29 Nov 2006

Halliburton Faucet Inc.

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Black Diamond is my only friend now
with values void, our divergent agenda delivers disappointment.

Natural Endorphins this way, a labyrinth but there’s only one way so you get there eventually, through many twists, gelcaphallic, won’t mix with ink, eyes on the sun
hormonal dictation
of lactation parallel to masturbation
the imperative of seeking sensation

Patterns that way, purity, rippling the sign, dragging synesthetic scaffolding along for a too-smooth ride, eyes dilated deltas, chemcann cocktail dictates certain behavioral fixations, channeled material, collective conscious excavation, ownership slips, dips aesthetic into a puddle, reverb, wet. Try to be nice but your head’s in the vice, anger is your vice now, hopskotch later, if you’re lucky, hard to say.

You know what the problem is but your sanity won’t let it be acknowledged, it’s an instinct for self-preservation, but not everyone escapes self-immolation, cause there’s lots of time for self-justification in your long life, four hundred dollars withdrawal from the ATM buys a lot of poison gnosis.

Still looking for oblivion?
Through what, mandies? Soma? Therapy?
Thumbprint monuments?
Could be a stately mambo stepclass
will only fit in a casket.

Rare moment of being in the rhomboid entourage. The museum. Purpose in four diamond angles. They make it look like I know what I’m doing. Magic Window.

The blast was a white frosted black diamond buried in the snow
corporate-fresh pines.

Hard to remember kootenay embankments
just thursday morning flashbacks
to idiot euphoria
fleeting giddy
idiocy and adventures to Velo City
still 300 km on graph paper.

The Welfare Cosmos
Purpose Division
is dividing my attention into a fugue state of feelings
subsidiary of the Washington Welfare Spring
Imperial Intergalactic American Federation
(US Hegemony has graduated to geological time
Rome never came close).

The Washington Welfare Cosmos
is almost a concerto, written on staff paper
with an HB pencil by a staffer drone
sitting at a green school desk
in a factory for my alien homeworld
the outer planet in the Righteous Ring
global consumer goods warehouse
with assumed infinite resources
a Halliburton Tap.

Stopped at the border of Annexia
with intent to traffic gaudy graphics
line art attempts to transcribe by stealing
powdered arabesques
fugitive visions.

Stately Ground in groovy gravity
now warhorse soot, the wonder
of age and decay & the ancient
ampersand, a footnote in a three-
millennium long run for Omar Khayyam
21st Century Schizoid Peasant
Black Diamond mountains
sublime shape symmetry.

High Gain is our symbol, so they tell me, I’ll accept, wear the hash mark on my lapel, vibrate at what frequency the modulating masses move me to, nodding my head to the glossolalia, I think I’m harmonizing with a cool consonance, that’s how it sounds to me.

I’m popping chick-o-sticks, which our leviathan lord interpreted as praying for apocalypse, he has some strange interpretations while he wipes the sleep of millennia from his crusted eyes, he’s a crusty cthulhu and he’s not a morning person, and all the coffee in Columbia won’t save us millionth generation synthetic short-lifers from our fiery fate, not even Halliburton’s hallucinatory faucet, the high definition desert mirage. Marie-Antoinette will be reborn in 2112, to enjoy a savoy truffle – some knowledge will be saved, some delicacies still craved and made.

A bromide tide of wisdom swept the woods awards one day – the trees were jealous but still etched the records into barkives for ecological time, which is near eternal if you include the geological foundations, which I do. I also include the floating rubaiyat, Omar’s mountain, Dorothy’s Oz, safe in my narcotic bubble, Tetris level 29 when The Force takes over, moves the blocks in ways foretold by the great old ones, electronic opium.

All we were doing was writing poems, not praying for apocalypse, Tetragrammaton was a tonality-tweaking tongue-twister, not the unspeakable name of God, and sunny pleasuredomes were found in caves of ice that were discovered in brain changing experiments on mice – safe in our narcotic bubble. At least the lab rat got to consume crack at the end of its short rodent life, a lifetime supply, and at least we, at least an upper crust of us, the savoy truffle appreciators, worthy evolutionary ambassadors for elite human experience, at least this elite got to lay eyes, ears, and endorfins on personalized paisley visions, the Qual in us all, before the planet failed to support our bloated civilization’s software, the epigenetic kamikaze burnout, at least we maintained the infrastructure for the pleasure button as long as we could, the
turning of the
Halliburton Tap, safe in our narcotic bubble.

The Washington Welfare Spring is a wishing well, so the striking janitors at this demon stration tell me. Arranged in hexagonal rings, they form an easy bond with me. They even offer me honorary membership in their roguish union, the one they carved out of the carcinomic heart of city hall with a rusty pocket-knife, though I’ve never cleaned a thing in my life. Five is not a demon, they say. The amateurish occultists of the Pentagon got it wrong. Six is the real threat. They number one hundred and eleven groups. A gestalt of six hundred and sixty six.

The train across town blows its mournful minor ninth. Meaning is scattering, appropriately trashy, cluttering the entrance of the senior’s apartment block.

Oh what will people say?

Let’s not kid ourselves, this is not sustainable. No… let’s kid ourselves. The sand is so warm. And who can really say what would be a new way? We’d be kidding ourselves anyway. Anyway we slice it.

Surely you see the incongruity between your concerns and your life on the grid. Yes but here, warm on the grid, is the only place I can look cold and logical at what it might mean to be off. Safe and warm in my narcotic bubble I can appreciate the drama of death, can even armchair quarterback the blood-soaked political games that follow. Outside of this zone of taken-for-granted comfort, I must blanket myself in superstition and pseudo-scientific delusion. That is the only thing that will suffice. And I’m not alone in this. Just a typical sheep, like you.

Was listening to Yes, shining cities of the future, symbolically reconciling synthetic and organic. Orgasmic. Much great music to be written in C major, rhythms Bartok never collected, 70s futures, more like Enron stock than Macintosh, but reaching me anyway, in this heyday of information and exponentially depleting material.

One day, my son, the pain will reach such an intensity that it will release you from all your personal demons, it will be a fecund cauterization, a rebirth, the full yang of freedom, A#1.

What he didn’t tell me was that I must anesthetize myself from the torture of that knowledge so I don’t forfeit. There are many ways to self-immolate, and some of them aren’t really all that painful. Safe in my narcotic bubble.

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