The Push.

You pushed them.

They would bend,
but never break, satisfied
with nothing less
then fairness, integrity, justice,
and so you pushed
them harder —

and they bent
till they could bend no more,
and unable to break,
whipped back

as the embodiment
of the justice
that had been lacking.

Slaves no more,
masters dethroned,
in a flash the world
became their own,
became the way, liberty
bathing now

beneath a new sun,
giving life
defeating a fate
worse then death
to your feast of lies.

Defeating the Cultural Mantras.

Be practical, realistic.
Live a dream’s suicide.
Be the slow, dull butterknife sawing
through the vibrant vein.

Be the burning need
without an aim to pacify.
Sell yourself to the highest bidder.
Liberty and integrity are such childish things,
we’re all bound to fate,
lost in our labyrinth of lies.

Ahead of the curve
is around the bend, boy,
and creativity is insanity.
Grow up and entomb life.

Ignore the misery,
embrace lack of empathy.
Every child, woman, man
for themselves down here.

Plant your wish
at the bottom of the gravity well,
an early grave, for why
postpone the inevitable?

A mother, poisoned.
Parasites so hellbent on death
they kill themselves when nothing’s left.
Know your role in their slaughter.
Step in line with the cattle,
get lost in the rabble.


I’m not the same as you.
Rising third eye, open wide,
finding my soul to contribute
to the revolution.

Cocked Eye.

Might it just be the bias
borne of the ghost in the meat machine
that comes with sex organs
provided, equipped

with circuitry that dictates
the attraction
to the female of the species that breeds
the perspective
evolutionarily favored?

Cannot unknow it.
To me, it’s clear:

Men just look stupid when naked.

It matters not
whether you have
a stiff follicle forgery
one mere misdirected sigh would sever
or a log-barrel, dome-tipped,
milky-soup-spitting, purple-veined
porno pistol that jettisons
snotty lava

or if it is oozing like pus drooling
from the head of a sad turtle
with a neck brace
and boobs

or swelling
to detonation,
seed staining the ether.

Every skin pigment
at every angle
be it launch mode or flaccid
sliced or ‘shroom-tipped
boom stick in a blanket
both sheathed
and bucked naked

cum one, cum all
both bush and bald

be it gobbled to the gag
by a girl head-banging
to offer a massage of warm,
wet and wonderful:

united, all us men fall.

All adds up the same,
be it jack-hammered
in the pink-eyed clam hole
or across the road
in the commode.

Polite sequence,
though the truth is kindness can’t blow
every varying-phase Pinocchio nose
from down below,

nor moisten every pair
of lively, lower loin-flower
petals upon their blossoming:
suspended, quivering
as if caught in glorious gasp,
surfing towards the penultimate
convulsions of the tulips.

So please advise:

it’s fertile giggling ground
to go about
with your downtown snout
hanging out

(especially those porno guys
with banana-cocks —
they really freak
me out),

walking around, out and about
with that goofy-looking, lopsided
mess of meats dangling

betwixt our inner thighs
or mashed
against the taint
with tightie-whities not
uniformly white

that tight tarp:
stretched out, hardbound,
pressed up against
the canoe

(it stretches across
the holes we all know
as cum-’n-go
and that of poo),

Makes no difference,
not to be rude.
You look fucking goofy
if you’re a dude in the nude.

Two of Me (Dream 1/23/14).

Short on money, which is a grossly misleading way of saying that my bank account is as far into the negatives as the winter weather has been as of late, I decided to do some seasonally-inappropriate spring cleaning with respect to my rather massive book collection. That way, I could exchange them for cash at the nearby bookstore downtown the following morning. It also served to keep me occupied as I have not smoked weed in two or three days.

In the midst of cleaning, I found a pill that had apparently fallen behind some books. Examining it, I determined it to be Melatonin, from my old bottle, with milligrams far beyond the 3 milligrams sufficient for sleeping. I took it, hoping to sleep. I then got an app in my iPhone for astral projection: it plays soothing sounds (I chose waves crashing on the beach) with a binaural beat played over it. I put on headphones, lay supine on my bed, closed my eyes and proceeded to focus on my breathing, occasionally shifting to fixing my attention on my third eye. Before the 45 minute setting I put on the program was up, I turned it off, took off the headphones and drifted into sleep.

The dream came back in pieces the following morning. At first, all I recalled was driving around a camper (which I vaguely recall being the circumstance in another dream some time ago) with a few passengers. At some point, I remember bonding with a small child and falling asleep beside him while holding him and snuggling.

I also remembered that my team from the camper and I had entered a large and complex building (like a massive mall) in order to do something covert and got separated. I was alone and they were together. I approached the exit doors while pushing a grocery cart and some short guy with a mustache (like Mario) opened the doors for me. As I strolled out into the parking lot towards what looked like my real car, not this imaginary camper, I caught sight of the rest of my team coming out a different set of exit doors in the distance.

I believe that was the final scene, but a lot of the dream was missing. My car perhaps signified my body, my walking towards it signifying “wake up” time.

Thinking of the child symbol in the dream, I wrote a status on Facebook referencing my feeling that sometimes I felt as if there were two of me (the other being an inner child) and that we did not always see eye to eye. I then began to wish I could remember more as I sipped my coffee and smoked a few cigarettes as I checked out Facebook posts before leaving for my third shift. Scrolling, scrolling down, I caught sight of a photo of a guy who had friended me because our first and last names were the same. It was a picture of him beside a kid shorter than him. The caption read that it was his “younger” brother. That’s when I remembered another part of the dream.

“There was two of me,” I remember saying aloud. He was like a twin, though I noted aloud that despite our similarities I was taller than him. An interesting and strange correlation to serve as a trigger, it seems to me.

Then, in the car, the first song on my iPhone’s playlist was Mudvayne’s song, Shadow of a Man, from their album, The End of All Things to Come. Also an interesting correlation, considering the meaning behind the song.

Obscurity, Insanity.

Found a way you can’t get to me.
Building a way to turn the tide.
Stocking the inner armory.

Your darkness will fall,
so fuck it,
for with it the rise
of my well-adapted eyes.

My mind long ago
blasted open,
this broken and bleeding halo
of stretch marks having healed in time,
a mind
now equipped with firewall.

Take me again,
rape me again.
Turn the sand in the hourglass
to concrete.

Pull my soul out, dangle it before me,
taunt me, remind me just how it is
I’m not the same inside.

Now, you say, choke
on the reflection.
Choose your path:
obscurity, insanity.

So in my revolt against
your binary

I know me
I retain me

as I tip-toe
out across the dam in me,


Knower, Known, Unknown.

The personality could be broken down into at least three parts that we can more or less verify at any time and place: the knower, the known, and the unknown. If you close your eyes and screen out the outside world, you can easily determine that you are awareness, or the knower, with access to the mind or consciousness, the known, and yet there are clearly influences within you that you do not control, which suggests the unknown, or what is typically identified as the unconscious mind or unconsciousness.

The only thing dividing consciousness and unconsciousness is awareness. The line between these two and awareness, however, is not so arbitrary. All of un/consciousness constitutes a mirror for awareness, and what it cannot detect of awareness it does not provide as feedback, much as the case is with our sensory limitations. What you can’t sense about the objective landscape can hurt you. Think of radiation, for instance, or of viruses. What you cannot detect in the subjective landscape can hurt you as well.

Knowledge is power: know thyself.

Fight Club, Buddha & Chaos Magick.

Just picture Jack sitting there in the doctor’s office in that scene from Fight Club. He’s just been dismissed, his pain unrecognized, by that Doctor that recommends he go to the testicular cancer patient support group in order to see what pain was really like.

He took the bitter doctor’s advice. They even presumed that he was one of them. He was an imposter receiving the benefits of a legitimate role. He found that it did do something, did change something in him, and he liked the sense of community bound by shared pain.

So he became a support group junkie. A “faker” that took on multiple identities in multiple support groups. He tried out all existing systems, just as Gotoma was said to have done before he became nominated the Buddha.

As with Pre-Buddha, Jack got results from the various systems and benefitted from them (“Slide,” said the penguin: so he let the meaningless shit slide), but they did not directly address the problem as he saw it, so could not deliver the practical solution. Nonetheless, his experimentation was crucial, as it ultimately brought him to a place where he might stumble upon his very own solution.

In the end (in the book) what Jack found is that even those within all the support groups he went to shared the same underlying miseries he did. All his old support groups were abandoned. His fight clubs and Project Mayhem had been embraced by them all. They had been treating their individual symptoms; this new system literally fought and played to defeat the underlying disease inflicting us all.

This also appears to be the logic of the Chaos Magickian, who utilizes any and all available systems in order to achieve a desired result. It is a pragmatic use of established beliefs and their applied “technology” in the form of ritual behavior to achieve one’s aim.

Try what you like. You believe in, be sure to believe back out again. Use what works, ditch what doesn’t. Take notes, evaluate results. Move on. Always moving forward, separating RAW’s BS from tools of true value.

When we observe the universe, study it, experience it, we are listening to what it has to say. When we experiment with the universe, we engage it in conversation.