von Thoth geheilt

In the light
thrums a vibration
born of simple words
taken without hesitation
the offered hand
unclouded eyes
lack the fear, suspicion
key logs slip, the flow returns
torrents surge into the long dark
miles slip uncounted
beneath the red machine
melodies weave unbroken
from the then into the now
warmth seals the wound
teeth flash in blending waves
the core spring is filled
runs with new abundance
vibration thrums
in the light

New Meat

I'm going to need a new meat machine. It is a happy chance that I just might be able to pull this one off. Current model is still viable, but it is requiring more and more maintenance to stay functional. Even at peak efficiency it is hardly the machine it was a few short years ago. I watch the technical journals and plant seeds here and there in the collective unconscious. Brilliant new imaging and data storage systems grow exponentially more complex. Gleefully I observe the processes and dream of the new meat. Weather it takes the shape of a digital mainframe driving a muscle and bone avatar or a full meat brain transfer to a newly grown bioship is of little importance. I think some gills would be nice, maybe some crocodile blood to help process an atmosphere rich in carbon dioxide and methane. Optical receptors from a mantis shrimp and the olfactory organs from a mako. Hell, lets throw in a few thousand stacked electroplaques from a knifefish. That's right, when I grow up I want to be a sea monster. In the mean time I'm going to make an appointment with the massage therapist, the chiropractor and the physical therapist.  Got to hold this aging meat machine together for at least another twenty years.

word vomit

wiggle twist, bend and break
contained vermin in a red box
built to suit
ten thousand strong
the weak erect monuments to failure
celebrations weave in and out of dark dealings
 hardened heart makes the most noise
all wheels in motion
momentum carries the beast forward
no one at the helm, full steam ahead
these dreams, they speak of endings
wrought in blue/green flames
days become weeks, weeks into months
a silence profound settles
it matters not
not one wit

funguys

I forget, sometimes, the simple joy brought on by an evening filled with friends, rock and roll and some of the P.N.W.'s finest psychedelic mushrooms. Opens up the heart, third eye, and puts a hell of a smile on me face. Lights spin, the music hums in the visible spectrum and the feet move in gleeful patterns. A dance, the happy mushroom two step. Inspired, energized, and ready for the really real. Brothers and sisters, let me tell you, it's a good goddamn time.

The yearly sheering

 It's a shock to see my face, always startle myself when I catch a glimpse in the mirror. When you wear a beard ten months a year the feel of wind and sun on a freshly shaved face is a singular experience.The flames claim the old and the stench of burning human protein fills the air. It's a small thing, this yearly ritual. It seems to help keep the dark places at bay. Sunshine and dirt on your face works miracles.

...this darkened way...

It takes it's toll in all these little ways. That song, those words, the view from the hill. Boils down to burned neural pathways as they slowly rewrite themselves. A horror creeps below the surface, lanced deep into the psyche. So much given, so little returned. All the years stack up. Built a wall so high that no light reaches the bottom. No warmth at the cold dark core. Gentle caresses, loving words, an eye with that special glint. Gone and forgotten. The need lies under it all. Desire for a thing of warmth, truth and trust. Built of quiet moments and raucous abandon. Little meals, made lovingly, shared on summer evenings. Dirty hands finding each other at days end, weary, but content. Golden light taken in on the regular, some fermented beverage in hand. Melodies play behind the eyes. Recounting all that has transpired. A tune rich in longing and desire. Notes linger in the melodic minor, their voices raised in the shaping of tale. A story long and torchorus, filled with all the hate and falsehoods of daytime television. There is no moral to the tale, only sound and fury, told by an idiot. It signifies nothing.

space bender

Flickering light shimmered out of the box. Traced patterns, track left and right. The clickity clack of the projector spins hundreds of fragmented grizzlies trough the rift. The stain is still drying, tacky to the touch, but it works. To glorious result. Ecstatic moment woven from years of preparation. Wondrous, simply wondrous. Time slowed and minds traveled. Back, back to older things. Celluloid and smoke. Light and mirrors. Tied together with witnessed intention. In the crescendo the Earth itself seemed to shudder. Through those ancient eyes the light cast shadows of memories, dark and cold. Face your fear. Turn the inner eye. See it's path and remain.

And remain.