The wondrous beautiful of the cosmos
The verdant blush of life’s variagated paths
branching into infinity
diving beneath gaseous masses of heartbreak
climbing into azure clouds billowing
With sensuality
Soaring passion feeds flames of eternity
Blooming in brilliant bursts of crimson and vermillion
Such is the blessing of life
The realization of divinity
Aloft upon wings of consciousness
Momentous and burdgeoning
With the power of love
Lord, bring us light.
Her bright soul
called to him and
in turn his called
to hers.
He felt her
deep.
I’m sorry.
Souls in synch
they soared across
skies soaked with
blood … rent by
broad strokes of
thundering
cumulus cries.
Sympathetic angels
watched and
wept softly their
timeless knowing
heralding the
inevitable.
Is this what was promised?
Malignancy masked as
love seared
their souls
boiled the soil
of a landscape torn
by desolation.
Bright balmy dreams
coaxed them forth
sharing laughter and
love upon
whispered promises of
furtive
future love.
Take this pain from her.
Dark dreams lay beneath
the veneer of light
nightstalkers and ghosts
of pain past never
far from thought
the ides of life beckoning
death lurking
just … there
beyond the pale
of morning light.
Open hearts crying
tears of silver shards
pierced heartache
leaving chasms of sorrow
in their wake.
I couldn’t stop her.
Her heart lay broken
a million times
no words of solace or peace
served.
Poignant cries overpowered
by sirens and concern
leaving him lost
listening to silence
love hanging by a single
thread of desperate
longing.
Nothing I said was enough.
Free will rules the
dark and the light alike
lives torn asunder by
the choice of one
leaving him bereft
contemplating love
and solitude.
A single path
then appeared
twisting into distant
and treacherous heights
the abyss lurking
to each side
promising oblivion
to the unwary.
My love could not hold her.
Step lightly
knowledge beckoning
the path beyond pain and
heartache
the mortal coil left
behind.
He left her with a
single kiss
to cold
pale lips
his eyes turned to the
heavens
his feet drawn by love
into the life
beyond.
I pray that she finds peace.
a momentary streak of light
then its gone
as life quickens
and years pass
in solitary splendor
days and nights blur
with a whirlwind’s fury
as lightyears come
and go
the elemental brew
mixes quasars and quarks
outside of time
in subjective meanderings
reality perceived
reflects ignorance of
the true state of life
beyond mind and experience
ages become eons
suns rise and fall
consciousness continues
infusing flesh and bone
in consumation of light
Reflecting on Forever’s Momentum …
… driving time blindly into the future
reveals mimes as tarot-reading
diviners of mind and soul,
any street-corner rendition
the deepest morality tale of perdition
in mortal form,
a fool clowning for the crowd
the gods appeased by
inner cries screamed out loud
by broken minds and spoken souls,
living moment to moment
with hidden intentions and secret goals.
No one knows Self like ego
whose dedication to the
“Here we go again” syndrome
is infamous and intimate both,
speak low and don’t gather a crowd
too close, don’t boast, don’t roast a fool
and don’t toast to those who broke
the rules to reach the heights they sought;
dance with the one that brung you
and don’t smoke the drugs they brought,
fight the wars they fought
or love the way they’ve taught.
In other words, let time do that thing
that lets you soar on broken wings
filled with the light of inner sight
that tells you who you are and what
you want, despite the taunts of others
that haunt your dreams, still your aspirations
and dull your motivation to reach
that higher station,
that goal that you and only you can see,
that you and only you
can be …
… fly free at a moment’s whim
life’s not so grim.
Steal a second of pleasure’s time
to find that place and space
of the Divine.
Remind yourself of beauty whenever you can,
try to stand away from your life every day -
look away to seek within to find what lies
beneath the skin and connects you to
what is beyond sin, what is true
and lies beyond every clue
left by gods and men.
Pretend … that this moment,
right here right now, is
the End.
That time stops …
… flip flops and twists space
into another place beyond the
limited confines of your mind
and spirit soars …
… time’s grasp lessens and brilliance ensues,
peace enfolds perception and deception ceases,
motivations become clear and utter truth unleashes
the soul from experience and life no longer flies by
… life …
… simplifies.
I am a technician of the new world order. My face is legion. I am soul-lost. My heart beats with the cold, mechanical precision of a computer chip. I am digitized. I see in stereo-vision and hear in surround-sound. Currency is the lubrication for my joints and multi-media driven information overload comprises the detritus of my mind. I have no original thoughts. I am vapid and void of creativity. My life has no redeeming social value or portentous, cosmic meaning. Rather, I am an automaton. A scion of the future. A creature of the new millennium.
I dream of violet and azure seas, capped by frothy, pirouetting waves. The mirrored reflection of midnight skies – awash with the sparkling flames of the great, white, milky way – confound my vision, splashed across the dark formlessness of the watery void. I dream of sands, brilliantly white, and coconut-laden palm trees that rustle gently in the salt-tinged breeze. My dreams mock my reality. My days are spent in endless repetition. The fruit of my labor is redundant. My skills and expertise are negotiable. Daily, I recreate myself as a simulacrum of myself. My true state of being is unknown. Illusion is my reality and reality my dream.
There exist in this world others like me. Our work is endlessly opposed to that of the archetypal Other, the eternal. The dark, muddy formlessness of primal creation drives our hatred, our lust, our fear. We are charged with the implementation of the future by the extrapolation of the present and the obfuscation of the past. Now is my only reality. We toil within small, gray cubicles; teh maze-like cells of a vast, tetragonal matrix. Each engaged in the same task, each working towards the same goal.
Our goal is the total annihilation of independent thought and action. Our way is the way of the future. The way of linear, time-driven progression. Only through technology shall my personality be saved. Only through technology shall I reach the utopia of my own creation. Only through technology shall I behold the face of my God.
Blackness is everywhere that I look. Engulfing me, overwhelming me. Oozing with psychic potentiality, within and without. The ebony shades of darkness – drifting, haunting – of sleep. Of dreamless slumber that threatens to consume the whiteness of my consciousness, of illumination. Only by courting sleeplessness shall I persevere. Only by denying my essential being shall I achieve true knowledge of self. Only by denying my past will I know my future. Only by embracing the material shall I approximate the spiritual. Only by becoming the white will I sublimate the black.
I am a technician of the new world order. My fear approximates totality. Clammy sweat nourishes my body and the viscera-encrusted talons of gibbonous madness tear at the essence of my being. I am afraid of the creature I believe myself to be. I am afraid of the creature my dreams tell me that I am. I am afraid of the creature my dreams tell me that I can be.
Within my mind lurk phantasmagoric vistas of panoramic delight, wonders to engage the senses and engorge the carnal appetite. The pleasures of the flesh beckon me. Tender tragedy. Painful ecstasy proffered with heartless abandon. Tempting, physical delights exemplified by the myriad full, creamy thighs and deep, moist caverns of lust filled by colonnades of primal passion. Open pores, sweat blinded movement pinioned by sighs and the sound of wet flesh slapping, sliding, fingers groping, grasping, caressing, holding.
My need is all that is real. Infinite eyes, receding into whiteness, lust-filled, heavy-lidded, somnolent and hypnotic. They bat provocatively, possessing feather-like lashes stolen from the carcass of a maggot-eaten bird of paradise that tickle me shamelessly. I suckle upon the earth’s nipple, vast and bloated grotesquely with the blood of the unborn, the milk of malignant narcissistic existence. The flesh is everlasting, saturated with satiation and perverted compulsiveness. Nothing outside of myself is real. All else is illusion. Only my need is undeniable.
The world we create by our very existence reinforces the unreality of true being. The paradox is inescapable. For if my life has no meaning, then the meaning of all life is in question. The cell within which my reality is bounded is representative of the collective grid within which we, the technicians of the new world order, lie fallow, awaiting the fertilization of a spiritual seed. The futility of independent or creative thought follows naturally from this original conception.
My life is without intrinsic purpose or ultimate goal. Therefore, identifying exterior purpose has become my goal. With that realization, my purpose is clear. To obscure the purposefulness of life from those who would seek and embrace it. To reinforce the reality of my perceived surroundings in empathetic resonation with the beat of my own soul-lost heart.
I am a technician of the new world order. My mask is that of a clone. My soul is unknown. My heart beats to the vibration of the world’s soul, for it knows no beat of its own. I see the world through dark and accusing eyes because my own are colorless as bone. The dreams and aspirations of the Other are the lubrication for my joints and their lives, the stimulation of my mind. I have no being other than that created to nourish my inner purposelessness. Rather, the light of my whiteness is sustained by blackness. I am a technician of the new world order.
To be ten years old and living in a foreign country is a blessing. It allows one to broaden the mind at an impressionable age. To be a Military Brat and used to moving constantly is to understand that you are an Ambassador to the World, and to live the rest of your life with that understanding.
From the ages of eight to eleven, I lived on the island of Crete, Greece. My father was stationed at Iraklion Air Station – a staff sergeant between the port city, Iraklion and the sea-side town, Hersonissos, where we lived for a year before moving on base. These were the mid-70s, and America had just celebrated the bi-centennial. We were black Americans at that, stared at wherever we went. Whether it be the ruins of Knossos palace where the ghost of the Minotaur lurked, cobblestoned villages high on Mount Edna or outdoor Markets in the bustling towns and cities, the reaction was the same: smiles, stares and friendly greetings, because black Americans were an anomaly back then, rarely seen by foreigners outside of the United States. We enjoyed a freedom of expression and action that has not been lost upon me and has formed the person that I am today. I lived each day in a state of wonder, exploring my surroundings with other American children.
I remember one Greek family quite well. A husband, his wife and their son, Monoli. They lived a few houses down from us, in the town of Hersonissos. Behind our house lay a few more old houses and an olive grove that marked the end of town. Past the grove, the island rose precipitously into the sky. I remember it as a wall of green, crisscrossed by slate-gray roads and the alabaster veneer of tiny walls, climbing the mountainous slope.
From the roof of our apartment, I could see the blue-purple waters of the Mediterranean sea. The houses were of different designs, but conforming to a type that might be called tropical, being painted a uniform white and stylistically box-like. The buildings were separated by narrow streets that, in those years, held more donkey and scooter traffic than automobiles.
Each morning my sister, Maya, and I would catch the American bus to school with the other Brats, always a wild bunch, given to loud expression and unruly solidarity. The dramas of childhood were no different for us than with other kids, even though we were being raised in a foreign country. Our play was no different from normal American childrens, unless you count speaking non-native languages and playing on exotic beaches, valleys and mountainsides as unusual. Past the 8th Grade, the Brats were sent to the mainland to Zaragoza, Spain to live in dormitories and attend school.
Each afternoon, we would get off the bus down on the main street through town and walk up the hill; me, Maya, and a few other children who lived near us. Monoli would be out front every day, running around, pretending he was riding a scooter. He spoke no English, but he and I would smile at each other and play in the same vicinity, although we never really played together. There was something of a rivalry between the Greek kids and the American kids. Our little gangs would throw dirt clods and chase each other through the back streets, cursing the best we knew how, with us Americans using the Greek words for shut up and other terms that we thought were curse words, but probably werent.
There was one house in particular, a small, gray-boarded shack with dirty, dark windows that we were particularly afraid of. It was the house of the Octopus Man. I dont recall why we called him that, or why we were afraid of his house, since I dont remember ever seeing him. But we did used to sneak up to the window and peer cautiously within then run, screaming away to gather in small groups, whispering about what we had seen inside.
Monolis family was friendly with my own. His mother spoke a little English, and got along well with my mother. I dont ever remember our fathers ever speaking, but then, fathers dont run households; mothers do. For 6 months, we lived on that hill in Greece, overlooking the sea before the relationship between our families progressed to the point where we were invited into their home. I was very excited by this and remember being quite impatient on the eve of our visit.
With my parents leading the way, we marched to Monolis door. His mother answered with a beautiful smile, ushering us in. Their house wasnt so different from our own, although they owned theirs and lived in both the upper and lower apartments, while we lived only in the upper apartment of our building.
The smell was wondrous, but before I could determine its source, Monoli took my hand and pulled me back to his room, where he enthusiastically began showing me Greek comic books, in black and white. We were having a great time, so I was very surprised when my father came to the room, not 15 minutes later, to tell me it was time to go.
As we walked back to the front door, Monolis parents were in the hall with my mother and sister, their expressions anxious. I took this time to look around, and in the room immediately to my right, there was a table, laid out with all kinds of food. I could see what I later learned was calamari, cooked squid, and snails, and other steaming, scrumptious dishes. There was so much food, the table was piled high with it. I wanted to eat, wanted to try the snails and the other unfamiliar food, but, at the time, I remember thinking that we must not be invited to dinner, because we were apparently leaving without getting to eat. I remember being disappointed, but leaving with my family, never to return again.
After that, Monoli didnt smile at me anymore. His face would drop and he would get quiet when I walked by, or his mother would call him into the house. I never saw my mother speak to his again, either. Being so young, I had no conception of social mores and what happened when they were broken. It wasnt until many years later that I found out we had left their house without eating because my parents didnt recognize the food and felt uncomfortable, leaving despite our hosts protestations. My parents hadnt realized that we had been invited to dinner, but when they found out, rather than sit down to eat they had decided to leave.
We had broken a social code, a human code, and, thereafter, were shunned by that family. I knew something had happened, something that had disturbed some somnolent archetype, provoking an automatic response that was primal in nature. But those were undercurrents that I would only become aware of as an adult, remembering.
At the same time, I learned that it was possible to form bonds with people from different countries despite the fact that we didnt speak the same language. To be an American, an Ambassador to the World from the Greatest Country in the World, was imprinted upon us, reinforced every day by the Pledge of Allegiance at school, and at 1200 hours and 1700 hours, when the Star Spangled Banner and God Bless America would play on the base-wide intercom and all traffic would still in nationalistic reverence.
I would put that prescient knowledge into practice years later when I became a soldier, stationed in Germany, living with and loving people with whom I had little in common other than a shared sense of humanity, potential and a love of art, music and dancing.
I sometimes wonder how Monolis life has turned out. And when I think of that little island and the two years that we lived there, my heart warms, in synch with the tropical sun and the crashing of frothy, emerald waves upon oil-dotted, white sands.
Maya visited Crete again some years ago and told me that the island had changed; become more touristy, with hotels and dirt replacing older homes and open spaces filled with the distinctive, ochre grass. The magical, tree-sheltered brooks and seemingly ancient courtyards that embellish my recollections may still exist, but the echo of our lives on that distant island is long gone, as is the official, American presence. But the olive groves, craggy, cliff-side highways and ancient trees still recede from the coast up into the highlands, where the crass visitation of ogling sight-seers is much less intrusive or destructive to native life.
Someday I hope to return to Crete with my children, so they can perhaps glimpse some echo of my distant and unusual past in the excitement of my expressions and memories. I firmly believe that we can only know who we are by reconciling ourselves with who we have been. By projecting the best of now and then into the future and who we want to become.
Silky words of smooth
intention
flowing seamlessly through
space, sent
softly sinuous, twirling
labyrinthine inner ear swirling
cochlear calls thrumming
through ganglia.
Membranous impressions
echoing emotion -
love vibrating -
higher forms of Self attuned,
multi-dimensional awakening in the
Now.
Listen with the inner ear,
inner eye spoken -
the Indulgence of Fears,
the Cascade of Tears -
and loneliness defines the day.
One with Oneness
the illusion persists as we
desist,
giving in to the silky vocals of
sensuality.
Craggy laughter and sly insinuation,
libations to the ancestors ignored;
tour de force of desire,
loins afire,
flaming golden and crimson -
face aflush -
whispered lust across the airwaves,
thighs tingling as legs spread wide
luscious delights exposed
to the wild side.
Moaning, willful need,
ascent shortened:
sexual fulfillment unleashed,
the estrogen garden
implanted by testosterone seeds
unburdened by you
unmentioned, by me.
Silent accusations speak louder
than words,
infinite levels of blame
obscure the shame.
The emotional game is familiar:
years of pain
and bewilderment,
absolutely nothing
is gained.
Silky words of smooth
intention
interrupting the steady flow
of love,
connection broken by
words unspoken while another
swoops in from
above.
A shambling Ogre of a man, hopelessly egotistical in nature, trundled through the forest of his perception, conquering – without due consideration – the spirits of those he considered weak.
Life was his battlefield, love, his weapon of choice. Arrogant, he brushed aside societal niceties, intent upon the transcendent star he saw shining upon the horizon of his life’s work.
During his travels, he happened upon a beautiful Faerie, gentle and fey, filled with love and empathy, open to him and to the universe and he considered her, her difference from all the others an incalculable mystery to he, who thought he knew them all; the many types of women and lovers, friends and soulmates, and where she would fit into his life, fulfilling his pleasure.
With no consideration of her needs and wants, the Ogre’s dim brain calculated the trajectory of her soul and sweet, airy words flowed from his mouth. He wheedled and flattered, pretended to listen and laughed while holding her hand as they tip-toed through the introductory phase of their relationship, bypassing friendship and courtship and entering a deep and profound state of awe-struck love.
But the situation conspired against them. The Ogre’s other lovers gathered like cleansing winds upon the Astral plane, blowing ill will and harm their way, jealous eyes hidden within oblivious minds sent intention flowing outward, into the multiverse, leaving them both blown about remorselessly, confused and at a loss to explain what had happened to end what had been so promising a Beginning.
And when she came to him, hurting and questioning, he, still full of pride and assurance – and still ignorant of the wind’s true intent – filled her aching heart with billowy words of flowery nothingness, pontificating and postulating puffery in preparation for the next stage of his plan. She, prescient beyond all his experience, retreated – seeing his posturing for what it was – leaving him gaping, open-mouthed and lost.
The Ogre then retreated into himself, tearing gigantic boulders from their earthen moorings in order to shut himself within the Cave of his Despair, vowing never to bring harm to another soul again.
The Faerie, stronger and more self-assured than he by far – he being so large and seemingly impervious – recovered from the ill winds; and, upon her delicately luminescent wings, she flitted about the closed entry to his dark cavern, singing songs of life and delight, her gentle soul emanating peace and abiding love. She promised him friendship and advice and urged him to come forth, to seek the darkness no more.
But he, in his vain and self-centered manner, interpreted her words through his closed heart, seeing her as teasing, vindictive and shrew-like, an imposition upon his unhealthy remorse and narcissism.
Failing to recognize the mirror she had selflessly provided him, his rage overflowed. The Ogre burst forth from the cavern, sending rock and debris flying, bruising, his arms swinging, his anger released unto the four corners of the world.
Caught by surprise, the Faerie fell beneath his blows, drenched by detritus and the contagious pestilence of his ire and frustrated desire. Instantly remorseful, his enraged bellows became sobs, and his tears fell upon her, cleansing her of the dust and debris that had covered her effulgent light.
Her limpid eyes opened, her breath emanating soul-ward, filling him with wonder. As her light grew brighter and brighter she rose from his lumpen-like paws, filling him with a new realization of her complexity and intuitive awareness. And, her love. And he realized, then, that the true light was one of compassion and gentleness, of listening and silence. Of respect and a gentle patience that hears rather than waits to be heard.
His sobs rose again from the depths of his sorrow and a transcendent joy permeated the arc of his tears which then became reflective light, and, in an instant, his gnarled, crusty skin broke away and his hulking, Ogre-ish Self dissipated within the aura of insistence created by this new self-knowledge.
Slowly, the Ogre backed away from the Faerie, his head bowed in love and respect. She laughed, a high and musical tone, the past already forgiven, and flew away, promising politeness if their paths ever crossed again.
He proceeded along his own way, humbled, yet longing for the return of that beautiful Soul into his life, different, and more pure, than any he’d ever known before.
The dawn of my discontent heralds
A decision not to repent.
The moment of my awakening is dependent
Upon the slaking of a physical thirst, an irrepressible
Urge to manifest Divinity, which is my propensity.
And yet, these days I wake wondering about my
Purpose, whether or not I’ll make it till the End
Without mending my ways,
Whether or not these days of Love and Light are only
A glimpse into the infinite array of possiblities that might
Send me spiraling downwards, spinning into
Eternal night.
It’s hard to fight an enemy you can’t see.
It’s hard to to change when you don’t know what you want
To be.
It’s hard to revolt if you don’t know what it means to be
Free.
Church lets out and the congregation mills about
Gossiping and laughing, their faith dependent upon their
Economic clout.
Without doubt God was there, He’s everywhere but is that
Stare I receive from the lady next to me when I shout
A look of disdain?
Is she upset because I’m expressing my pain? Would my
Joy send her hands extending Heaven-ward,
Buoyed upward
By a transcendent penitence and upswelling innocence?
During a midnight meditation session of
Blessing and Light
With those Transcendental Monks I met in a
Realm of Astral Delight
I thought I heard Celestial Voices singing,
But it was only someone’s phone ringing;
Some song I’d never heard about bling-blinging,
And booties shaking while the Earth and Heavens
Are quaking.
I suppose everybody doesn’t know, but this planet’s flow
Has been disrupted.
Every government on Earth has been corrupted.
The media spins lies and vies for our attention, while
Out and about
Incarnate Demons commit atrocities
Beyond mention.
But we don’t see those types of TV shows because
Survivors on again and -
Guess what -
This time the Tribes are divided by race and
The real news about Libya and Syria has disappeared
Without a trace.
Political scandals come and go, the vagaries of life
Continue to flow and we bow to the demands of daily
Living, hopefully forgiving ourselves our shortcomings,
While praying to overcome certain
Longings and desires
That are sure to bring us back down again
Into the mud and sand of material
Existence.
Discontent has sent me packing, lacking the stamina to
Retain depression, to succumb to the obsession of constant
Dwelling upon negativity and dismay, my eternal delight
Is the Light.
Thusly satiated, my heart rises as my soul realizes that
There is no End.
From Beginning to Beginning, my Soul continues to
Ascend
.
Damn I feel jittery.
Nervous, all the time. Stepping through life past dismay, rife with strife, sometimes I expect a piano to fall on my head and kill me dead. And yet I write, I speak and listen to the voices of my people, poetry people, human temples – complete with chakra’d steeples – of the word, of the heart, of the soul.
When I scribe a line I read over it two and three times, wondering if it’s going to be taken wrong, read like more of that same old song and dance…I need to advance in my understanding, reconfigure thought processes and matrices of infinite seas of becoming and peace. I need release. Wondering what I’m saying between the lines, if I’m consistent all the time, or if I’m just losing my mind trying to find a crime to make mine. Political thought and speech in these post 9-11 days of the War on Terror, Homeland Security and Thought Control at the national level, awaken hungry Carnivores and Elephants that thunder across plains stained with the blood of the massive human herds that over-populate the Earth. Their fetid stench permeates the airwaves and skies, perverting the shadowed dapples of Sistine-like chapels, searching for divine signs of escaped Slaves, freed of mental domination and oppressive subjugation.
Populations of nations and continents totter like fodder, bent by the weight of crass material consumption. The sheer gumption of Evil functions on assumptions of redistributive greed, reprocessing need to feed empty souls and hearts that can’t even begin to start to self-analyze their own lies. I realize the futility of my own intellectual mobility in the wake of luminary greats that confronted hate in spite of their own imminent demise. It’s quite the dilemma, the contradictions lent to this predicament by karmic causes that relish losses like so much flotsam and dross.
Hate has been awakened by the absence of Good, racists without hoods are trying to solidify our demise, relegate us to that same old state of unrelated pain, mixing up our minds attempting to find the key to freedom. Scientists mix potions and create melatonin lotions and sun screens to protect faux-Vampiric fiends from tropical, sunlit scenes. I mean, how could I not be paranoid, locked up in a contradictory void of otherworldly desire while remaining caught up in the material fire of passionate consummation, searching for relations in Indian nations that could care less about my existence. For instance, when did Native Americans become white, light skinned and blonde haired, wearing feathers and chapped leather to powwows and gatherings of tribes who have been denied the right of sovereign existence through fatal pretense and aggressive military offense? Or, is that preemptive defense projected past common sense into a worldly context of imperial pretext? You tell me, because my paranoid neuroses have closed my mind to alternative lines and irreparable psychoses.
I still feel jittery. But this mind spill has helped me to chill, I feel. Shadows still dance in the corners of my vision, my mind still focuses with this eerie precision, but my decision to let it go has allowed me to share this human flow. If you can relate, state your name in loud tones, so that I won’t think I’m playing the game all alone. Perhaps it is time to atone. The sins of the father don’t bother Gen-X or Gen-Next, Elvis has left the building and Bob Marley was seen with Bob Farley riding Harleys through fields of barley.
Do you want to parley your admirable attempts to analyze the substance of my defense for another chance to understand? Another chance to make a plan? Then demand your just due, what the Omniverse has promised you…the blessing of existence without pretense, the promise of affection and human connection no matter how shallow the waters; how fallow the earth; how broad the girth; how callow the daughters who married the sons of God’s sorrow, that rule the world until that tomorrow comes when the Sun of Eternity arrives and reveals whether or not humanity survives. Can you hear the cries? See through the lies? Realize that many have died, to get you this high? Don’t you know you can fly? That your eyes see past the sky? That death has been denied, dirty tricks tried, to keep you from ascending to these hallowed heights?
You should also feel jittery. Nervous, all the time. Each step is a trap that could start a flap that takes you to cold places, confine you in empty spaces that take away your free will and steal your most personal, and beloved quill. Refuse to allow you to write, deny you your inner sight, your most intimate delight. But it’s alright. Because we are here, tonight. To provide you with the light, to stand with you, and fight.
