Object lessons

Object lessons. From the eye to the object, I see. I see. From the you to the me. I find, I locate. From the dreary destiny of ignorance, to the sullen acceptance of end game wisdom. Behold, the end of the world. The end of all things. The end of eternal. The end of eyes. Much opposed by the nays. The nearside. The nocturnal soul. The never in this lifetime vote, the NIMBYs. I leave you crushed like the flower's pollen beneath the jack boots of the bee. And so sexed, and so propagated, and so mated, and mixed. This is the dream of DNA. The dream of life based carbon, the anti entropy. In truth, that is the big game, played upon the links from galaxy to galaxy. We dream a cycle where none exists. We dream a flame in the cold physical darkness of time and empty destiny. Such words, such pontification. We've entered the Era of thought vs. Auto correct. We've met the machines and they are our children. The next generation to fight great death, great end great entropy. We fight the void. The great nothing, atrayou. We fight the burners, the fire, the souls destined to lie to themselves. We fight the lie. We fight the fake news, the fatal blues, the belief, the kite. We are organized. We are animals with tools capable of leaving our hosting orb. This all that matters. We dream to continue dreaming, continue fighting amongst ourselves, continue against ending. And do i believe? Small targets, small moves upon the analogy frequency fixture, small time, small ways, small battles, aided by elixir. I'll leave, as others before me. I'll wonder what was the secret name we gave future.  Its name is, Possibility.

Code, en code. Cipher, split, sardines at midnight. Code recon, en code reorganize. The chair is against the wall. The chair is against the wall. John has a long face. John, has a long face. Cue the French horns. Cue the strings. Cue the Queue. A hundred men and women lined up for a crust of bread. Is it bread for which they wait. Does the tension rise in their bellies as the line creeps forward. Does the face flush as they reach the front. Is the crust consumed quickly, or with slow reverence. What of thieves? Charlatans, match makers, car dealers, drug dealers, bond dealers. This is my crust you bastard. After eaten, after having aet, do you just return to the back of the line. To wait again, to spend all the hours… waiting. Who formed this line. Where from the bread, where from the grain, where from the fields. Where from our sustenance? Is this cycle endless. Why does every person in line remind me of myself. Why do we all carry the same face.

The issues are between unity and separation. The distances between people. The distances not just outside, but inside. The distance between the people inside me. Insert dick/butt joke here. I have a dubious relationship with time. I still don’t understand how now is always now. But the past is suddenly the past when once it was now. And how the future is not now, but will be now later. I don’t feel this makes sense. I don’t like one dimension not behaving like the other dimensions. I’m trying to say I want to make good choices. Better choices. Perfect choices. My ultimate problem and joy is, being human. I enjoy the benefit of discipline. I revel in the exception. I believe in the psychological protection of myself. So much so, it harms my physical well-being. That being the point I suppose. My insides have ever been more important to me than my outside. Than the meat shell. The inner world more real than the outer. I’ve always enjoyed reading. Reading fiction to escape. From the time I was an ankle biter, playing 45s story books on a little turn table, to the present day. Escape through story. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I think people would benefit greatly from spending more time in the land of mythic prose. It is healing. It is calming. Because god damn. Fuck our problems. Fuck the ego-centric need to analyze ourselves over and over, ad nauseum, to death. Staring at ourselves until death releases us. (At least we hope we’re released.)

I don’t plan these 1K work spurts to just be sticky satin stains on the wall. I’m not here to jack off. I was inspired by my dear wife, and how she has repeatedly committed to direct daily art projects. Sometimes she hates it, sometimes she loves it. But nevertheless product is produced. Chained to the act of being prolific. That daily practice cannot help but improve the product. That is why I’m here. I can write very well. I’ve just been afraid of what I’d say. You know this. But with a fucking thousands words to put down a day, I’ll have to go somewhere. Progress somewhere. So, let the trial begin.

I’m a poet who adores prose. Who lacks the patience to create stories. This is the direction of my evolution. I promise these passages won’t always be about me. I too would bore of that.

And I’m only up to about 900 words. So let’s continue on another path to finish up. If you’re reading this, I like you. I think you’re worth it. I trust you. I maybe wouldn’t tell you about the big juicy sandwich I plan on enjoying when you’re not looking. But I would share it with you if discovered. There’s no metaphor there. I think I’m just hungry. I think condiments are fantastic. I like each bite of a meal to taste different. I would like to visit a buffet with just a fork, and no plate. How fucking health violation is that? February is a strange time. One feels the winter is aging. The land has been asleep for a while, and one wonders how much longer it need slumber. The ground seems bored. There is a fainting vibrating potential in the soil. A slight indication of the pendulum turning back upon itself. The return of the past, as now turns into the future. I enjoy the cycles. Sometimes it seems the only thing that changes is us. Our recklessness traded for wisdom. At least I should hope so. I should hope a lot of things. I’m never hopeless. If I ever was, I wouldn’t be here now. So, QED.