Wrenches of every size and belts in figure eights hanging from above.
The Polar Bear came to me around the time that those young natives in Fox pelts hooted and hollered to me, sweeping me up in their magic stampede. The Polar Bear came to me around the time Old Grandmother Crow came to me. She squinted through the puffy cloud of her face, never speaking a word and only leaving me with mysterious smiles and dances to interpret. The Polar Bear came with the rushing parade of the other white animals. White being the color of healer.
Inside the incongruences delight among a dirge-ridden mechanic’s office. Among the peg holes that hold the hooks that hold tools that haven’t been sold for years is a middle-aged woman with urban- styled peroxide hair. Behind her is a Byzantine Madonna and child – a mosaic of tile, ancient and timeless. In the white and soot of winter to be punched with the unexpected in exquisite. Outside, surrounding this garage on three sides is a cemetery.
Small-town tundra-town. I could be anyone. I could be anywhere.
Touched down lightly, shaking the ground before me, an Angel of the Lord. Angel has delicate porcelain flesh over smooth taut musculature. Of sanguine feature. Of luscious lock. Larger than the race of man with immense wings catching up and splintering sun, you are not so far from. Brazen rays of color prism into the snow, dazzling and dumbfounding me in the graveyard where my mother’s father’s parents have long disintegrated. You are not so far from. Coffins with no bodies under frozen ground I dreamed an Angel of the Lord.
Gazing in the water below, Narcissus caught sight of his own reflection. There his eyes remained fixed. There his eyes remained.
Here is your fun house. Crunch, stretch, crack, reshape, ricochet, distort – a revolver and a rubber soul.
Pain is a guidance system.
Only a loving and benevolent parent would concoct such construct to place their beloved child in. “Here is your house where you will play, your forever and always home. Aren’t you happy to be here? Don’t you like your home?”
“You have made yourself into panic. If you will come to the door, if you will place your hand on the knob and turn the knob you will find that the door will open. You will find that the air outside of your house is recycled, filtered, purified to your liking. We have thought of everything here.”
We now regret the infants were not placed in their mother’s arms. We now regret the sterile white, the orderly with the enormous bulbous head and tons of small pointy teeth. We regret it’s reptilian eyes. We now regret as we stare out any window returning to the thought of a gun against our head.
Breathe, breathe into the pose. Breathe, breathe, hold, hold, let, let the lacking oxygen break you heart apart into shards the depth and black of
She took the broken panes of glass to an abandoned building and laid them against a cinder block wall. I left them to the Shadows to eat, blacken, whatever they will with them.
Through the trenches, gun over the shoulder, marching in the rain. Every step is a lever recoiled and released to propel myself closer. My finger pulled the trigger that ejected the projectile that discharged you to the next destination. You prayed for your mind to stop and this intervention was holy. A soul finds redemption in the senselessness of bloodshed. I offer you tears. I offer you new horizons.
Witch doctor leans down into the face. “You must open your mind wider while you are weak.” The words drift like unidentified forms. “While you are weak you must open your mind wider,” the Witch doctor repeats. And I think of how the words and words and words stretch over an expanse of eternity. “I’m always trying to get back,” is the muttered response.
We find the grass to be green here upon the melting of the snow. In five hours time the temperature will drop causing the gushing waters turn to ice.
The seer went blind staring into the sun, but that was long ago.
It is raining ceaseless in the tundra. The rain pounds into dream and myth of tundra. If you go out far enough the door to the north is only ice, night and a whistler’s breeze. Groans and howls are whole, stark, harsh, and empty. Go to the end of the earth and freeze your mind until it cracks. You will fall though the spaces. It is the only way.
We moved to the Northern Territories. The rain mixed with snow. The economy is rations. The creed is survivalist. We rode together around the compound in the Military issued transport.
I love you. Remember me because all will fade.
I love you. Remember me because all fades. Remember the light behind my eyes because next time my eyes will be shaped differently and no longer this color.
You might not remember anything. Maybe I don’t remember what I know I remember. Maybe it is only all of these mirrors and these recordings distorting every image and sound. Residuals and echoes smeared across and penetrating into an ethereal body. The mind manhandled. The touch reverberated through me leaving imprints.
“How dare you?” I direct to the sky.
Breathe into me. I will pretend I don’t remember. I will fall into rank, into formation.
There is a clearing if you keep walking.
A dark helix pathway into sleep leads to these walls that glow white from within, indiscriminate scrawlings in black across this. Perfected a new lighting, the object itself illuminated from within, as the people who operate them are illuminated from within. I’m always comforted by the perfected lighting in the dreams. I’ve felt the glow of purple in the room and the florescent white bulb hanging by a back entryway, a stream of comfort to remind me that there is a beacon that can always stabilize me. The light stays on by the backdoor, especially in the other dimension. There is a base of comfort in the world I came from hanging in the bald bulb by the back door. Night is different here. Night goes on forever here. This small empty room is powerful. If I could read these walls I could manifest whatever is here. I want to read. Then I don’t. Nothing to decrypt, the Buddhist brain counteracts all opposing forces against the other leaving all neutral and just. I hold no wisdom, nothing to record. Is it a sin to come to such a place then feel complete, utter insignificance?
When the dreams offer entries into the absolute power of manifesting, I find myself speechless. Empty.
I still hear echos. “We are all your friends here. We want you to write your words on our walls.”
There is another clearing on the edge of the Puritan New England settlement, heading into the deep woods were the townspeople bow to a darker, more primal deity.
“This is your own house of illusions. You have built this yourself.”
And I will walk among the ruins alone.
There is a clearing on the top of Scarface. There is no view, only circling trees. You can pray for privacy from foot traffic. You can dream yourself into another time where you and a lover could let the hum of nature pepper with fever. Joy can turn you into an immortal teenager for maybe one hour.
“Take me to the haven of your bed is something that you never said.” (“Another Morrissey quote,” the demons snicker.)
Too many voices have spoken and these voices, wear me down. Desert the deserted town. I thought I could play with ghosts. I thought I could live in another time. I thought I could come out on the other side.
Look how beautiful the planet is! The fir needles feather upward next to the cedar combs that droop and splay. The only filth on this planet is humanity.
The sticks are gray. The sand aside the pavement is drab. The sky has given up for today. It is only the barraging traffic against my nerves that can go to hell.
I cannot look through unscratched glasses, the culture is not benevolent. It is nothing new. Children have had limbs eaten in machinery. Disease, war, famine. I’m bored already. The trust fund afforded the swimming pool to blow the brain out in.
Then, I was not much more than a child. I was trekking the river. I was transfixed by reflection. It was too warm. I fell through the ice. Once I was under the heavy sheet I drowned. That is all.
I cannot wait for the quiet of night.
I cannot wait for the trance of candlelight.
I cannot wait for the
It was my fault, that time. I was a man walking the train tracks past midnight. I was drunk. It was only me careening in that tomb of black evergreen silhouette and moonlight reflected in snow. I suppose I had a head born to be bashed by steel.
The sculpture was come upon in moonlight. Shards of glass fissured together from all angles – an odd icon of splintered mirror. Obtuse planes, inconceivable menageries. Explosive and refined. Sophisticated and vulgar. Impersonal and piercing. Let not those eyes follow me the rest of my days.
In the year 2017, Saturn squared my Sun. I had to face some had truths about myself.
When all has been scattered to the different directions, I’m not surprised to find I do not have a reflection. I am only fragments that can fall away.