.

The World
Standing naked
In
All
Its impossible complication
Shines blankly into my eye,
.
Bestowing no feeling and
Comprising of various seemingly unrelated entities
Which like a computer I absorb and assess as a
Prelude to a bastion of fear,
As the sages pronounce apocalypse.

People will sometimes do things for the purpose of just exploration, or the zeal of living.
This is something I realize — our bodies oxidize and we look around at the trees, it’s sometimes not a quest so much as it is a compulsion.
In fact, reproduction is done in this exact mode.
From this logic, it follows that there’s less of an explicit purpose of reproduction than there is in, say, accepting your credit card receipt during a trip to the drug store to purchase allergy medication, your yearly ritual.

The loudest talker,
He was the loudest talker,
In the room, the loudest talker,
He was
In
The
Room and
He was
The loudest,
Loudest talker in the room,
And he said,
.
Pride always goes before the fall.
.
How’s that for irony.
.
Well, everything goes before the fall,
Whereas the whole point is to forget it.

In places taking no vision
Wielding like lackluster paint
The bottom of the thought element,
They
Are so sure that they are grand,
Bellowing to the masses
With any little dance of vulgarity
And the left foot’s scars
Will paint themselves
A thousand shades of night

All
Will now be sequestered
Within
.
The new essence of compulsion,
Obviating
The eventual conclusion
.
That existence is a flat, lying plane,
Enshrouding your mind in the temporary vision
That you are separate from other people

Expensive things are likely to be what they claim to be, and cheap things are likely to actually embody unwanted scraps and byproducts of what is unfeelingly thrown away, then regathered as a false assemblage. In this way, “identity” and “quality” are really one and the same, and the only things that are “bad” are those which claim to be something other than what they are.

As I am writing this, things are crashing toward me, events are crashing toward me, evidenced if only from the fact that we’re hurling through space on this ice ball. This would seem to render us all small, but just as they say that our greatest fear is that we’re powerful, rather than powerless, I’ve just now come to the illumination that my worst mishaps in life have spawned from thinking myself without power — from “not knowing my own strength,” in other words. I made more of an impression than I thought I would, perhaps, just by talking to a stranger, or something, and maybe I communicate, convey, things by virtue of the very look in my eyes. Is this then the essence of life — emotion, or is it space, or is it time passing, all these things relative and fleeting. I was just acting arbitrarily, once, with you in me, pot of ravaged alfalfa.

I remember this from the only time I ever did acid —
I wrote a paper for English and I completely lost the ability to organize thoughts
To where my priority became relaying the intense feeling of joy I had
From listening to music like the Grateful Dead’s “Fire on the Mountain”
And Soul Coughing’s “Soundtrack to Mary”
And watching sun glisten off of
The melting snow on the ground
Or
Listening
To the millions
Of individual
Specks of dust
Falling on our basement furnace conduit
An experience at 17
That made me hide,
And never show anybody the intensity of this joy,
This
Falseness
That
I would
Not trade
For 15 moons

Haha wow… I just woke up from the spookiest dream about the essence of creation. Deep stuff, and yet so simple, in a way. Did you know that thought and physical form are exactly correlative to each other, in terms of phases of formation? It might have taken a couple swatches (maybe three, as long as we’re talking about biblical matters) for the first living being to take form—it started as random, senseless patterns of static electricity braced against an endless night. Then, when the first thing formed, it was just like you and me. Space travel is another matter. That was not encompassed within the dream.

I have seen perfection,
And it looked not like these structures we build,
In fact it was simple,
And fleeing
A woman’s eyes that
Were memorably wistful,
A presence,
A smile
That betokened breeze