Astral Lore

Well
this brain splatter could be colorful
upon the spin art crests of a more daft poetry
but yet I still wonder
what it is that yearns in the firmament of my remaining nerves
for a modicum of transitive velocity
within the sea sick canvas of outer space,
filling up spacecraft with water based engines
and shooting crooked strands of electricity
in small measures in the veldt of twilit perdition.

I could write about designs that could be in future textbooks
like a graviton machine that functions on a large circular orbit
with a smaller one inside performing hydrostatus
for a perpetual energy machine
but these may be laughed at
since they began with a pen,
and well, neither you nor I
are as simple as a silent machine
that came running with clean thoughts through my inordinate dreams.

A spaceship, yes
one that could be manufactured out of wood or tree branches
which would perfume the cabins with oxygen from the natural mechanism of leaves
functioning on the other end only on CO2 in a person's breath,
or a suit knitted out of sealed rubber composites
that could fly an individual to the brink of outer space's vast sea
or some kind of gizmo
that would bend light with mirrors and an electric whip
to flail gently out into the purple dark
to provide a pale illumination.

But for the children I attended school with,
these may be possible,
the ones who poured sea salt on snails
to watch the saline mess bubble in pops and cruel crackles
as they cawed in malicious laughter like ravens,
maybe something wrong there
with their brains and bloodlines
like the switches for interspecies empathy had burned out
on the metaphorical circuit boards of their minds,
failing them in science lessons
that proved other creatures possessed nerves to feel.

I could ransack old magazines and notebooks
for cautionary tales
of taking cruel captains into the backdrop of space,
like the story of poor Nevel
who they locked in space prison for a million and a half years
without cryosleep
for simply professing that a pencil with an eraser
could be a better tool than a billion dollar robotic pen
which could write upside down in no gravity,
when all he said after that
was well, the pencil performs that trick too.

Wondering if a black rosebud
or an artichoke plant
or some kind of humane symbolic flower
like an orchid
could float out into the layers of the upper atmosphere
and seed the external orbits of our fledgling planet
with scenery and beauty
as gifts to all those insane insectile spy satellites
who get used to probing for old Cold War designations
in terms of high definition black and white
across both the screen and politics.

I wonder too
if you would laugh
at a plan to make outer space habitable
without the concepts of submarines and skyhooks
but maybe just with staircases of Light
that we could rummage through with our running styles and laughter
like MC Escher drawings, hiding and surprising each other again
without painful hackles such as explosives attached to lasers and engines
without obtuse senses of disbelief in the sufferings of our longing and lack of belonging
without the cruelty of too much thrust and too much power while trapped by technological rapes
without the ideas that had planted the bodies of our kin beneath earth and bedrock
and without the miseries of hearts broken like porcelein bells at all the senseless murders extracted on soul and spirit.
We could live a nice life up there,
you in your mansion made of Light
with me sitting in a giant glowing cup, drinking water that wouldn't sink
as our feelings and love and notions extended into free form without gravitational predialections
and broke free of even the Beauty of Flight.

Maybe
this Life on Earth
came here to teach us about Pain and Bondage
and our Destiny
lays in the billowing silk of Starlight
as promised to us by even merely the reflection in your eyes
when you promised to be brave even if they decided they didn't love you
before you met those who had accomplished the stories of myth
with common items, such as fending away fear and dread
with rubber bands and a butter knife
or those who had nothing
but meant everything
to the astral navigations of Life's fulfilment
as the robin still tweets and scatters seed through its being
and as the silver flash of a fish
reminds us of sleek movements of belonging in a school
will we one day place our hands
not on each other
but where our hearts had desired up there on celestial objects
that would want to become symbols
for the times when our species finally discovered True Love.

Theories of the Unknown

I have been wading through experiential morass, attempting to connect and make contact with outside variables that seem to constitute realities if not certain aspects of sane or insane.  Dreaming, for instance, is a magical comic book that opens up past delineations of dream geographies that held through my various mental states, code word for clinical or just clinically drunk.  Despite beer saturation, certain dream cities have remained in effect whole, have burgeoned in their maps, have become fuller instead of destitute.  If I had drawn these cities without my knowledge with my own mental parameters, then their maps exist hidden and somewhat permanant without my knowledge.  There are and were street names that have reappeared during sleep, which are now washed over with the haze of wakefulness, the kind that manifests when you try to recall a long diminished dream.  But the maps are there, scorched in thin tree bark, and the results of examining them while awake are sometimes cryptic.  For instance, why am I buying groceries daliently in a North Canadian/European city washed over by warm fog, usually in the company of a certain Frenchman that I knew in real life?  The store is an archetype for a small island supermarket, was fascinating in its aisles and cubbies, exuded magic but somehow lacked the properties of a realer fascination, the kind that can flummox you into spending three thousand dollars on a golf cart in real life for no apparent reason.

Apparently, I am mad.  Diagnosed as insane, yes, but the properties of insanity have shown me today that apparently you cannot punish a sane person into filling the brackets of insanity, not with words or violence.  The person will just ape insanity.  Finding myself is a different story.  There are funny retributions when I gaze into a mirror, thinking about a factor called chirality, which is how the mirror functions instead of being reflective.  The word "chirality" means basically that your left hand resembles your right hand without being your right hand, there is that symmetry of likeness but in effect there is the reflection of asymptomatic assymetry.  What it all boils down to is the discovery that flat square mirrors reflect and refract in an X pattern, with the center of the X being the focal point of the reflective chirality.  What it signifies is that it will reflect the assymetrical parts of a person's face in reverse, the way that written letters appear opposite when held up to the same mirror, showing us that our reflections are in some way the opposing images of how we look, which we should be instructed to understand at a young age instead of being forced to simply mime the not so concrete fact that the person in the mirror is me or you.  How this ties into marginality in terms of mental diagnoses is that when the phenomenon was observed by myself at different incursions, the significations immediately had me taken aback.  Do I, in fact, look like a woman in reality as opposed to a man?  Is the stubble of my beard in the mirror in fact just natural down on my face meant to keep my face warm as opposed to the stylings of a male's facial hair?  Do I resemble a celebrity woman instead of what the mirror and my photographs (upside down reverse images of ourselves) profess?  These questions came up with chirality and mirror investigations.  I wonder still, leaning to an impartial yes and no now, if the image in the mirror of myself is actually the complete opposite, and I, as a woman, am stuck with the ramifications of having some ghostly husband made of light who follows me around and appears in reflective instances.  I do not feel male anymore, and not very slightly female.  The discoveries with a laptop camera and the bathroom mirror and display monitor which switched images was somewhat mind blowing, but only in the questions that the experiments raised.  How does the mirror through the camera lens portray my mouth as open when it is in fact closed?  Why did the technology of the camera switch its definitions of reflection, placing what should have been an image from the right on the left after the mirror experiments?  Who can explain this to me besides some sort of master optician?  The reason I am more than concerned and more than interested is due to the existence of real time cloaking devices based in only lens and optic work, which can make an object invisible when seen from a certain perspective.  You can find that work here: Rochester Cloak, the information of which was based also in an article from the web publication version of Wired.  I bring up my mental state again because I do not feel that I am crazy, but that instances of secretive cloaking devices based off of lens work when evidenced by me in the past probably did not do justice to what were often labeled "hallucinations" when objects or vehicles would appear or disappear based off of perspective.  In terms of me taking the blame for a technology that I do not possess nor have at my disposal, I would tell the dishonest crowd of invisibilifying yahoos to not get carried away with mirage camoflauge at my expense any longer.  That and the thoughts that if you invisibilified yourself with lenses and drove around for a time, that you were probably at the most causing bizarre car accidents on occasion and at the least playing the role of the coward.

Regardless, mirror and optic perplexity figure into dreams.  Are we only seeing the "reflections" of reality's substrate when our eyes are closed, bounced into our sleeping visions from chiral properties that exist in the vicinities of our resting places?  Is this a natural facility?  For a brief amount of time, it bore evidence upon examiation that some of the myths of the unknown such as ghosts, telepathy, and misconstrued vortexes of reality could be based on mirror properties that have gone unexamined in reality, whether the mirages or distortions were caused by water vapor, cold and warm air, or more complex properties that often lack description.  The properties have been witnessed for sound, as well as light obviously, and the indications for other spectra involving other human senses could be astounding, including theories of human/reality radio wave resonances.  The theories could explain any sort of experiences that have been classified as paranormal (outside maybe, say alien life) based in the properties and aptitude for illusive or real creation of reflections and refractions that exist inherently in reality.  To sum it up, are we living honestly in a literal hall of mirrors, and if so, which side of the metaphorical glass are we on?  One could point to paranoid theories such as that we are living in a maze designed for study by a "higher" or at least more distinct set of beings, but perhaps we are imprisoned by our own.  Thoughtful examination places the possibility of down right abusive chicanery within this idea either at an all time high or all time low.  Regardless, it's worth the thoughts as opposed to the nightmares I had cocurrently with the research that sometimes suggested that I was only made of Light and was somehow slipping into traps or non-existance, which I mention because these happened during my examinations and experiences with the chirality of mirrors (and perhaps my environment).  Some of the nightmares came as dreams, some of the dreams came as nightmares.  The most prominant experience of one was the notion that we are all made of some kind of Light that exists seperately from the Material Universe, and somehow we only move away or towards each other, and that factor within any sort of Metaphysical system based on such an admonition would end up explaining pain, love, loss, friendship, joy, and perhaps even Beauty.  However I am not one to definitevely say, not wanting to be cast in the role of Metaphysical Dictator or Idealogue. 

It is, if the survival of our people is any indication, perhaps time to return again to investigations of what is classified as the unknown or paranormal, not so that we may become Masters but so that we may work with forces and processes in reality that have lacked further classification besides unexplainable phenomenon, if only because a benevolent embracing of their complexities and values could portend new awakenings and a larger kinship between ourselves and life. 

Rummaging through Archival Impressions, Document 1

These scripted ruminations.  I want to profess about incredible things and people, how spinning the Sleater Kinney record "Dig Me Out" laid airwaves across transient dimensions to crowds of people who had to keep their real names hidden since they turned out to be the military coordinates of foreign cities stacked up for bombing and war.  But I won't.  I will delve, archive like, into the baleful subsistence of life on this hard won planet, which thankfully, to my knowledge, hasn't attempted to throw itself into the Sun since I was twelve.  I met a woman thankfully.  She is my wife, I am her husband.  We do not resort to narcotics or GMO dope usage.  We think this has placed a level head on our shoulders, out conniving the movers and shakers from time to time, often in grotesque pitched battles or worse, traps lain in a vessel on the sea, things we've had to escape and think about with no preparation time.  Well, life has been like making omlettes while roller skating.  No time to think about the transistions sometimes, Life breaks up helter skelter into images of people doing things for drugs while we are knowingly trying to stop the sun from exploding before it gets shot at with another ray of anti matter from the West Coast.  This I believe.  That Beauty is possible with Truth involved, and that together they make a stable cradle for the benefits of Brilliant Love.  But yet, these destructive propensities of "Ego" exist that insidiously worm their way from the manufactured consent of media hoopla into the connoitered brain cells of a sold and used populace, sucking at pills and drugs and booze like the candied glass fragments of a dangerous gingerbread house.  Well, I'm stacked.  Should I post this for the public?  Or will I have office papers thrown at me again along with accusations of my personal insanity that arrive as frequently as molestations?

A equals A should be graffiti on the side of some subway station some day, slashed out in red paint while the trains hustle by in their dingy affairs.  It is both the philosophy and the equation of truth, it is how you find it when you are alone, as it was placed in Aristotle and Atlas Shrugged.  No accolades for those two, to tell you the truth.  For all I care to tell you, Aristotle ingested less lead and mercury powder than the less famous goons he was talking to in Ancient Greece.  Ancient Greece, would that beat Prehistoric Greece in a contest for vibrant minds?  Somehow, we think so but we also think not.  Thank the gods there is persistence somedays if not intelligence.

Drunken dreams of coastal cities that have far more meticulous arrangements in infrastructure portend a de facto thesis that these places exist, not far, and not only in "dreams."  It could be made an argument that dream stuff is actually the gates of transit for where a person arrives after their body has been declared deceased.  I wonder if that is a sane or insane admonition.  Is any admonition, that has been inspected and cleared in full by a maddened socius truly sane, or are the ones that haven't been cleared for commerce the ornate and honest ones, winding their way through the substrates of the universe like strands of emerald twine?  We do not know fully, and perhaps a Plan against Ignorance should be instituted in terms of national and international programs.  There are other planets that we know of, that our eyes may resemble on certain days in hue, but what we gathered is that the universe's beings could have been the result of some supple experimentation within the flows and excursions of a notion different from Matter.  We are not Matter, we are Beings.  For all its worth, if you are alive, subsist with the lack of the Matter Hook, where it took its everloving bewitching formulation, but respect materials as well. 

My formulation of schizophrenia is a different one then society's label.  It appears to me to be a point of intelligence that only very gigantically surpasses the IQ level of the junkie, who is forced by matter and materials towards certain forgone conclusions.  Schizophrenics are only diagnosed and subjected to forced druggings by doctors whose false idea of a perfect cure subsists in using the very chemicals they had turned to at parties.  Doctors are indeed drug addicts, otherwise they would not act as the gatekeepers for drugs.  Go watch a porno.  How many of those people were selling themselves only for money?  Probably a few, but more were on the path towards King Dope as opposed to relying on sexual perversion as a constant business plan.  Dope is killing America, and the processes underlying addiction that we have witnessed are gruesome and involve malicious sexual practices, graft, subjugation, violence, war, cannibalism, and rape.  If you're not a user and you get the substrate of heroin or cocaine on you, know that you could become the center of an insidious violence that does not work with the harmonies of a finer nature.  Regardless.

out back

Infirm dilemma
while the neighbors have their overheard phone conversations
about skullduggery
as the heat begins to press like a sharp finger
at the back of our breath
and the camera man have pictured their spyland
like the black insectile rape of staring at a victim
I wonder
did they used to know old paintings of violets
from a cherub's thriftstore
as the pink tables diffused rainwater
out back in the native damp grassland bordering
a burgeoning forest splattered with damp wood
and igneous green moss,
did they know love too
or was it lost in patterns of a quick needlepoint
wrought by frayed threading
the colors pink and pea green?

Somedays with the forest pressing against the cabins
I know enough to be nauseous
and I can't forget
until certain things are themselves forgotten
by the veldt of firma and Time
so let me ask you, curious bird
if the seed of Beauty had been in your dark beak
when the refrains of golden dawns
sang
and you responded in chirps
back to that new ancient song,
did you imagine the spyglass
the errant invitation to another's hatred
on an obsedian telephone,
or the complete aural stab
of witchcraft's gossip
carried through a wind of frost
as we leaned towards the pale encompassing heats
of a whiter star and astral designation
than our sun's golden keep?

I would like to interview you
but we will keep it at a lack of hello for now
since you were running all over the property
and I think I can forgive you
for dressing like a GMO robot
if you keep your kids away from knives
that belong in a hunter's boot
for now
and let them watch the rainbow splatteres
of LSD TV
until their minds are made up about color
like how your hair winds matronly when tied by a ribbon
representing motherhood
and not these other monsters
who played with sharp instruments
upon the anatomies of our fates.

Did you cry
when you saw the abandoned wagon
in the road
wondering where the children
were disappearing to?
Because a lot of them
ended up in cruel and defaced factories
as riveted as nightmares
so you should be kinder
because we were blessed today
by the taste of rainwater from the sink
and the ruminations that fell upon
a hidden cisteren
that could be the spiritual vault
of the human race. 

Pirate Queen

And today
with the indigo streaks of dawn abating past the drawn linen curtains
there existed an old fear of doing nothing
in the face of everything
so I will take my pirate jacket
and walk in leather boots
in search of a love, a sword, or a letter
with transient thoughts of electricity winding in thin blue veins
throughout the edge of fog ensconced mountains
holding defenses like an age old keep.

The blackbirds flew in arcs the other day
against the backdrop of a quicksilver colored sky
that wafted in clouds of fulminous gray
like the dead steam from an old freighter
approaching a harbor on the thin blade
of horizon's West-observed dawn.

In the road,
the cracked old pavements
without a draught of beer
with the dreadnoughts of old nightmares
escaping an eclipse and sunset
with visions of tremendous violence
in a rafted holding pen of ships gathered like artificial atolls
where ten thousand queens
lorded over diminishing supplies
and the few pirate men
drank the last beer
before strafing procedures
by cloth winged biplanes.

I should have known love before
in the itinerant appearances of love messages
sent through a telepathy
as she hoisted her correspondences
with sniper's scope and bewilderment
as pale as the envy of a sea green sky.
Those blows from oars fell only on the ocean's skin
and below the tremendous surge of ink-infused black
fountains sprayed like oil and blood
at the verge of a longboat's wreck
but for the daliance of a maiden's hand
that sewed a pattern of oleander leaf
in silver on navy blue
were we lost for love
as the correspondence stricken with irreal guilt
did melt away in the diminished floatings
of an offshore stationary left to disappear
beneath the dark blue of tides
that lapped like a disturbed cistern
in gradients of love and hatred.

Outlog

Network assistant programming reset today to restart point on the twenty third of January, successive restarts failed, inadvertently downloaded internet software suspected of crippling drivers and factory computer qualities.  The laptop functions like a scanner.  When uncertain of travel options, rely on searches and mental examination of strangers and friends on the internet.  The news articles are becoming sloughs of falsity, and communiques on Facebook and email express negligent and harassing promises in terms of known acquaintances.  It is recommended that a break is taken from drinking beer and wine for the time being until the population's weather changes for the better. 

Halfway thinking about what an electric guitar would bring to my situation in terms of increase of positive values in Life.  It has been recommend and encouraged to purchase a high definition screen television, potentially for gaming in the future.  An electric guitar or violin would necessitate an eight track recording device and amplifier, and may be more expensive and less encouraged with concerns to the listenings of current housemates. 

Waiting to get paid in two days, desiring hamburgers and soda instead of alcoholic beverages which is a positive signification.  Poetics have receded, straight truth is better anyways.  The filing systems of the police are filled with junk data and garbage, taken advantage of by intransient and unknowledgable persons without empathy.  Recent assessment of my mental acuity has placed me at Psychic Empath Intuit, Perceptive of Truth and Facts.  There are no current problems besides future planning, I have accomplished the Joan of Arc mission of justice in life and feel significantly sleepy after experiencing horrors and beauty. 

the poems behind me

Parched cracked sidewalk
on the highway out of town
and junk cop cars
with rigged light systems
flashing orange
instead of red white and blue
as though the road
were some loading zone
where thieves pulled over thieves
and my heart beat faster
at Midnight
when they tracked my bootsteps
from across the brush fields
behind a supermarket complex
left dark in the forlorn planes
of a small mountain town.

Later I had dreams of jealous love
and not in love letter format
but twisted with apparitions of steel and metal
that formed into the commerce of coffee
then and early in the morning
leaving me to wonder if sometimes
my dreams are symbolically psychic
or just repetitious
to the waves of Reality
and the undertow
of a less wakeful Beinghood
where I traverse through matter
unlike a ghost
but cautious and unalarming
frightened of wendigo lore and violence
without offensive weapons.

I knew my armor well
for it began to pattern like tattoos
across the nudity of my body
and I wondered where it wouldn't stop a pistol slug
or those broken dull urns
they save
for powder of ash
and broken ulnas
that weren't my keeping
or relevant to my corpus.

I should have taken a car
but for the wind power
of sailing gestures
leading me into blockades
of dark uniforms, blades, and chains
that didn't resemble the Hellcat dress
that I grew fond of
in drab theater performances
until I gathered that metal
carried some kind of electrostatic resonance
that could blow apart a vessel
containing magnet powder.

I could have sailed earlier
but the nightmare of hatred felt in the cabin
would have warded off any animal
much more a person.
Now the story is about unaccomplished violence
that I will let die and rest dead
in a cushioned crib
made of linen.