Transmission from a Galactic Winged Bard

Now the time has come my pretty friends to tell our tale, our rainbow story, of how red and blue and yellow and orange fade from one into the next without warning or remorse. Now I am this. Now I am that. Draw near and I will whisper into your ear something like the trickle of a leaky faucet, a fountain at which roaches impervious to the years and poisons and harmful radiations have come to hear the songs of their troubadours. Tell us now about the district under the kitchen sink… are there still wars raging between the underside of the refrigerator and the crack in the pantry?… it’s not right the way our people were pushed into the narrowest margins of existence…in the shadows we have always thrived…yes we will always be, so long as there are others that waste, we will be here to make life of the refuse of the Gods…
So many lines, some touch and others are separated by yellow and never even suspect the existence of red on the other side of that sunflower resplendence. A great kaleidoscope of dreams and fantasy. The play of the eternal mind with its many distinct bands, its parallel worlds of fancy. See now, this motion of my fingers typing upon the keys has correspondences in all parallel tunnels. It does not look the same in green as it does here in red, and yet this that I am doing now sends ripples through the multicolored pool. It is like a doughnut shaped pool, with a great drop off in the center, the end of all worlds, the eternal silence, the no mind, the void, our holy mother.
All beings approach this event horizon simultaneously, the children drawn inexorably back to their root. We are all reactionaries. We are all a reflexive motion away from the great nothing. It is not enough that I live and breath. I am not. I never was. The conspiracy to separate myself from the multiverse, to create a sense of permanence, to cryo-freeze this world, this shade of blue that I have come to identify with, it is a vain attempt at immortality. But I cannot live eternally for I am already life eternal and her sister death. I cannot freeze, I cannot exist, I cannot change, and yet I am all variance. I am everything at once.
Profanity of course is a silly notion. The ogre’s hand protruding from the wall is only an offense to my illusion of individuality. There are of course other realities, other vantage points, other highs and lows. This knurly slimy pasty ogre’s thumb with fungus blackened finger nail emerging erect is only ugly here, lodged midway in my bedroom wall. Elsewhere it is sublimely beautiful, the most perfected of all creations. Everything that is, was, will be, is the perfected creation.
Breath deeply now, take it all in, the odor of sweat and mold, the garbage rotting upstairs, your neighbor’s rose water perfume, the dogs breath, the musky opalescent substance oozing from your lovers miraculous genitalia, the tiny blooms of the English lavender emitting their scent to attract small furred bees that produce the antiseptic propylis which has it’s own scantly perceptible odor, and sweet honey too. It is all the crown of creation.
Humanity is a tiny drop in the sea, and all of those things which we can see, hear, smell, and touch are but a thimbleful of the rainbow nectar of the gods. Those things which you cannot even imagine make up the rest of the great roaring sea, along with just a pinch of the things that you can. If you should happen to be experiencing this as a sudden unexplainable knowing as you drift disembodied out past the milky way recalling your life as a griffin on a blue moon somewhere in the Sirius star system, then please do not be alarmed by the limitations imposed here by the workings of my own handicapped consciousness. They have sent those of us who are especially disabled to come and live in the home for the challenged which we call Earth. Here I am to be rehabilitated by engaging in various arts and crafts, which I do find therapeutic. After all, it has allowed me to make contact with you, which has expanded my heart a bit and helped to melt some of the inhibitions which might otherwise cause me to recoil like a snapped rubber band, sending me into a deeper state of dementia.
Thank you so much for flowing into me as I flow into you in this senseless, purposeless, blessed, dance of unity. If we should become displaced and exchange places as a result of this etheric copulation, look into the lines of the hand of the body you have come to occupy. You might as well look now, as it seem that the transference has taken place (although you should note, as part of your rehabilitation, that you never really were you, nor I). Look into those lines, into the tiniest wrinkle and detail. See how the ectoderm nearly sparkles in the light, as if a few stars were still embedded there just to see if you’d notice. When you look at this deeply enough, without fear of the dark and direction-less fall, you will automatically enter into a series of summersaults and be seized by a series of undulations that would be laughter if you were still embodied in that home (or some other) for the transdimensionally impaired.
You know, there are some patients there who do not use their stay for our benefit. They only become further habitualized and lost in their addictions, forming relationships with other inpatients in denial, taking advantage and making ill use of medications and a situation that could help under the right circumstances. Here is the problem with all organizations and institutions, and in fact every kind of structure ever formed (not excluding the present configuration of ideas): its destruction is knit into its very fabric. The thesis and the antithesis dwell back to back, Siamese twins, one black, one white, conveniently blind to one another. Neither is actual. The synthesis was always present.