Tantric Tantrum

  I live in theory. Allusory stories and dreams are traversed with a freedom of movement and a speed, marked by spontaneous complex architectures, that would take lifetimes of physically fleshed out algorithms to reach any sensible description of. I've withheld all due respect to the lowest common reality because I'm not above the earth. I love the other world that I consciously deny every day and don't get me wrong, I do long for it. How do I describe the being that I've become? I am a trembling tower under a thousand coats. Reason and logic buttress my design flaws and my entrances are subtle subterranean storm drains reached only by acrobatic guilds.

 

II

So, when does the I finally accept that collect call to action? When do I resuscitate that perpetual chorus of sighs that threaten to blow my house down? How do I reconcile anticipation with arrival- without compromise- with tact- without excuses- with absolute resolution... The path to the present is accidentally broken into like a tilted pinball machine and true intent hides beneath countless layers. We peel off the first few by number and chronology itself already dissolves. It isn't about direction anymore, just balance. Prometheus steals heat so that he can share it. His theft is a rebellion against dictation, a towering I that survives the apocalypse of understanding.

III

When? The only question is still too heavy, my instincts search for handouts, buying time in order to prove that these words are appreciating. Frustrated memory chasing the periphery and lapping at the shady banks. Too romantic. False Roman ideals crumbling against adversity. The wind chokes our own screams into us and we stop making sense, we cling to creation, anything, scribbles, proof, even shit. It becomes a sick swamp and our company is a legion of loathing, grubby abandoned children. Nothing sacred lasts and we crawl on bloody knees out of the corner. Everything that we've committed our education to laughs back at us as we rape the foggy mirror, forcing our cursed light into a crude, undercooked snack.

This is how things end. Loose strands are tied and we look upon the tapestry from the same nursery that raised us. We are alone among the deaf and dumb and strange angels offer up grudges to help us sink. But we know that our welcome is worn. We take our pride straight and we punctuate.