Al, my friend from Neenyo
Droughts
suck the marrow from the collective of man. Iconic handshakes behind
closed doors, detached social systems propelled by the momentum of
unraveling civilizations, ravenous circles of circuitous
self-sabotaging; conscious, but sleepwalking in the misty bogs of an
unfulfilled longing. No torch to warm the night, no comfort in the
dying light. Damned to the path, a starving basilisk. The tooth-like
needle on the record of a played-out threnody, entrenched in a rift
of loathing and longing. Melody transmutes to malady, puretones to
incongruous discord. The echoes of savages from past wrinkles in
time, hearken the present.
A reaper
stalks the threshold of fields once bountiful; now wrought by time
and indifference. Suits and sweaty business socks stamper about in
the machine. Each cog, shiny and lubricated, spinning faster than the
next, overclocking until combustion, then conflagration. Each piece
unaccountable, deferring responsibility up the chain; a whole too big
to fail, an amoeba too gluttonous to fast.
Here
I sleep motionless, seething in the gallows of familiar stone tombs.
With each solar revolution, enthalpy grows in vibration. Waters
inflame and swell to the disharmony of the discordant conductors. The
blood of man – of striking resemblance to seawater – will upwell
from once mild gyres and rain down to quench the mouths of those
whose eyes glow red in the night. Irony is not lost in the drought of
an ocean planet. But yet the phalanx of barnacled thinktanks,
wriggling deceptions on bought out electromagnetic transmissions
through copper, planting seeds of doubt that blossom into gnarled
branches of subterfuge. A tree growing too fast for its roots to
support, collapse inevitable. Limbs will break, and trunks will
deracinate in the jarring wind of a humility unrecognized. Oyarsa in
absentia.
Tell
me, will the optical depth of sapphire skies shift as bone powder
coalesces into currents of breath in the airglow of diffusing star
light? Can you empathize with the feeling of the eternal agony of a
conscious, amorphous plasma cell suspended in the perpetual suffering
of repetitious moments of core-pulsating, life-shattering, manic
bursts of madness? A dementia defined by the scales of ouroborous,
slicing through each nerve fiber one at a time, into the endless echo
of perpetuity. Like the internal cold in the waning breaths of
hypoxia, the shivering isles of pristine southern lands form a dam on
the brink of collapse. A shift in ancient cycles, riding the
undulating snake of histories unheeded. Tall tales in fiction radiate
brightly under the cutting eye of objective realism. A speck of dust
is a mountain to bacteria; an intestinal biome of city-like
proportions.
Temperate
measures have fallen beneath the umber of caskets long forgotten,
devoured by cooled earth in the death throes of waning gravity. It is
within the grey mist that ghosts wither and die into false
manifestations of lives not truly lived. The howl of an ill wind that
blows no minds; shed this skin in the blanket of night as it nurtures
a longing that could never be fulfilled or understood – held in a
throng of absent light, moving in angles, solidifying and now
piercing from all directions. Dissolved by light, now long gone,
adrift in onyx rivers unbounded by any sort of natural law.
Everything in nothing, solace in the void.
The
great heat sink becomes the veil masking Great Old motives.
Shortwaves enter through refracting ripples, pillars of ethereal
light diminish as depth unfurls cerulean shadows. Photons engulfed
into returning valence states, radiation vectors inflect as charged
particles are bombarded. Efficiency of the energy budget is not lost
in the chaos, but scavenged by a higher order. Light and water, I
often question their motives...
Enter
within me to excite, and excite I will my neighbor, to no end, to
know end... I will carry this weary traveler up and away, to places
of lesser. Those of same design mimic and follow, meniscus forms on
tensioning contours. We gather in the coming storm, we become the
storm, we are the storm. We fall, we fall together. At the rim of the
world, we shed as tears, and dream of the waves we will one day
become again. We fall, and as we fall together, we purge all. We hear
no past, and see no future, we are, as we've always been, a
fundamental duality, a nature with no memory.
Binaural
murmurs feed a mind long famished; tethered to stem, skull, and skin.
In the annals of the cobalt corridor,
In the annals of the cobalt corridor,
it's
frightening how discomforting the privacy of a mind can be...
-C-