Games

The round table surrounded by four tall chairs and long gangly figures draped over them, elbows on table fists on chins, heels on the rungs of the tall chairs. Far below outside the abyss of shadow and chatter, the lighted stage awaits aglow with golden warmth, silent instruments engaged in patient respite like old idols once the center of a forgotten religion. Their smug demeanor communicates their certainty of a comeback. And lo! They are quite right to think as much, if they were truly thinking as much, for the musicians come tromping out to the stage. Old ones, young ones, fat ones, skinny ones, famous ones, and mysterious ones, they fill every corner of the stage, taking their places by the well rested idols, flipping switches and turning keys and knobs while pressing on pedals.
The sorcerer comes in by a different route and for him the crowd cheers, hurrah! He shouts the name of each performer in turn but the names are lost in space, sound waves that break against nearby tables never to reach the balconies above.
Then crash boom roar ta da! We’re off, all at once, idols revived to full godhead. They’re no longer cold dead things but wild writhing living creatures that wail and groan and shout. In this manner they converse. Sometimes all at once, sometimes two or three at a time, occasionally one croons alone while the others listen, carefully weighing their responses, holding their questions for the right moment. The musicians listen, the musicians urge them on with both gentle and harsh caresses.
The audience listens, they urge the renewed gods on with applause and shouts. They grin, they drool, they bob their heads and bump knees under tables and whisper questions in the gaps. What is that thing? Who is that man? What are they doing with the hats and headbands? For indeed the musicians are taking on and putting off headbands while the sorcerer is taking off and putting on his blue cap.
The assembly holds perhaps five or six sessions if that many. There are gentle moments and rough moments, but every moment is a moment that demands attention. These are not tired familiar old songs come to renew our sense of stability. These are new noises erupting from the inferno, new worlds of sound forming in the hot forge, their shape is unique like that of a snowflake, never before made, never to be made again. A shape unfolding through time, sounds as new as each moment. The noise, the noise, the glorious noise!
The silence that gives the noise more impact. The noise that makes the silence a sound never before heard. They’re passed back and forth like a ball, like a game of red like green light. A game, a game, a beautiful game, played by Gods and mortals together on a golden semicircular stage and in the immeasurable gloom upon which it is suspended, until at last the Gods once again beg respite and the mortals rise to take a bow for having been such goods sports, such obliging instruments of divinity.
Then we say game over and evacuate the round table surrounded by tall chairs to stagger out into the darker darkness, long gangly figures crowding halls and filling up doorways, cigarettes between fingers, coats draped over shoulders, hats obscuring eyes.

Magick House

It is a place lost in the past, denied a present, buried in the midst of a buzzing metropolis and weighted down with hopes for a future. The walls have been battered again and again until they are only a fine powder of golden sand blown across the vast hostile desert. They have been built again and again until the people can think of nothing else but building them one more time, raising the walls so that blood can flow and appease that thing which would dwell within. That thing, that secret treasure, invisible to the eyes of men, capable of twisting their hearts into many strange shapes like animal balloons forged by the hands of a clown. Here is desire and jealously and rapture and grief and hatred, and joy, like a host of shadows dancing through the willing flesh of the people, so that they whirl and twirl and bow for that thing, though it cannot be touched, nor it’s name even pronounced. The people are always reaching for that place where they keep their covenant, where they can shuffle papers importantly like children imitating the misunderstood rituals of adults. They play games that are the shadows of the games they once played there in the house of the invisible, the magick house. Now some others play their games where the magick house once stood. Some others have come to play, but the people will not play with the others, they will not change their games on purpose, only by accident. Only when they are scattered like the golden sand hammered from the shattered walls of the magick house will they change the rules of their game to get by. They will refuse to share, refuse to play with others until the others push them out, out and away so that the others may have their turn, their time in the place that the people want so much. But however far they go, they find a way to remember. They find a way to covet the past, to reach back with hot little hands and try to pluck their special place out of the rubble. They try to play as they did once in the magick house. They wear their dress up clothes, they sing their clubhouse songs, and mull over the promise of a place all their own. Their heart, the center of the universe, is something outside, something that can be demolished, erected, taken and retaken. The people, as they have scattered regrouped and scattered again, have changed. Their games have changed. They no longer recognize one another but view each other as THE OTHER, but each other wants to have it back, have their magick house where secret things happen, where special things are kept. They want it even if they cannot remember the nature of the secret things. They long for it even if they are not the real people, for in fact none of those who want to be the people are the people. The people were cut down long ago, a final sacrifice in the original magick house, and their rituals, their mystic secrets died with them, bled out through slit throats to be sucked up by the thirsty sand, to become the invisible. There are no people who know the rites and the reason for the original magick house. There are only others, many envious others, who would be the people and claim that they and no OTHER are the only people. The chosen. The righteous. The worthy. They love not the invisible, but the letting of blood, the endless orgy of violence that may be called penance or promise. And the place, that elusive house where all that the imposter people desire can be called the will of God, remains remote and near at hand, non existent and very real, lost forever within a deluge of jealous dreams.

The Time I Have Been Given

What time have they given me in this lava lamp of molten life? Do you see my golden filaments lit in the dusty glow of sunlight? Do you see me burning bright, living flesh of the sky, my dios, my god, living blood of the blood, living dance of the alien electric life machine. My mother, my father, the horned one seated on its throne of flesh and bone in the deepest darkest forest where the spiders, patient and calculating, weave their webs among the branches of the trees, waiting, waiting forever if they must, tap taping their delicate legs upon the glistening strands of their webs to play them like harps. Do you see how my skin breathes? Living flesh of the flesh; the eternal in a moment. I was one and many and none and some under sun, shining like black glass baked in the hot red desert where the mu dogs fight for the scraps of decayed corpses, dried in the sun to a salty, mouth watering, jerky that peels from the baked skeletons like dried paint chipping from cracked walls. Do you see me flying in the heavens with golden wings stretched like rays of light, touching each peripheral point in view? See me raging down in the fields with my horns turned to the earth, bellowing and snorting with a heat that makes the winds whip the stalks of grain into frenzied dances? Do you see me coming together and falling apart, going from simple to complex to simple and complex? They have called me this and they have called me that and they will call me things both known and things unknown again and again until their voices are carried away in the wind like the fragments of broken leaves shed from the silver skinned trees that glow under the moon’s caress, reaching barren branches into the vast dark reaches of the night sky as if to take stars for a new raiment and digging deep down into the deepest depths of the warm, wet, earth to wrap roots like needy fingers in the tombs of fallen soldiers and slain kings now at home in the kingdom of the worms, where things with many crawly legs make their way through the corridors of slime to meet blind things that slither. One hand adorned by the glimmering diamonds lighting forgotten galaxies, the other with rings made of serpents and toad stools. Am I high, or am I low, or am I in the middle? I am all of these and none, breathing, moving, expanding, evaporating, rising like mist from a lake, falling like a storm over the sea and crystallizing like a window of glass over murmuring streams in the north. Do you hear what I am saying? Mother? Father? I see you where you stand with your wings spread in the sky above and your tail coiled in the earth bellow, your penis erect and spilling seed into the black soil while your milk flows skyward from the teat to feed the hungry stars. I have been embraced in your cold, heart stopping grip until the flesh of my body of this earth crawled and perspiration wetted me to the bone and I shivered but could not unloose the bonds of fear that held me in place like the pharaohs in their sarcophagi of stone, and I have tumbled weightless up and down the halls of eternity riding on the silver current of your laughter like bubbles blown from a sudsy fount, as free and light as a downy feather shed from a wing in flight. All that I have known, sensed and smelled and tasted and touched and even dreamed was made in the cauldron where we meet, eternal and temporary, verging on an event horizon of assimilation. This has been the moment of choosing, this life, this body, but a moment, a tear shed from an invisible and unblinking eye. Will I travel into the halls of the eternal and diminish in the west or wrestle with demons made of my own unaccounted for tendrils? Do you see me burning bright in the fires, flesh of flesh and blood of blood transformed into diamonds in the forge of the abyss? This time I am given, is my moment to choose what dreams may come or what stark awakening will dawn when the moment has passed. This is what time I have been given.

Grandfather

In the times before time had grown into a solid beast lurching blindly in a single direction, people began to be formed. The people were made out of music and, as soon as they danced and writhed and howled, they were expelled from the time before time because it is as natural to enter the time beast now and again as it is to sneeze after smelling pepper. Like a yawn which stops the heart, the people become locked in the time beast and they walked and hunted. They felt cold and hunger, desire and jealousy, strength and fatigue. Then, locked inside the time beast’s belly, they lit fires to warm themselves and they killed flying things and other walking things and ate their meat.
When their most immediate needs were met, they considered their situation and wondered how they might escape the time beast. Sitting by the fires, dreaming and cleaning bones with their teeth, they pondered their existence. They wanted to ask one another; what had happened? When did they become people who walked and hunted? How had they become so small that they could bleed and feel tired?
While they wondered, they worked the earth in their finger tips and made little figures. They traced pictures in the sand and on the walls of the time beast, wondering, imagining, trying to remember who and what they were. The wondering welled up in their hearts and they opened their mouths to let it fly out and it made a sound.
They found that they could make many sounds. They could scream and chant and murmur and whisper and hum. And when they did this together, they felt big again, together again. Sitting by the fires, humming and loving one another until a sing song of moans became silence and the silence became pained screams and the pained screams became the wailing of tiny new people, they carved the bones of the other ones who walked and the other ones who flew into whistles and flutes and pulled their skins taut to make drums. That was how the people began to make the music.
When they made the little music they could hear the big music; the ancient grandfather of the little music that they made. The grandfather came into the belly of the time beast and made bubbles of no time where the people danced and moved as they had before being swallowed. They wriggled and twisted and rolled and moved in the bubble until the time beast burped and set them back to growing older and weaker. For a while they might feel too tired and weak to call the grandfather back. For a while they would rest and practice with their bone flutes and skin drums and hum quietly as they dozed. Then, when the wonder welled up within them again, they would make the music again, invoking the big music with their little music, and when the grandfather was invoked, they were once again as they had always been; they were the music that made the people who made the music.
They were the father who was the son who was the father, the snake that had swallowed its own tail, a circle with no beginning and no end. They were the formed and the unformed, the made and the unmade, something and nothing locked together in a needful embrace. And then, before too long, they would fall out of eternity and find themselves in the belly of the time beast. Then they would toil again; walking and hunting. Then, when the bellies were filled and the flesh was warmed, they would rest. And as they rested, they could wonder again…

Eaters of Death

Today is Easter, time to celebrate our undead god and eat his flesh and drink his blood. We run through open green fields or across well manicured little plots of grass in gaily colored frocks in search of the unborn offspring of birds, reverting for this one day to one of our earliest scavenger instincts. This is how our pretty little walnut shaped brains got so meaty. We ate all those omega threes and got super wise, wise enough to figure that if we could eat the eggs they left behind, we could also murder the foul that laid them, causing that pulsing twitching organ under our skull cap to burst with profound insight and new wisdom about the fine art of killing and eating. This gave us time to grow philosophical, mystical. We imposed sexual metaphor over everything around us, father sky coming down to make life with mother earth. Soon we grew even wiser and learned that if death is what makes us so strong and makes our brains so big we would need to forget about mother earth and build the cult of father sky. Angry, jealous, vengeful. His son a radical mischief maker. Ah, ah, ah, but I skip way ahead, can you see the whole progression in your mind? We kill, we learn to stand upright, we advance just a little from early Cro-Magnon to present day Christian cannibal. We eat life, sucking it up wherever we go. Today we make our own eggs out of hard plastic and fill them with chocolate made with cocoa harvested by 8 year olds in underdeveloped countries. Some little brown kid is sipping down his morning cup of Java, the big meal of the day before he goes to work so that pure white people can feed the fruits of his brown labor wrapped in multicolored foil wrappers to their own pasty larvae. Shall we talk about fertility on this day, the way rabbits do it and do it until they overrun the hillside? Imagine rabbits with no natural enemies left to hunt them, cannibal rabbits that eat death and have cunning bulging brains, tearing the country hillsides to shreds to build their little warrens. That’s us. Or more austere, imagine one more ape, the son of jealous Jehovah bleeding on a cross and getting dried out by the sun like that ugly bug covered fish I saw in my neighbor’s kitchen yesterday. He finally dies and we lay him in a cave, but then he rises, up, up back to father sky. Did I mention that he took a last meal before he was convicted for his crimes, whatever they were. Gulp, gulp, chew, chew, and he communicated to his followers what they should do. Be good cannibals, eat life, be eaters of the living flesh of god, father sky. Yum yum. So we whirl around in our sun drenched warrens playing games and then we sit down to eat the remains of a big pig adorned with little yellow ringlets of pineapple. If we are extra good, we stop off at the temple first to take the last sacrament, to reenact the last meal with our cannibal prophet, the son of father sky. Take this body my body, this blood my blood, and go look for eggs in the grass. The omega trees that I mentioned earlier come from the grass. Hens eat grass and worms and other crawlies and that’s what makes their eggs so good for us. We can’t digest grass ourselves, we need the chicken to do that for us. We feed on her life process. The holy trinity, the grass, the chicken, and the egg. This gives life. Today is a good day for the eaters of death. Today it is time to celebrate our undead god and eat his flesh and drink his blood.

Scratch

Cry blood for the innocent, mother, make ash in the palms of little black hands from thin air, and send the righteous quaking and rolling. What? We were made for rolling and belly doughing, jiggling slowly, while the spirit is growing. We’re just the little old caps of ‘shrooms poking their heads up out of the shit. If you want to know us, look down under the soil and see that there be no us, there is only one tangled mess with many little hydra heads spiraling out into the universe, into the UNI VERSE, the ONE SONG that we’ve been remixing as long as we can remember. The mechanics of life undo it, they undo it every time and we remake the same song again and again. Pass the hat. Take up a collection, a congregation in the name of the holy infection. Because out of the void arose the mound and the lotus, and as the lotus unfolded, there sat the glowing figure of Ammun Ra, and out of loneliness he made his son Geb and daughter Nut, and Nut and Geb out of fascination with one another, made Osiris and Seth, Isis and Nepthys.
All come out of nothing and back to nothing all will return.
All of our red and gold and blue and yellow and green and orange and purple will be black again. Blessed are the poor because they won’t mind being nothing again. Only the rich man will kick and scream as you strip all of his weight away from him. The poor are not poor because they have no bread. The poor are the fools dancing near to the edge of the mound smelling the flowers and wanting nothing more than this one moment. Their bread is the breast of Nut, sweet bread that brings madness. Pass the hat. I dreamed that Alice was an evil sorceress which lured small animals and cute toys into her midst by appearing to be a sweet child, but her heart was rotten and black and she devoured them all, all that wandered so innocently into her midst. We got to be light, like the fizzy bubbles of butterscotch soda, but we got to keep a wise eye open. We can’t be getting into the car with strangers offering us candy or salvation, crisp dollar bills or a good tea party. We got to keep walking and rolling an jelly belly doughing our way back to the abyss. When Annubis comes with the scale and weighs our heart against the feather of Isis, Alice will be waiting backstage licking her crocodile chomps and scratching her hungry, hungry hippo rump, opening wide and waiting for the heavy heart.
So be a poor fool. Be a fool that got nothing and want nothing. Be a fool that picks flowers and wanders over all the hills of all the days, humming the same little song again and again. Be an ass that falls head over heels then stands up again shameless. Pass the hat.
Cry blood and make ash and think nothing of it. Make dough of blood and ash and bake it in the fire of Ammun Ra until you’ve made an army of ash bread men to laugh and sing and dance ahead of you. Rub your ram horns, Khnum, and muse,
"My but they love to sing and dance!"
And then ramble on behind them playing your pipes and think nothing of it. Think nothing of it when Alice leads them away and dresses them in clean frocks and sets them in pews and bids them hold still. Think nothing of it when they stop coming to dance with you Khnum, and when they call you devil, and when they become so heavy the earth is marked with deep lines wherever they pass. Poor lonesome old Khnum. A few of us fool ash bread men will still dance with you. Pass the hat. We are gonna dance. We are gonna walk and roll and churn our dough.
That’s right. We are the poor, but we’ve got the dough we were made of to roll. And were gonna roll it! Roll it up the mountain and back down again until judgement come. Jiggle and wiggle and squiggle and shake until the snake oil salesman puts us all back in his carpet bag and tips his hat with a wink. What? We were made for rolling and belly doughing, jiggling slowly, while the spirit is growing. We’re just the little white crests of waves. Down deep the force of the ocean moves us onward, onward to sing our song and break on the rocks again and again. And them with there heavy roads and heavy buildings and important business and lead hearts are going to make happy Alice fat, fat, fat!

Call Me Lil

In the bottom of a crystal palace, down bellow the lowest translucent and glittering floor, there is a chamber where the weary travelers rest, but for only a moment in an apparition of relief. Then they are spat back out on the black streets to fend for themselves under the shadows of hungry sky scrapers, evading drug dealers, pimps, and whores, diabolical creatures looking to prick you with a pin and put their disease into you. There you can only hope to escape notice, only hope that your own character in this twisted narrative can survive itself.
For I am a cruel God. When I’ve no sun then my creations shall know no sun, when I am alone then so shall all of my little spoon boys suffer the agony and desperation of separation, each one paddling along the great river in their own little eggshell boat armed with discarded sewing needles with which they intend to prick anything which comes anywhere near them in order to make that unwary traveler pay for the crime of having not come along sooner to adore their master and make her into a bright and shinning Goddess of love instead of a cold and vengeful deity.
Look down under the glassy surface of this river. If you look closely you will see that the muddy bottom is lit with tiny lights here and there which give off just enough illumination for you to make out the shapes of the large creatures skimming around the river bed; see the row boat sized catfish with their whiskers as long as those of old Chinese men, trailing alongside them? Observe the water moccasins as long as the river itself, oily black and weaving themselves through the river grasses where they may hide in wait for the last of seven brothers to jump in for a swim and never come back up.
Watch closely now, and you will glimpse one of my more diabolical servants, a siren with the long olive green tale of a fish, wriggling along with webbed fingers outstretched, fanged grimace painted permanently on her slimy white face. The lights flicker on and off in turns, small blue flames immune to the wetness. They mark the places where a treasure has been lost beneath the mud of the riverbed.
Now and again some deranged or desperate seeker ventures here in a little row boat or a canoe armed with snorkel, flippers, and a shovel. A few are slightly more prepared and bring along a harpoon with which they hope to fend of the beasties. It is a strange fact that many are willing to believe in lost treasures, but are just as unwilling to believe in the dragons that guard them. They are the lot that regard the stories of such creatures and all warnings as superstition. Then they meet my children in the river and their minds are forever opened, but it unfortunately does them no good at that point, because the sirens are usually feeding on the tender gray meat wrenched from their cracked cranium.
They are fairly clever my sirens, a result of eating all those brains of drowned oarsmen and fortune seekers. I cannot say that many adventurers appreciate their singing, which is a sound something akin to that of nails being raked down a chalkboard which has been distorted and amplified. They tend to sing in chorus, like coyotes yipping first one, then two, then eight, wailing and warning each other of their proximity. My sirens do not get along well with one another, and so they alert each other as to their whereabouts so that they may all avoid violent territorial disputes, except on rare occasions when the moon is full and they band together to hunt.
There are things in this river which evade my capacity to describe. The best I can do is to say that they are like the ancient ancestors of crocodiles, with lumbering bodies and spade shaped jaws and rows of red and blue jagged plates running down their backs. They open wide their mouths and then for all the world it looks like nothing but a cave, a place to moor your boat and rest for a moment, then snap! You are locked within the beasts belly where you will be slowly digested over the course of a million years.
Rest never lasts for long, (unless you count the million years it may take to be digested) and when it does it tends to extract a heavy toll. There is no safe haven that I have made for you. None whatsoever. You are damned like a hamster to run my coarse endlessly, struggling to stay alert and energetic enough to evade the many traps that I have laid to ensnare you. I have made for you a world of enemies to keep you quick. When they catch you they will devour you, slashing you with teeth and claws like serrated knives and condemning you to absorption through the walls of their large intestines so that what was worthwhile in you can be carried by the rivers of blood to nourish the hungry cells of the beast that it may continue its life devoted to the consumption and digestion of the slow and unworthy.
You will have to be quick to out match me, quicker than tears, quicker than fatigue and rage and desperation. You will have to learn to outlast your own character, which I have only written into this story to feed and amuse my pets. Like a little white feeder mouse you will have to scurry through my maze and evade my cold blooded offspring on their quest to swallow you whole.

Quiet Place

In a quite hidden place, a place just barely missed by white padres and Spanish soldiers on their excursions in search of a new home for yet another one of their adobe Missions, which they planned to introduce throughout that great hot oven called California with the same zeal as those that would come later to fill it up with golden arches and Wal-Marts, crispy French fries, greasy slabs of processed meat product on white buns drowning in maroon pools of salty tomato render, matching short and T-shirt sets in hideous floral patterns with a few loose threads left dangling because Ming was very distracted as she worked, worrying that the pennies she was earning would not be enough to prevent her husband from selling their daughter into prostitution- in this quiet hidden place, the water sparkled, birds fished in the reeds and antelope grazed along its warm shore.
When white people talk about a place, we talk about its beginning as the moment in which we, the great white race came along and began the tedious work of defiling and reducing it to nothing more than a series of plaster cubes and parking lots. If we are extra gracious, we mention that there were some other humanoid life forms dwelling in that place before we rode in, Injuns, and that is what we commonly consider prehistory. However, this quiet hidden place had a history before the Pai ah che were a people, before they left the banks of the Colorado river and wandered into a little valley, circled by purple mountain ranges with a wee little puddle sinking down at its center, and decided to stay. Before this place was Etengvo Wumoma, its only name was that uttered when a breeze passed through and sent the leaves of cottonwood trees a’ shivering with delight. It was defined only by the eerie wailing of coyotes in the foothills, or the occasional scream of a puma. The sun baked dirt and dried grasses held still and silent, offering no utterance to define themselves. Occasionally though, the wind had her fun with them too, and then the parched dusts would be lifted up from the rock hard terra like a lady’s night dress lifted up and off, and the wind would whirl it round and round until she had made a devil of it, setting it free to spin like a top, knocking tumbleweeds aside like marbles before it was at last spent and allowed to settle back down on the hard body of earth.
Void of the chattering of three brained apes of any color or degree of spinal erectness, this place had a life of its own. It was ruled by spirits of an unruly and completely incomprehensible nature. Neither you, nor I, who can decipher, understand, and dream dreams inspired by the ideas conveyed through this assemblage of symbols, (whether we see them in print or digitized upon a liquid crystal screen) can even begin to grasp at the existence of such spirits. Their motives are entirely unlike our motives. They will never be released in death. Therefore they have none of the fears or concerns that dominate the minds of beings which must struggle and strive to exist and self perpetuate. No, these things will endure, and their fears, if they could fear, would be different from our own.
If they could dream, they could fear. If they could dream, perhaps then they could have imagined or foreseen what would become of their very body, their corporation of earth, fire, wind, and water. If they could have imagined a future, then they could have had a moment for fright. But they can only know the present in intimate detail. They can only find themselves channeled into the fiber optics of massive glowing arches and fluorescent tubes of light. They can only feel themselves flowing from rusty faucets into waxy paper vessels that touch monkey lips before they go coursing down into the belly of a beast, where at last they can take some revenge before eventually finding themselves expelled into a porcelain bowl to be sent spiraling down into dark pipes and into a vat somewhere where they can meet and mingle with chlorine and some limited filtration before being sent to another rusty faucet. They can only feel the weight of asphalt and tons of steel rushing over their skin.
Once mighty, once free, now subjected to tortures inflicted upon them by lesser beings than they, these spirits can know no end to their woe. As we white men go about applying for loans and slapping up mini malls and tracks of residential housing, and writing down the history of a place we have named and regarded as our own, it is entering our systems in ways so subtle that few of us would dare to imagine it. Beware the land that has endured the humiliation of domestication. Those spirits will be ever making the careless monkeys pay for the silence that they have swallowed up with their chattering. They make us pay for the quiet hidden place that we have erased from existence with our banter and banknotes.
Our greatest enemy is that one which we have just conquered. Now that we have digested our rival’s flesh, how do we intend to protect ourselves from it, now that it has become a part of us? How do we intend to combat the inevitable experience of indigestion that accompanies the consumption of an unwilling party?

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.

Invisible Labyrinth

I’ll tell the story of what has been, of how I’ve changed shape and color and then changed again. Once small and golden, like the cast off eyelash of some heavenly being, I danced and dreamed to the sound of wind chimes and acoustic guitars, watching green spiders weave their webs while rainbow colored fish spoke to me through the invisible barrier separating their world from mine. Monsters with heads like black dandelions and snouts like those of Lord Ganesha leaped from closets moaning, dressed in bulky trench coats to teach me about the subjectivity of earthly experience when they removed their dark wine colored glasses to reveal smiling eyes.
My father was embodied in the question, the mystery, the fierce murmuring darkness, cultivating me in his image. Like rainbow colored candies I was coated in a hard sugary shell which concealed something prized by the Mayans, a food worthy of Godly consumption. As I moved through time like jelly forced through an abstract tube-like blown glass sculpture, I was made new around every bend. Once pale and bloated, as if fashioned from some bit of factory produced silicone byproduct, I longed to break through the glass and escape the life of the living dead. I was fed corpses and bathed in the rays of the cathode tube frequency control device worshiped by the popular culture. As they sprang from me, I held my offspring up to keep them from crawling in the mold and animal filth that closed in, squeezing tighter, and tighter…strangling, tighter…the life, tighter… that dwelt, and tighter…within it.
I was held suspended in time, ensnared in the sticky threads of fear. Only the burning will to speak to the creature standing behind the invisible barrier, allowed me to slash my way free.
Once beautiful and full of the color of autumn leaves, I blew along like a red tailed hawk riding the current, eyeing my quarry, and gingerly evading the pursuit of salivating foxes whilst enjoying their charm. I listened to the mad men, all sons of greater mad men, wearing lipstick and prosthetic noses, hats, long black coats, covered in beer spilled yesterday, and bits of dried leaves. I looked into the eyes of my immortal beloved and we walked beneath skies of snow flake obsidian until it swallowed us and we howled with one voice before we were spit out around the next bend. Once I cried and cried and watched the mold grow upon my flesh and along the window sills, while the blood spilled from me into the white hospital under the Christ’s agonized face. I met dark haired demons in the bed where I left my beloved and my tooth broke in my mouth so that I had to spit it into my hand and smile.
I cannot see the shape that I am in now, because I am still in it, in this temporal chamber. I cannot see time, it holds me and I squish through its length to other imagined scenarios, wondering what sleepy Deity rubbed her eye and cast me into this maze, striving to be whole again without breaking the glass and ending this journey. I struggle to see the glass, my rainbow tail undulating behind me like a banner in the wind. I train my ear to hear the unintelligible speech of the other, pressing her fingers against the imperceptible barrier, begging me to swim for her, to swim where she can never swim, in the tiny world assembled of the lost flecks of golden skin, eyelashes, and fingernail clippings, a realm which perhaps exists in the shadows under the bed where she lies dreaming, trying to tell me in the language of the unspeakable… remember me, remember me, and we shall swim, I in You and You in Me, into the darkest depths, where the father’s face is hidden.

Take It Bitch

The Gods created mankind to labor on their behalf, manufacturing substances the Gods themselves were incapable of producing. But really, who is the servant and who is the master? It is a mutually beneficial relationship.
The magician and his golem must make their way to further their mutual existence. Creator and creator cannot be separate. The created serves as an extension of the original.
What in the hell are you doing with your life? Racing to the grave as if human existence is an all you can eat buffet? The main objective: gratify bestial cravings quickly before 70 short years lands you six feet under.
Is that all?
No don’t look for Daddy or even Mommy. The Gods aren’t here to take care of you. They are here to live in you, to devour you.
What? What am I talking about?
I’m talking about sex, baby. That’s right, sex from the abyss. Something unknowable, the opposite of your biological self with its pathetic shelf life, is seeking to penetrate you, change you, become one with you.
The way that you relate to other earthlings of the opposite gender illustrates your relationship with the divine.
Is it even a relationship?
Any relationship requires an open heart, a willingness to abandon identification with the perceived self.
Where there is love, there is no fear.
Were there is fear, well darling, that’s not love. Love is not a human emotion. It is liquid fire coursing through the veins of an enormous many tentacled state of being. Fear of death, fear of change, and the fear of pain, chain us to life as worms- crawling around in the dirt, afraid to face the sun and the fierce winged things.
But here, dear friend, is a reminder: you will die sooner than you think, you will change states nightly, and suffering is eternal.
My suggestion?
Get fucking used to it. These things alone are certain. Be a mad dog and face the inescapable. Take it like a good little bitch.

Halub Seeds

The way it really is: I don’t like it inside Gods head, but here I was imagined and here I will remain until I’m forgotten, unless I do something disturbingly inorganic.

The problem is that I can’t remember if I didn’t like that pack of jackals I used to run with because I was railing against the inescapable mind of a twisted dreamer, or if it was because I was cultivating an unnatural seed inside of myself and those wild animals had picked up the scent and wanted to tear it out of me.

It is of course a bit of both.

But I walked away from those wild dogs, I didn’t run. I did yell, a regrettable but understandable wobble.

What I really want to talk about however is that seed, a suspicious spore if ever there was one. An alien God gave it to me, a giant.

I was a mortal peasant girl then, back on the planet earth in the 21st century. I was pretty well liked before that, but people, and especially wild animals, can turn on you in a heartbeat. My father always told me that animals were good judges of character, that they have good instincts and can tell if there is something wrong with a particular person. So clearly there was something wrong in harboring that seed.

Did I tell you how he gave it to me? No? Oh.

Well he had them in a little glass vial. It was almost empty. He poured the last of them out into his palm and blew them up my nose before I knew what he was about.

I told you that he was a giant? Yes, well he was, and he wore a yellow robe and matching pants. His beard was very long and full of those little seeds and the crown of his head was going bald so that his forehead looked extremely pronounced. It gave the impression that he had an enlarged brain. It was like the hair of a Franciscan monk, only the hair around the sides was much longer. It went down to his feet, same as the beard, and in fact, the two were tangled hopelessly together.

We met on a bus. It was there that he blew the seeds up my nose. I should explain that I most definitely inhaled them, without trying. It happened very quickly. That is how it all began, how I was impregnated with something paradoxical, something sacred and evil.

It germinated in the darkness inside my head and wound its way down my spinal column, then back up again, until there was very little of me left. What my mortal representation masked was in fact a tangled tree whose roots reached beyond my human nervous system into the deep, dark, and fertile abyss of the uncreated. It germinated in the temporary, but expanded into the eternal.
(A warning to innocent maidens; do not speak to strange giants or Gods, or their servants, if you wish to lead a simple mammalian life. Gods want but one thing with mortal women- to conduct unwholesome biological experiments.)
I have recently begun to produce poisonous fruit from which seeds may be extracted by the devious adept. I do not recommend that it be done without the supervision of a physician, one of those that wears the caduceus on the inside of their garment rather than the outside.

If however you hunger is severe and you aren’t doing anything important with your three dimensional body you might try it without supervision.

After all, "My body is my body, and my time is my time, and I’ll use them how I want to…" – some hip hop song from the 90’s, (I heard it in the first Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Movie)
I certainly do as devils and saints do with my body rather than what my mother would recommend, and you can too if you so choose.