Inchoate

The material conditions which are the makeup of the mode of production which is the makeup of the political economy which is the makeup of human relations in the world which is the makeup of the world of human relations. Read back. Wards are placed upon certain pressure points so that flowing, rushing, passionate water can’t force its way into the cracks. Anthropocene reified into prior. Anthroprior. Capital is the makeup of the political economy is the endless accumulation of itself is your mission is her mission is my mission is our mission. Metanarrative: take pen to pad and write your own ink spill. Story yourself up and out. And leave the light on when you shut the door. I can’t see very well in the dark. 

The yoga, the yogic in the words of Krishna, is that life — until death — is mere superficiality. It goes then it comes. That which remains between the cycles is eternal and escapes them only in perfect attunement with the yoga, the yogic path. Arjuna, living his verbose falsehood decries the situation he and his comrades arrive in. He stands not sits in the muck of confusion staring at his plural telos distorted in sifting sands of time. He watches himself draw the string of the Gandiva itself, loosing a terror that rends his kin from limb to limb. And he says ‘Dawg if I was you, I’d kill myself.’ Krishna retorts ‘Everywhere I step foot I leave a trail of names of the sons of Yakub’. Honor before mercy and truth only in righteous violence — ‘this’ is our ascension. 

Law is flame. Kindling, tinder, firewood, sparks, denizens, converts, power, and a carrot on a stick whose vertex is just out of sight. Law is the justification, granted, immemorial, first, primary, prior. A stone already etched. Novelty requires a new face. And then still, a rock isn’t like the fleshy whims of the people. Flimsy, flaccid then steeled, resolute: temperance is not stagnation. Justice is not something to be sated or placated or dormant or unmoving. We cannot be the first mover if we stop. Law is… 

I am mounted in pillory, neck and wrists hung low with fatigue and my gaze trained toward the dampened dirt at my feet. How many nights? A bold opossum took its honest pound of flesh out of my left calf sometime in the dark, leaving me a gift in return. I can feel the cavity seep with its ooze. My ears perk up at the flitter and flutter of wings. I strain my view upwards. What a view it had been when meeting its gaze lacked the agony. Imprisoned cliffside, I overlooked entire mountains and a glorious valley rich with fecund green. In dawning times like this I once often marveled at the sight of the purple horizon. Life resumes. I watch. One hole for the head. Two for the hands. And I catch sight of the black crow with zest in its beady eye, hopping back and forth in its avian dance — just for me. 

Your inferno of ten thousand fireflies puts to shame the angry flame I keep burning. Lifelight is the last memento mori. We can’t ignore when the lights go out, our eyes aren’t for it. 

Can she feel the static when she appears? Can her look capture the way the hairs on my neck stand at attention like a diligent soldier and how my legs stumble like those of a far less diligent soldier?  Can her eyes parse that if they lock mine then the neuron public transit in my mind derails and everything stops up? No more passengers, cleanup on aisle — what was the aisle called again?  

I like to think. So I make it a rarity to visit that Cerulean City: misty eyes as I said farewell.

“WE’LL SEE WHO’S FIRE BURNS HOTTER” – L.K.

Cogito ergo sum, well I’m starting to think a lot of you fuckers amn’t. You, spitting hogwash atop the mount like piss streams into the urinal: disgusting, acrid orange and your vitriol splashes the filth everywhere. And you, who heard from a friend who heard from a friend that you should burn your yarn and throw away the ashes and try spinning theirs which is theirs which is theirs. You, alongside the angel whose wings you hacked and slashed. You, leech of leeches, the Judas of Arnolds, suckling blood and silver from the hearts of millions. And us, just strong enough to watch. 

I stagger my way through life coniferously. Bump, stub, drop, smash, break, fumble, lose. Clutz, goofball, nincompoop… knucklehead mcspazatron. The accuracy of the accusations charged grants them even less power. Power is in determination over methodology, action over intention, follow-through over initiation. When a solopsistic mood flares up the remedy is to muddle in your mortar-and-pestle every moment, tenacious and less so, committing all of them to your mixture. The world measures you, the measured. Your consummation commensurate with the potion: sip it down and be transformed. Emergent out of the depths we find myself, earnest as I ever was. 

Flaccid memories in dull shades as if developed by the failure photographer. Could I dance and sing back then? And if I don’t know, how will the music recognize me now? And when Spring comes, will I frolic with the nettles or trample the lilacs? Without a past, without a past…

Two thirds ain’t so bad. And where would the world be without my now? My screaming, searing, shining now? I see it all through smudgeless windows of glass painstakingly scrubbed in water and vinegar. Now for the future, future for the now. There’s nothing wrong with a speckling of harmony at the chiasm. Without it all I would have is that gray.

Brevity is the soul of a husk’s wit, and I want my words to sail on long winds into paradise. My words, canned and jarred and scattered. My words spent a lifetime spacebagged, breathless. I’m bloodying my palms on every tin lid, wrenching open every plastic sheath. An object can never be moved if it doesn’t reach the light of reality. A force can never be stopped if it’s as golden as my words. Fall on your knees and praise and crumple and rise. These and so many of my words, emboldened with longevity. 

My midnight dreary is LCD eyes and stifled soundwaves crushed between pillows. My drooped eyelids hang low over the dark pits that shadow the underneath of the eyes void colored so the total vacuums as an emptiness drawing in emptiness. Then it all shuts up, dust bag full of nothing, 𝒏𝒂𝒅𝒂. 

Maybe if I just still long enough then tomorrow the sun will bake the brown back into my iris and the vaccum will be as it never were and the empty will spill out leaving only everything in its wake. 

Thrashing, cackling mandibles tearing gateways under four pairs of bloodied eyes : surrender to enter. Spindled silk caressing the oblique of the abdomen, tender and swift and sealed tight. Emerge to exit so the sun dries up the jet wet eyes to shriveled raisin husks which drift to the patio floor like those miserable leaves of autumn. This all, an ode to last night. 

Eight whims beckoning you to companionship, hairy and writhing. This insistence is sacrosanct and you, eyeless, are fresh out of questions anyhow. Curl up in shuddering familiarity. This all, wrapped up in arachnid bow, the bed you laid for yourself.