I believe in human potential.
Motivation is lacking in evidence.
Just stand there and watch,
scribbling the moments,
drawing your sketches,
taking your notes,
vomiting a cocktail
of this and you
on through, on into
the audience,
not nearly Gallagher
prepared, yet
rained, saturated, choking,
drowning in the bloody
bone cunks and guts
of alternative
possibilities,
nonetheless…
you fucking fools.
I have true focus.
Earned confidence,
yet still no map.
So please chart the way.
I know its pathetic, okay?
Still: please chart the way.
Everything becomes distorted
between
these warped, tinted windows,
and this hall of mirrors…
Born in the arts,
I suddenly find myself drawn
to your rituals, ceremonies:
everything that satisfies
my need
for exploration
fuelled solely
by this charge, borne of heresy.
Sinful. Luscious.
Goddamn beautiful.
It was
involuntary electrocution,
motherfucker,
and it was divine.
To tame the beast,
you must meet him first,
so grab
your shovel and lamplight
tonight, climb the gates
of the cemetary,
find the tombstone,
and start digging.
Be prepared to journey
farther than six feet down.
The beast resides far beneath,
built of all you buried,
constructed of denials
and ignorances,
caged fears
and anesthetized grievances.
Can you forge a pact
with this monster?
In the end,
this is the only question
that need be asked,
the only answer
that must be made.
“Empath?
Hypersensitive?”
Clearly, my dear.
Couldn’t be more clear
if I wrote it in magic marker
on my goddamn forehead.
You need only watch me,
feel me, resonate
with my vibration,
as I know you have.
Why do you ask?
What’s your motivation?
Before I even ask,
your shields are up,
psychic beavers
in your head,
damming the flow,
retarding the violent,
fluid rush of revelation.
We were children.
To us,
they were mystical beings.
She was the teacher.
My teacher.
A lone title she gave,
though later,
I named her.
How could I not?
She delivered lessons,
unveiling
the secrets of the universe.
How could I
not strive to personalize?
She meant everything to me.
My anchor in a storm.
She meant everything to me.
So lost, bitter, and bruised now,
I could use you, Nimi.
I miss you, Nimi.
I’m out there.
Answering your call
of desperation.
Empathy
with your situation.
I’ve been there.
Not quite
sure how to help
you, but believe me,
I’m trying:
no one pickets
for your survival
more than me.
Distance
makes the mind’s
doubt stronger,
lets me let you slip away,
into the category of a dream,
until I’m terrified
and paralyzed
and you’re in my fucking face again
with your raping eyes,
with your raping eyes,
dissecting, infecting,
testing my broken mind.
Just a tagged animal.
Just a lab monkey.
Just a pawn in a game,
a soldier in a war,
holding secrets locked
in memories
I can’t remember.
Don’t even know
what side I’m on…
I can’t find comfort in ignorance.
I can’t be authentic hiding silent,
in my dark, dismal denial.
Given the right context,
everything makes sense.
Why do you keep it from me?
I agree
most if not all
of them are corrupt,
but not with this broad brush,
false equivalence.
Everything can be measured
in terms of degree,
which is not to say I like adopting
this lesser evil mentality.
Still: predictable incompetence
and run of the mill insanity
are preferable to a wildcard,
utterly narcassistic personality.
Trance.
Hypnosis. Meditation.
Ritual and Magick.
Suggestible, hypnotizable:
a potential
hypochondriac in reverse?
King of placebo?
Master of the psychosomatic,
given discipline, yet remaining
positive and beneficial?
Maybe the case
if it were specific to self,
but this can also allegedly effect
the objective universe.
Does suggestibility/hypnotizability
enhance psi abilities?
Does hypnosis/meditation/magick
constitute a bridge
like hypnopompia, hypnagogia,
sleep paralysis,
hypnagogic, hypnopompic,
paralysis of liberty,
dancing madly in the twilight,
where just as others
can affect us psychically,
we can affect them?
Like a stone thrown into a pond.
Like plucking one, single strand
of an elaborate spider’s web:
we can influence
anything
through this hidden network.
Realign our lives.
You’ve just got to
wake up.
Flush of the Mindpot 