings. Why, if I can see beyond it, am I trapped in this sickness? Shut down the gravy train and mosey down to sleep. Umbrellas, purple, scandalous. Innocence lost, we wake up to find that paradise has been all around us and we have been polluting it. Thinking that we were floating islands in the sky. The hooks are everywhere, in our fingers brushing against concrete, pictures of us nailed into the wall. Like an 8-ball, pieces of us float to the surface, and that is our fortune. Linked by hooks to the deep. Sometimes in the silence of your mind you can hear them tugging, reminding you of your iceberg expanse solid in the darkness. All that could have been, all that might be. When we fly, we get tangled up endlessly in each other. Some have chosen to chain themselves to their allotted space on the earth, making sure that they are not entangled in another’s life. But then the earth heaves, and they fall down into the heat, or they fly up, into the heat. The wires have no end, being twisted into each other. Layers and layers of netting. I love to see fishnet stockings slipped taut over a woman’s leg. Reconstructing a skin from the gaps in the cloth, imagining the fullness given to me, spread out, gleaming. Twisted around, super connected, superconductors. I am sick, and I cannot be healed. I am a wound, and open, re-open endlessly.
I imagine another layer of myself out in the sun, whole, ripe, devoured, loved. Somewhere I am happening. Somewhere I am dead. I look into the mirror and see myself winding into eternity. I am here, feeling this, gazing on the shining surfaces, but I am also somewhere else, perceiving different layers laid open then, there. I want to shut my eyes and feel nothing. I want to sleep and dream and forget.

Territory

Liquid, water forming steps. Slide down. The earth pulls. Forming and reforming with movement forward. Centering, dispersing. A motion picture as a succession of frames. On/off. On/off. The way light bulbs flicker just beyond perception. Transience, a continuous progression of establishment. There is much beyond. There is too much beyond. Focusing on what is immediate, what is sensed, what is felt, what is touched. Driving, stop go, green red. Pieces circling endlessly around an imaginary whole. Construction of narrative from selected layers. What you see is what you live confined within. A continuous passage, shuttling between perceptions. Negative capability. Man/woman. What space does the body occupy? What space do i occupy in my body? What space do I occupy in your body? Claiming, reclaiming. The only territory that i can truly possess is my own. Right here. Right now. This is mine. Always shifting, transforming. Boundaries are permeable, porous. In the search for an identity to occupy, in the search of the i for the I, i must find a space, i must fill it, and I must leave my mark, scented, scarred, burning. And then I must defend it.
You can have it. i am no-where. i am gone by the time You sniff me in the wind.

Machines of God

Tin Mo was mule. He carry up hill down to village. Swatted with stick day long. He make us money. He carry us food. He eat us scraps. No complain. Only move he make to ease his existence was to clear the flies momentarily from his ears with quick flip. This bastard intermixture. This nothing object. This burden beast.
Why does Tin Mo not kill us in the night?, i wondered as child, Why does he not strike back with strong feet when we stand behind, pressing down his back with load?
I remember now Tin Mo. He part of us. He part of me. Why fight what is part, even when it pain. Even when it not see you, use you, turn you to earth machine. I feel him in my feet, up migrating to class in university city. He part. He me. I carry burden of past in mind. Tin Mo history-past memory-piece that keep me complete in quick stream of commercial bulletin shards. My feet strong, plodding, forward heavy up hill. In info-ocean I move solid through image-waves.
Desolation, yes. Hesitation, no.

Osirius

and then i begin to forget myself. and it is good that i do so, for i am becoming trapped by the mirror every morning, seeing only the death mask, emotionless, frozen. and so i forget myself, fumbling my fingers against her passing breath, touching the space in my mind where she just spoke. is it wrong to speak of god as a woman? god is perhaps sexless, but i like to think of her as woman, as something beyond me that creates me, that i can press against and thrust against and beat against but only lose myself in. she accepts everything i do, even when i scream, even when i punch the walls, slam the doors, stare at myself in the mirror all day trying to scare myself. sometimes i try to kill her, stopping everything that tries to come out of my mind. but i think i love her, i think i do because then i forget myself again, and i find myself reaching out in the night to sing, i discover myself looking away from myself out the window at the street, listening to the night, listening to the night sing. and then maybe i slip out a few words, maybe i smile, maybe i look the same, but something’s come out of me, something’s changed. i figure that i must love her when i lose myself in dreams like this. i must be still alive.

if god is a woman, than i think that i’ve got a reason to believe.

but then i’ll remember myself, i look back, and i’ll catch my breath, my face setting into the lines where it’s been broken by time. what’s the next line?, i’ll think, where was the word that i’m looking for? my muscles snap like reeds in my ears. i look at myself, frozen as a rock in the mirror. when will it finish? i’ll think, when will it be complete?

she waits for me patiently, the night, singing, for me to fall asleep, for me to forget myself.
the sun rises and the garbage men wake me,
and i wonder
has this happened before?
why has this happened
before?