Why search for meaning?

We live in meaning

Surrounding us but not beyond

Calcified Krystle’s bathtub rings

Autocorrected my crystals

to a possessive feminine

Authority entitled to everything

Whatever it meant to me

The truth of what I see

Shares held space with

The truth of what you see

Locality and layering

Coats of paint are not a building

The foundation equality of being

Residue of everything true

The purpose of man is two:

Make more of you.

What is left of life

What did you do

It is like something

To be the crust

The husk of trust

The skin of the pudding

Herniated disks exploding

The relativistic speed of us

At the edge about to pop

Stretched to infinity

And the second thing

Is stick together

if life matters

as always or never

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6 Powerful Ways To Do Something Else

#1 — Do nothing.

Do a lot of it. All the time. Why hit the brakes when you can simply let your hands fall to your lap and prepare to receive the wall you cannot avoid, not anymore, not at this speed and course. Don’t inhale or exhale, but don’t hold your breath either. Now what? Whatever it is, it’s key.

#2 — Do something.

Something is better than nothing. More than something, because more is better, sometimes. This might be one of those times. One is the fewest things you can do to qualify for completing this task. It starts with one, Chester.

#3 — Do everything.

More is better, and since everything is the most more there is, it’s the most better you can get. Even the betterest aren’t the best because everything has problems. Hey, stick around for the good news! With new problems coming in every day, there’s no time to be bothered by the old problems. Feel pathetic, unhealthy and weak? That one pushup wreck you bruh? Try going to the gym with someone way fitter than you which would be a cinch, then take a hot yoga, run a couple ultra marathons, become SuperBowl MVP and heavyweight champion in every martial art; start now and never finish.

#4 — Do one thing.

Done with all your might and passion, all your courage and conviction, every word and gesture, every moment and material component will embody one purpose. Making music turns you on? No matter what you do, if you’re never not making music, you’re really only doing one thing all the time.

Perhaps your purpose is to keep life going. Not just for you, since that’s not how this all works. If your purpose is life then you’ll drive not to a destination but to preserve life. With a single criterion, results will be singular. Babe Ruth batted for home runs, not average, not technique or tactic. Aiming is correlated to achievement. Enough advice?

#5 — Ignore all advice.

Go rogue. You’re a maverick. The first of a kind. Nobody has ever played the role of you before. This is all new, so their maps might be to entirely different territory, or they might knowingly give you false directions. So, whether you take a sock of quarters to the face, the wealth of nations through the stock market, or a mere penny for your thoughts, experience is cash you can spend again and again, donate and still keep the change.

#6 — Question yourself.

It’s a meditative exercise to think about where your thoughts, your principles, your preferences all come from. Do you like spicy food? Is that really your idea? Did you decide to like it or are you merely reporting an internal state of consciousness; pleasure when you consume ghost peppers? Do you have the idea or does the idea have you? Track down who you heard it from, find out what podcast, and then the source material, and discover where it was collected from, research the author’s life, and before long you’ll realize that you can’t ignore anything. Everything you think and do is built upon not only the shoulders of giants but the structural remains—reverberations of consciousness—in the artifacts of one peculiar species of primate on this planet, underpinned by the great unknown, where there is a universe, a sort of background which creates stars like our sun, that create the planet which creates the plants which create the primates which create the ideas which create experience which feeds back into the loop as what we perceive as actions, our creations are as echoes, not a new voice responding to the original.

Ignominious Rex

Emotional wrecks heap up on either side of the great divide of pride and point fingers at the other side. You lied no you lied no…

One finger shames, three point back to you. What you think it is is not what it is it’s what you say it is is not what it is, it is what it is and since it’s not a name, you’re not wrong all the way, since what you say is real… speaking of speaking, so to speak.

Why don’t we play a new game? Every one of us knows it by heart, you make the rules that apply to you, and tell the truth. But what if, you read lips and after taxes…

The fix is to do what you say, and say what you mean, because one thing leads to another, and the word becomes flesh and flesh becomes light, and steps on the stones.

Try to put civilization on skids, lay a new foundation and pray it fits, well, it sits but it’s the details we miss and we kiss our dumb asses goodbye when the big one hits.

We’re safe for a bit, but we’ve got to keep moving or call it quits, cash in your chips where the house always wins, be not afraid to step out of the valley of sins and repent, lather, rinse and repeat.

Do it for the kids. Oh speaking of which, Miss Givings and Ms. Carrage, have you been bullied and badgered and hounded, nagged and bagged on by a crowd of cowards, empowered by a pyramid scheme that stole all your spare hours, seized in a fever dream of eminent domain wolf blitz in sheep dip new media smoke screen?

No? Well it’s time for some answers, after these messages from our handlers: you cast the first stone, you rile the panthers, you dig in your heels, next come the panzers.

Impressionist dialog

The infinite universe is apprehended through the compression algorithm derived by multiplexing peripheral input of limited array of spectrophotometers, mass spectrometers, pressure plates and gyroscopes, honey whether you do or you don’t believe, we can at least agree, something mysterious in each one of us, something dangerous and petty, violent if necessary, perverted and unsanitary, vestigial and involuntary, pentangular plenipotentiary to enemy territory, the immortal and the way of the monastery beckoning back to the caves and trees, in the dark ages, the shaded places of history whereby many peaceful graces worked the land with fellow hand and hand far from the walled and wicked cities, filth and grime in every crevice, paved with misery, lapping up luxuries but dumpster dive for decency, disposable identities, life-size cardboard intimacy, in a grand sort of Ad hominem fallacy, prithee praytell what in the living hell is the moral of this droll and dilatory postmodern tribalist twenty-four hour newsrecycling convenience story, a cultural no-go zone of sedimentary slaves in existential promontory?

The Counter Intuitive

Never underestimate anyone.

Life exists and that’s proof enough it is more powerful than death. And even if life is extinguished completely, never to return, and yet it does, popping up in a new form, lovers over dinner and intellectual banter, cicadas on biochemical dimmer switches, watermelon jolly ranchers and dissolving stitches, we are always coming back together, we are always building bridges. Artisans of scorched wood, thermite charged with playing a peaceful corpse in the world premiere production of united dominations, see it first or see it last, you will see as the sinister mob sees with hidden fees and unpaid dues for dividends in arrears for years and forgive us for we know not what we do to hit continue one more time of all the twitching lines that seemed ripe until the first bite and it’s rotten inside the beautiful hide you ride or fly in a lie of the emperor’s new clothes, truth is contagious share the wealth of our ancestors table scraps of a feast from a fable in a fairy tale castle and weddings like funerals conveyors of coffins dance on like ducklings into the sewer later or sooner it’s beads on a skewer or a calculator, what’s useful gets used up without remainder. A brown butcher paper flap creased along its center of mass, died twelve thousand and seventeen meters later in a bionic bird nest.

The End of the World

The veiled one replied,

And who wouldn’t be proud of me?

An atmosphere of polka dots of

Light bent on gravitational waves

Within a vast ineffable folded space

Some degrees north of an asteroid

Belt held her nebulae in place

Beneath a sulfuric acid sky.

There is no weave, no hue devised

What can hide divine form from the mind.

Even the deepest blackest masses

Yield their truth with backstage passes 

All in their own due time.

It’s just a little ways

I said to make the 6:58.

Stopped once along the way by

Stutter steps and heavy breath 

With diesel passing on the left.

Three chums into the boxy whale 

Before I scarce could catch its tail

And mouth agape it kindly waits

To catch me in the baleen seats

Along its windowed flanks

Only to spit me out about 

Twenty-some odd times a week.

Been awake awhile now

While most are still asleep. 

I could regret about everything

But I haven’t got the time.

I’m not the strongest link

The weakest or the richest soil

To grow a crop of human

If you hold on to your pride,

My name is gratitude,

I will remember you.

Dichotomy of Morality

You oh my beloved are the unredeemable sickest sadistic and twisted worst thing ever.

You are the holocaust and the survivor at one such time or another.

You are the ancient all mother, the eternal concept of the father.

You are the simple sisters, the brotherhood of ever, the comic tricksters.

Not always on the same side as the good guys, but most days while

our history is maddening just managing a smile without the customary grime is amaze.

 

A lot more than crime exists, for us to say it doesn’t pay or is useless,

it does pay, look at Wall St., New York Style puff piece buzzing in the postmodern way,

politics a noose for inconvenient truth, a trap set for the muddled youth

let loose over rumbling volcanic vents voluntarily vomiting out violence

shaking the momentary myopic myelin sheath of parallel peace

Haves and the Have-Nots have got to stand up with spine and thrust

against the spears of the nail salon clade before they can upgrade

the hypergamous tirades, the privilege and safe space hay rides, for slaves

without soul, without face, without mind or what to say when they come for it.

 

The nations are mere states of matter we make up of late

individual lives that strive to revive what once was of value

speak up, speak out, speak on what you know — listen though

to everyone you can’t stand: the blogs, the critics, your fellow man

rock beats the bleep out of paper for sure but word covers the earth

the fissures in the fractal foundation of our towering irony

with our books, stacked up thoughts and filmy frames go unseen

the losses and the greater gains made as a species

we carve names in stone and grind bones in a coke stove

stoked and broke and laid open to raise the roiling smoke

and the molten gold in our hearts flows into the holes

kintsugi kin broken again and again made whole.

This Is The Trip

The safe trip you wished. Where all the voices of all the times you heard the truth—the words that resonate with you—and you didn’t get up to get a fucking pen to write down what inspired you, well sometimes it’s just trash and no one would miss it, except, they would. We miss the bad along with the good.

And on your holidays, not because it’s right or because you say so, but when you think of me, I write. Faces everywhere, paperclips and sidewalk and potato chips stare day and night there. They’re the ancients, vestal daughters of gods and does it sicken you to see an old man laid bare, or do you laugh and swear he had it coming, the saw on his legs, the bath filled with lye? Or does it somehow satisfy an itch, stroke an urge of your revenge porn of squirming sneers that slide upon the greasy vinyl sea. They’re not so bad once you get to know them, see, you play their game and they act all friendly.

A morality is personality and individuals are copies, drones of no identity, functional necessities in a species divvied up into discrete competing colonies. Some ants even practice slavery, tending to the many queens all fighting and flaunting for the right to feed, her brooding warriors, construction workers, foragers, commuting thousands of scale miles across the jagged hellscape of earth. A safe return is not a given, scores will meet their doom by shoes or neighbors out looking for food. Accidents of terrain claim multitudes in the struggle to continue struggling to continue the struggle.

We’ve seen the movies, the cartoons, the novels which messianic bullshit runs through, but the truth is in there too. The chocolate in peanut butter, order in chaos, truth lies in every lie and the joke’s on all of us when we do—and we’re all going to—die. But the machines we design to outlive our species, when we eventually go extinct like the vast majority of all the species that have ever been.

The next generation of this, the transhumanists, shaped by the environment as sea glass smooths under the patient waves, each one of us makes as we trace our ways. No more of this long distance running, big brained premature birthing cousin of the apes. I’m sorry but that’s what it takes to stretch through the crapmosphere, the fault that may cost us the stars, the specially relative bend of spacetime that comes when you combine 5-MeO-Dimethyltryptamine with a monoamine oxidase inhibitor, you might notice that when you are born, you die to death, points adjacent in the nascent cardioid of life.

Is that alone not worth a try? Is nothing you’ve tried more compelling than pride? Will there to be a beyond to the string you pull on, deforming the tapestry of this plane, this membrane of reality bending for everyone? If you don’t love your kids or your spouse or your friends or the trees or the stardust we breathe enough, you just sit right down, take one more puff, and again until you wake the fuck up.

Just Plain Truth

Tell all about the world

As it presents itself to you

Just one set of eyes on the prize

The life we all share in circularity 

Infinite sides create greater than infinite

Points to make a cardioid timeline in space

• — •

Shall the green pentagons be proud

And the cubes and tetrahedrons 

Deserving equality of geometry 

Möbius mind mirror of mine

What is the shapiest shape of all

What is a better profile backlit

A dodecahedron or a sphere?