The Infancy of My Intimacy

Fallow fields. Vision concealed by the facts of matter scattered at the periphery. When I see what I see I want to be far from here. I wallow in the wake of forces that lie beyond the shoal and greave for the lack of soul at the center of all of the activity.

Will it come to pass that I will not be able to outlast the fears that hold me back? I scrimp and save Karma like the bits beetles roll into balls of dung and the flush it all down the sewer pipe, 23 skidoo; rinse, repeat. Then the monsters and mental mistresses come to me in fleeting visions. They reconnoiter in shadows of the void that lie between the spirit and waking worlds. They come blasting out into the fields of vision stretched thin and wispy upon the back of my eyelids. They come and delicately pound the timpani drums residing comfortably in my ears. Those bashful beasts bring unto me words, images, songs, and sounds of realities far removed from my own. I would be grateful if I could bring these states into my waking world and for me to be walking through the gardens shocked wide-eyed and beautifully ecstatic with golden glowing purple flowers woven beneath my feet like walking stones on the path to oneness. Draw another deep breath. Sigh.

My one true hope is that Mystery finds me naked and feral in my own mindscapes, sucking on the teat of post-modernity. I wish to be torn from the teat and thrown into the beautiful chaos of the cosmic. Cosmopolitan, I search about for meaning, for solace in the arms of the gentle ones, for table scraps from the bleeding hearts. I come up empty, pockets pulled out, a look of quizzical embarrassment shrouding my face in comic fuckery (did I just press Winehouse word coinage into your palm like a paper seal filled with dope?).

The drive for downing libations with half-witted remembrance of the ghosties of Saturday night that came before to wallow in the sallow lights of personal oblivion, only strokes the yearning urges for meaning. Where is it? I cannot seem to find it in the carnal ramblings of breathing, walking, corner skulking, early mid-life crises or the voracious sexual appetites of the young Gods who drive chrome rimmed chariots into the noxiously neon night. Where the fuck is it? I can’t seem to be able to just copy and paste it into existenz. It is not appearing to me as a matter of convenience. It does not seem to be readily apparent. WTF?

Everything else in this American life comes so convenient. You just solve little bits of the maze and hit the treat bar with your little, clawed paws. ‘Take a pill, man, leave the driving to us’ seems to be motto for my day and age under the sun. Who the fuck is driving? I don’t know if I am to break into song about the whole mess of it like Pynchon scrawl because my program is all mixed up like DJ kicks and my situation’s been slaughtered by the sins of my bothers for so long now. I need to know my song before I start singing it from the misty mountain top. The foibles of faith tell me the peak is up there where I could be living majestic and eternal somewhere; post-life.

This tirade is tired and teasingly targets nothing, save my own inadequacies. And I, only troubled by the newer than new realization that somewhere along the way I lost the path. It must’ve happened early on in my time because I don’t exactly remember what it looked and felt like to be on the path. Notions of pre-recordings vanish into nothing as I stand on a pivot point of a huge invisible compass. I intuit that the 360° of potential paths are emanating out there into the void, but I am so fallibly human and cannot see. Dragged and drugged by the invisible hand of the marketplace across the shards, I wantonly reach out grope some comfortable bosom. Ringing loudly, voices come to me and say, “Monkeyshine Moodswing, self-deception was always your strong suit.” Just transmissions from the void. A vote of no confidence from my internal parliament; as it were. Oz ‘The Great and Terrible’ says, “no, sir.”

In classic fashion I’ve come to an impasse. The boiling over of the skull pot oozing like some sort of pre-mature ejaculation rattling the walls inside like a thousand paint cans full of coins riding the paint mixer, then nicht, like a light switched into the O-F-F position. Denouement leads to infernal suffering and the bubbles rising up from my muddy beer only serve to cast out the angels dancing on signals between my synapses. The 17-year-old within my skin constantly clamors and spouts vitriolic rants from the face of the pig, “Water melting, decayed and angry, collapse, collapse, collapse!” to ward off the potential good spirits drifting in from the desert. “Is this the only way to say a prayer?” Stare at me. See if I care…

We have just traveled 858 words (and counting) down, down deep into the rabbit hole.

How does it feel, to be horribly mind-blown?

How does it feel, to be like some monkey’s evil clone?

We’re no closer to the truth. We’re just slightly becoming aware that there possibly is/isn’t such a thing. Feeling it all out with this kid feels kind of good in a bad way like pressing an ingrown toe nail against the inside wall of your shoe, doesn’t it? Or is it horribly unsettling and leaves that dreadful feeling in your stomach like when we watch Mr. Orange writhe around in the back seat of a stolen Nova as he dies bleeding like a uterus from the bullet hole in his gut? Either way, just impatiently slack around for the next episode: “I Gotta Golden Pussy, Jones.”