Entrance of the Myth

A single cell took what was there, what was let in through the wet portal that led in and out of the world.  And we could not know which was which, what was where, who was what. The world, the very concept implied a particular destination and place we had formed with fixed lines and edges. And here the signifier broke down and assumed its nebulous shape.
The boundaries could be defined by skin, but that was much too simple, too primitive a barrier when we could so easily see the flowing channels of neon green and pink, and then deeper still to the level of molecules and atoms so we could know, for just a moment, so we could see, just for a moment, that the shape and skin and thing itself did not exist, that our perception of it, of phenomena itself, was an illusion to which we all passively subscribed.
As that single cell accepted what was taken, as the message was sent, the myth penetrated that great boundary separating blood from air. It spread quickly, though time no longer seemed to be passing. God was here now, flowing through and around us, sprinkling seeds. And we flowered. I journeyed down the tunnel, petals and petals unfolding before me so that I could reach out and see the lines in their electric state.
Spain and the hot plazas spewing yellow and gold lights, blood red roses and softness, black shiny hair and pale skin and polka dots. Shiny blue cars riding low to the ground, graffiti and rainbow colors on the forgotten cement walls of our urban systems. Dark forests and hairy creeping creatures, dancing, moving, fucking. Deep and dark, raw sex without restraint.
The myth was a secret where we teetered on the edge with neon shapes and candlelight, marking the boundaries where the gods came and entered.

Questions For A Sunday Afternoon

There is a simple choice
one of gray, with fingers of red and black.

There is a simple choice
which I ponder, which I let roll over my tongue like goo and
the delicate noise of percussive vocalization.

There is a simple choice,
but it is no choice
simply because I cannot understand the alternatives
not with the parts of me that wander out windows
and stare at the bright lights of coming trains.

What can a choice be
when I do not see it laid before me
on a platter of shiny silver edged in delicate floral patterns?

Here there are vultures.
Here there are laws where the civilized go to worship
where the chant echoes hollow on stone walls
where books are torn and stomped under an army of bare feet outlined in black ash.

Worship comes in all forms
All contortions.
I have thought it is for the faint of thought
for the weak of body
for the stubborn of mind.
I am no longer sure of it
as I sit on the edge of a plump bed,
words dripping off the edge of my tongue,
the sticky semen of civilization.

Thought is not without consequence.
This we have known for far too long.
There are places with cages,
rooms without windows and touch,
procedures with complicated names
that kill the part of flesh still seeking
the colored fractals of knowledge.

There are the rooms in which I have hidden.
Rivers crossed which cannot be undone.
I have made the choice,
There is only one.

Stars are out there
deep in the black of beyond,
I can feel them through the walls,
can sense their death long before I came to be here.
The moon pushes parts of me onward,
how can I say no?
Such a pretty light cannot be ignored,
not by one as romantic as I.
I will follow the waves,
waters need no words,
each crash is a sentence,
a communication beyond symbols and fixed meaning.
It is sometimes sex,
a thunderous pounding.
It is sometimes red
And soft like petals.
Sometimes roaring or delicate in its nuanced fragrance.
We can never tell,
and I do not try and understand.

Can it happen here?
In this place
under this lamp
in
this
book

In this collection of clutter and mass breathing?

For now, the questions await unanswered, wavering in the darkness like flags forgotten.
What can words communicate more than a slippery tongue?
I will take my chances on the pile of stones.

I have arrived at the place for mindless wandering,
I have come often.
Naked, alone, scared beyond comprehension.
I return.

There is but one simple choice,
though I laugh, sitting here on this plump end of a bed.
Laugh, knowing it is not without its temptations.

This is for all of the moons that have passed
in this country of falsities,
of missed turns and rounded corners
the devil hides among the faithful
the heathens rarely bury their young.