“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it? I the Lord search the heart, I try the reins, even to give every man according to his ways, and according to the fruit of his doings.” (Jeremiah 17:9&10)
Awareness of quality arriving metaphysical harmony, the source of subjects and objects, mathematical order of sense (lucid awareness) and harmony (artless lucid awareness) and quality as stimuli for change removes capricious ways (stumbling blocks).
Contrast: a fractal fracas, a bloody Bacchanalia.
A desire to be tempted indicates a temptation in
progress. Get behind me, Satan! For how much
longer will this desire for temptation persist? Why
does temptation exist? As negative consequences
progress over time and my wants are left unfulfilled,
I begin to desire a temporal discard or a desire to
push time forward toward a moment of fulfillment,
a moment whence I proceed within memory.
Instead, I foment these nagging feelings to be
on top (of her) to (master her) have been climbed
upon these vacant apices and down valleys. Pleasure
and comfort from external physical sources within my
control. Grasping, reaching, in the dark, in vein.
Our wicked prayers are known prior to our own wicked
heart’s beatings. My wicked prayers are heard. If
I were one of God’s green creations, I would ignore
me too, until I was needed for use. Use me again!
Purpose indicates certain meaning in this world. Rewards
indicate proper direction and if this statement is
true, reward will provide a feeling of being loved,
needed, or at least wanted. I don’t even know who
wants me right now. I guess I’m just fine in my
own parked car which reminds me that I’m avoiding
paying my taxes, insurance, and tickets. I haven’t
a current source of steady income. I haven’t a place
to call my own. Perhaps my priorities are mixed.
Perhaps my brain is confused or my heart is wicked.
Help! Help yourself. Go help yourself. Go. Leave!
Go leave this place and help yourself to whatever
struggles you desire to struggle against. Not my
struggle, not my problem. We all have them:
problems to deal with and blemishes to conceal.
Pizza face! Funny man! Make me laugh.
“To wit, Jerusalem, and the cities of Judah, and the kings
thereof, and the princes thereof, to make them a desolation,
an astonishment, an hissing, and a curse; as it is
this day.” (Jeremiah 25:18) [the kingdom’s kings come]
“Therefore thou shalt say unto them, Thus saith the Lord
of hosts, the God of Israel; Drink ye, and be drunken,
and spue, and fall, and rise no more, because of the
sword which I will send among you. And it shall be,
if they refuse to take the cup at thine hand to drink,
then shalt thou say unto them, Thus saith the Lord
of hosts; Ye shall certainly drink. For, lo, I begin
to bring evil on the city which is called by my name,
and should ye be utterly unpunished? Ye shall not be
unpunished: for I will call for a sword upon all
the inhabitants of the earth, saith the Lord of hosts.
Therefore prophesy thou against them all these words,
and say unto them, The Lord shall roar from on high,
and utter his voice from his holy habitation; he shall
mightily roar upon his habitation; he shall give a
shout, as they that tread the grapes, against
all the inhabitants of the earth.” (Jeremiah 25:27-30)
Our time is short and sure to run out of ink,
yet thou writest on tables the graven shame of
this indifference. Woe be it. Dost not the clock’s
hands mock thy master? So be it, say we.
You are free, America, to chase many visions.
Do not let thy truth forsake thee.
The noonday Sun beckons. Where are we?
Why are we here? A commitment to sanity?
Shake your sanity maker. Wag your head.
I Pavlov you more than you can know.
This is my beloved Son in whom I am
well pleased. Breathe his recycled air, eat and
drink his residue. This is how we share YHWH!
Slurp my spaghetti, drink my wine, and break my baked goods.
Make me feel as I should.
My play-by-play life announcer takes an extended break for prolonged
boredom. Red hot frustration churns my face into
a motile mask full of confusing contortions. Why
are you reacting recklessly? Why don’t you
relax? Calm down. Cool it. Okay, okay.
Pardon my deaf, dumb blindness. I know not what I do.
What would J.C. write, record, or think?
Do thoughts form the basis of our superficial structure and style?
Do mental strivings constitute the appearance of belief?
The way I see it, if there weren’t a thing to chase,
there wouldn’t be reason to move at all! Stockpiles
placate the otherwise starving, lazy masses. Stockpiles
acquired at gunpoint, away from our massively lazy
awareness. Pistols negotiate survival, rifles demand,
and automatics speak for themselves, splattering.
My braindead ways, I’m trying to get my
head straight, but my molar fillings are beaming
radio transmissions directly into my central nervous system,
providing constant distraction and deferral of more
pressing matters within the scope of my immediate sphere
of sensory influence, particularly with regard to
accurate memory access because the crippling
pains of sharp substance P obstructs historical
context in relation to more desirable parameters,
yet undefined and yet sought.
I objectify
myself for the sake of control, the rice wine
of focus. The transmogrification of the senses
is a blistering sphere of particular affection and
my book is a rolling blastula of mitotic
apoptosis. I sacrifice my cells for you
and part of me escapes.
Stars circle wise and when
I looked back, to my surprise,
the day was mine.
In this world, in this life, at this moment,
what I perceive to be true is this fluent statement
of fact: tests test the validity and endurance of
our best conceptions of descriptive meanings in a realm
of common experiences complexified to its furthest relatable
extent, given at least an object, a host, and a receptive template
able or capable of encompassing the apotheotic ideals of
theorizeable alternative realities brought to light both in series
and sequence in reflective contrast to our current state of being.
Mental momental momentum rigamaroling boiling caffeine coursing
steadily and speedily through my flowing red hot bleeding blood stream
of consciousness, vibrant with color, and sounding of
character actors jaunting down the sidewalk and slashing
up the street at a pulsating pace. If home is where
the heart is, work is my extremity, from here I
tremble home, exhausted from fresh congestion.
My life is the bucolic spite in a rusty spittoon full of
venom-nom-nom. My livelihood comes from a silver
dip spoon and my face is a sludge drenched cavity.
My manner arrests the stolidest subsets who would
not even cringe at a Hindu suttee.
I am the putrid last breath that wallows in sickness,
the final gust from the most recently deceased, usually
a choleric fart loosed from dying bowels.
Obtrusive hearing aids
squeal piercing static
swarming microbes
paraural electrolocution.
Once we discover electrified scents
then we can really Willy Wonka. Until
then we Glade® plug-in over our friendliest
musk or our most stimulated sebaceous gland, our
ambergris ooze, ye whales, or our muddiest coalescence,
ye pigs. The dirtiest decalogues antithesized commandments.
Stay in school, remain in class: shuttle hierarchy.
Respect your master, obey your boss: sicken your ambitions.
To and fro, away we go!: Merry-go-rounder.
Deadly sin, get it in!: Compulsively recessing.
I do not wish to control the flow of ideas, just the rate of
dispersal, and I have all day, or do I? Darkness falls
upon all creation, regardless of career, color, or creed.
The darkest nights sink in sobs of self-pity.
Why me? Why now? Parallel procrastinates, a lazy life alone.
Alter egos flourish at my pen’s behest.
The sibilant sideshow produced pornography, hissing,
making love without kissing, making public pubis,
introducing third parties into curious routines
of coming into, creampie.
If I were to prioritize, prioritizing would be a priority, but it isn’t.
To all the girls I’ve loved…
To all the girls I’ve cheated on before,
It’s a New Year and a romantic comedy
starring everyone you thought you knew until now.
Here is an opportunity to renew our opinions
of things we cared about before
and put them in a different perspective.
A chance to forget old acquaintances
and to place a higher premium on those we find ourselves with tonight.
A chance to jam everything into a tight little package
and to fit numerous proposals into a busy schedule.
A chance to make a sideshow out of ludicrous art
and turn this into the freak show we all came to see.
Girls, I know you all hate me, and you were so good.
Girls, you know I love you with all my heart
and would do whatever it takes to make up, right, or straight
these narrow paths we all must take on our own together.
Girl, you know who you are.
First line: the speed of an idea with a point in endless space imagined by the godhead that exists on a plane bisected by a right angle, a just angle, and a perpendicular angle on and into eternity and continues to continue until the dawning of no recognition, the coming of the blockhead, or the slaughtering of, “The centurion answered and said, Lord, I am not worthy
that thou shouldest come under my roof:
but speak the word only, and my servant shall be healed.
For I am a man under authority, having soldiers
under me: and I say to this man, Go, and he goeth;
and to another, Come, and he cometh; and to my
servant, Do this, and he doeth it. When Jesus
heard it, he marveled, and said to them that
followed, Verily I say unto you, I have not found
so great faith, no, not in Israel. And I say
unto you, That many shall come from the east and west,
and shall sit down with Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob,
in the kingdom of heaven. But the children of the kingdom
shall be cast out into outer darkness: there shall be
weeping and gnashing of teeth. And Jesus said unto
the centurion, Go thy way; and as thou has believed,
so be it done unto thee. And his servant was healed
in the selfsame hour.” (Matthew 8:8-13)
Of what good is my good fortune if I canst not
do with it what I please? Assuming my fortune
is mine to have, may I please please myself?
Let the less fortunate please themselves too, and
send them cakes to eat. Beauty may be in
the eye of the beholder, but what is most beautiful
resides only in the blankest of minds, like a ghost
chained to a stake that has been driven into
the frozen wintershed; the ability to laugh at our own
ghastly, howling powerlessness makes us fitter, happier,
and more productive, like an albino sow in a whitewashed
pen, sick on antibiotics. Ah, sweet misery, derived from the
countenance of contempt, blurring the lines of innocence
with hemophiliatic blood sprayed from the muzzle
of a blunderbuss’ triggered trajectory’s trillion splats,
ah, sweet misery, on the floor you sup like the worm,
bathing yourself in the thick, sanguine mire of your
own obscenity. How do you enjoy yourself? I do so
with hedonic mirth in the valley of fleeting glee
inhaling a thick cloud of soot with the tang of
the sourest stomachs come to fart and imbibing the
silver tears of unicorns and infants mixed with the
breast milk of virgin mothers come to lie for the very
first time about their past transgressions against
the flesh from whence they came again and again
theonomously. I have reached an epiphany when it
comes to this: freedom, fearfulness, or any life without
God is a mistake, and the only mistake you could possibly
make resides in this lack of respect and recognition
towards your ultimate well-wisher, master of Providence,
and the only one with the keys to your lucid mind,
active body, and pure soul, assuming an omniscient,
omnipresent, and omnipotent arbiter in the divisibility
and formation of all things provided naturally
amid the plurality of sentient microcosms
existing together in relative harmony, sharing
the same air that Jesus breathed with the body and blood he left us.
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“But where shall wisdom be found?
and where is the place of understanding?
Man knoweth not the price thereof; neither is it found
in the land of the living. The depth saith, It is not
in me: and the sea saith, It is not with me.” (Job 28:12-14)
“And unto man he said, Behold, the fear of the Lord, that
is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding.” (Job 28:28)
“But once gone through, we trace the round again; and
are infants, boys, and men, and Ifs eternally.
Where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor no more?
In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the
weariest will never weary? Where is the foundling’s
father hidden?” Melville, Moby Dick pg. 705.
“The solutions all are simple-after you have arrived
at them. But they’re simple only when you know
already what they are.” Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance pg. 293.
Ever present between lines and objects, the creative force
betwixt building blocks shuttles a grievance, makes
form by replacing light ever so lightly, a
blessing beheaded by a guillotine for fomenting
syndicalism; I have no envy for the public executioner
who takes orders from the powers that be above
hoi polloi in self-righteous governance over
the mint and the treasury, withholding tax.
“I know that thou canst do every thing,
and that no thought can be withholden from thee.
Who is he that hideth counsel without knowledge?
therefore have I uttered that I understood not;
things too wonderful for me, which I knew not.
Hear, I beseech thee, and I will speak: I will
demand of thee, and declare thou unto me. I have
heard of thee by the hearing of the ear: but now
mine eye seeth thee. Wherefore I abhor myself
and repent in dust and ashes.” (Job 42:2-6)
