Redactions.

Secrets inhibit freedom.

Without knowledge
we cannot make
informed decisions.

Truth need
not be comforting,
but it is necessary
for adaptation, vital
for survival.

You enslave
and endanger
us with your silence,

weaving
deceptions to fill
the vacuum,

to muddy the leaks,
fuel the ridicule.

Conspiracy breeding
further crime,
justifying its continuation.

Just as coverups
separate you from us,

and the disinformation
you spread separates
we, the people,
from each other,

compartmentalization
divides you,

and maybe
that’s what they wanted:

divided, conquered.

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Starving for Understanding.

Searching
through bootleg
memories

carried from times
long passed
(a long bag I’m dragging,
so fucking heavy),

skins formerly worn,
and at least
one world abandoned
in my prehistory,

embracing emotions denied,
analysis of tendencies,

then looking
at where I am
and who I seem to be,

striving to discern the patterns,
starving for understanding.

What am I hiding?

Why am I hiding
from myself?

Twitch.

An eye’s twitch.
Filled to the brim
with energy.
Swollen and aching,
this burning need
inside of me.

All this shallow thinking.
Weakened before this impulse.

Driven mad
by this relentless itch
I can’t seem to scratch
on my own.

Shameful imagery
infesting my mind.
Frustration, twisting.
Coercive body of mine.

If I could find a way,
develop a strategy.

If I found a window
and you would just
fucking let me…

All These Walls.

Fingers
turning white,
trembling,

tapping out,
curling back
one by one

until I’m no longer
on edge
but in descent

down a well
of agitation,
gnashing teeth,
claws out,

eager
to decorate
all these walls
in bloodstains,

empty myself,
cleanse myself,
lose myself,

regain
whatever is I lost.

Just breathe,
I beg myself.
Just endure

the walls
of this well-earned hell,
until you find
the courage to grow.

Ouroboros Girl.

Walking out from behind counter, a vibrant pair of eyes catch me in their tractor beams. They belong to a beautiful girl in a blue dress. She has her phone in her hands and very politely, calmly and confidently she asks me the address, what town she’s in. She’s looking for route 5.

She’s beaming with this intense yet soothing energy. Its compact, controlled, focused, disciplined, revitalizing energy. She reminds me a lot of my ex-girlfriend, Kate, from years ago, but something that also reminds me of that girl who grew up in but ultimately escaped from the clutches of the Westboro Baptist church. Feeling her, it seems as though she’s somehow able to balance her light and darkness. There is this wonderful naughtiness in her eyes, this rich darkness inside that she’s in touch with — but she controls it, not the other way around.

I feel it all, but I ask myself: am I just crazy and pulling this out of my ass?

She has several tattoos, but only one that I feel safe to examine, and its when her back is to me. Between her shoulder blades, there is an ouroboros. My alleged spirit animal or totem animal eating its own tail.

I want her. Ache for her, but this is stupid. Greedy. She’s a stranger and I’m just sexually frustrated, is all.

She thanks me, tapping on her phone a bit before leaving for wherever. Beauty, just passing through.

Labyrinth of a Dark Mood.

Throughout the day, I tried to trace back my mood, this emotional rut I’d found myself stuck in. I tried with all the might I could muster to pinpoint what triggered it or in the very least where it all started.

Idiots on the road on the way to work? Work itself? What was it?

I had been taking Jordan Peterson’s breakfast advice for anxiety: wake up at the same time every day and have bacon and eggs. I had been following the breath in meditation for fifteen minutes every morning. I’d smoked pot. I had jerked off life a madman this weekend in hopes of exorcising the sexual frustration that had been rising to a fever pitch the week before. I had been taking sleeping pills in an effort to achieve sufficient downtime.

Even so, I had ended up like this, and without an identifiable cause. I felt like a sore tooth being tongued constantly by the worlds within and around me. I felt depressed and resentful. Trapped and starved in some way.

Eventually I considered what I have occasionally considered: we feel emotions, we find ourselves in a mood, and then we just invent the reasons. Weave our justifications. In actuality, maybe emotions and moods just happen. They arrive like coatracks upon which we hang our rationalized causes.

Then again: I’ve worked in this job I hate for 14 years, I haven’t been laid in seven years, I’m a year away from forty and I feel ashamed, self-loathing, and constantly fight against my own homelessness and frustration in the face of that, particularly lately.

On break, I couldn’t focus or get absorbed in what I was reading, which was Rupert Sheldrake’s book, nor could I get involved in writing aspects of my book that I’m working on for the thousandth time. Even when I turned my inner eye and feelers towards my mood itself, I found myself psychologically constipated, unable to express it sufficiently. I tried to write a poem so many times that day, but my words just didn’t move me along.

As a matter of fact the last few days, despite the fact that I kept trying, all my poetry sucked, anything I wrote fell flat, any attempt at artwork left me feeling without a shred of talent. Any light I had been able to hold onto in the darkness of my life seemed to have burnt out like a bulb. Still waters run deep, perhaps, but I was stuck on the surface, unable to break what seemed to be an impenetrable sheet of stubborn ice. I felt empty, yet full, which sounds stupid, but even now, in the wake, that seems like an honest way of articulating it. I felt frantic, frustrated and depleted. Passionless and agitated. Nothing grabbed or moved me. Nothing satisfied.

At the end of the day, I was bitching to a manager about how, now that we close at eleven, people don’t seem to plan ahead. There’s no logic to what they do, no foresight or preparation, which is why we never get out by midnight. I find myself judging them and holding it in until it erupts in the form of biting remarks to people or embittered rants.

I’m not a manager or any legitimate form of authority, so I have no right. I know that. I wish my reason would overpower my emotions, but emotions always seem to win the fucking war.

When I got home, nothing I watched moved or inspired me. I took a hit off a bowl, tried to read the book again but couldn’t fall in. Then got the urge to read The Portable Jung again, and it’s been some time. Somehow, that did it. I watched some videos regarding reincarnation on YouTube a bit later, and I fell in the groove there, too. Finally.

What the fuck is my problem?

The Vacuum of Stolen Memory.

Mindful of a gap,
you stop,
turn around, look

back to retrace your steps,
reflect on the journey

only to find the shadow
cast by your soles,
is growing,
enshrouding everything,

swallowing the trail,
eating up sea and land
in the ever-increasing distance…

Not again.
This time you shall
salvage
what you can, grab

the pen
to scribble
down, chant
to yourself to remember

as you focus
with determination,
aggressive passion
on something, anything,
in the attempt to forge

a vivid
and powerful
psychological bookmark,
a trigger to defeat
this unethical seizure,
this mental cover-up,

all as the darkness
accelerates
towards the horizon,

leaving
you a big blank
nothing

all as the fear, agony and anger
swiftly rushes in to fill
that vacuum of stolen memory.

Of Eyes & Energy.

Bodily glows: a light,
alive within, ’round,
and between. Energies

mingling, dancing,
repelling, wrestling
and resonating. A sea

of subtle energy.
An existential canvas:
the swirling background
to everything, amplifying

in eyes that whisper,
cast emotion, imagery
through locked gaze:
an interface. Whirlpools
that draw
in minds passed the event
horizon, spaghettify

all doubt
in telepathic
communication.

They do it to me:
the unearthly.
I’ve done it
spontaneously.

There’s got to be a way
to discipline, to initiate,

to communicate
this way
at will.