Notes from the Pocket.

Was it the hypnosis videos I listened to again last night to relax? Was it her who opened the door again?

It began last night and they, the memories, have continued creeping in since I awoke. Like a pocket of memory with an ever-widening hole and these fragments keep slipping through. Recollections hiding in this strange mood, now emerging before me yet again. The same things I always remember about the place, be it a parascom or otherwise, though now I feel closer to them.

A phosphorescent oasis in the midst of a dark wasteland. Ferns and trees glowing neon. A sense of beauty and lethality within this patch of jungle. Across the desert, predatory creatures, like swiftly-moving psycho-pompoms with long spider legs. Sand and hard ground and rock formations. An underground place, fairly well hidden, that I call home. Death machines, war machines, like triangular tanks without visible guns and with wheels that stretch far above my head. Every brief and vivid memory, so convincingly lifelike. Within the memory my vision seems widescreen, crystalline clear and farsighted. Bigger and better eyes, perhaps, or an atmosphere high in oxygen. As that creature pounces, dust flies up and settles slowly, as if the wasteland is low in gravity. This can’t be earth. I can’t be human. This can’t be real, the rational part of me insists. Why do I remember this as if I were there? Why so rich an illusion, so strange a lie? Just let me see the face I’m looking out of. I keep striving for my reflection in these forbidden recollections.

If this is real, what does it mean? If it’s not real — what the fuck does it all mean?

Some greater understanding here would be nice…

Unity in Equilibrium.

Recoil, then extend.

From the periphery, once more
the iris draws me in towards
event horizon.

Desire for disintegration
in a space unbound by entropy.
Die, to all that which I have identified.
Release what I have condemned.

Sipping from the darkness,
a master here, then turn
towards the mistress,
the excuse: a step
toward restoring balance.

Both shoulders have a timeshare
till yin and yang go ouroboros.

So I keep spinning
till I spiral out,
seeking unity
in equilibrium.

Wars & Waiting Games.

Ever-concerned by origins,
plagued by what may be to come.
Explanations void, at least in terms
of the conventional,
appropriate preparations
are forever uncertain.

Are these short-circuits or upgrades,
or just my inadvertent
donations to diversity
by virtue of existing?

If I knew from whence it came,
would that gnosis provide
a cure or just a reason?
Is to know to control?
Does understanding serve evolution?

Keep running after, running from,
as I strive to stand still,
hoping to find chaser and chased
one and the same after all.

Reunion, dissolution, transformation.

Stand tall now, stand my ground,
hold my own, even though
what comes up must
come down until I reach so high,
until I manage to fly beyond
this crushing atmosphere
and embrace the bigger picture.

The thirst to evolve.
The need for ground.
Yearning for the sky,
aching for roots that worm
deep into the soil.

Instinct wrestles enlightenment,
like two immortals, one
occasionally achieves a chokehold.

To suffocate, it’s just a phase.

Must breathe deep and steady now,
fire of determination insists
I shall find a way.
It will be okay.

Just have to battle on
through this waiting game,
fight to survive to that moment
of discovery.

To Outlive Our Grim Illusions.

the fist inside, put out
the fires your frame
of mind feeds.
Just beating, just burning
yourself inside, inhale
the cool air, laugh
this bullshit into submission.

You’re more than this.
You know that everything is.

This is just a game
that children like us play
and I’m not married
to your rules, no tool
for your institutions,

just another outcast
bearing the burden
of lies, planting seeds,
nurturing the inevitable
revolution, confident
we shall outlive
our grim illusions.

Blog of the Damned.

Sought my ink
on the web, gobbling up
products of my catharsis
and my alchemy.

and memories.
All my cyclic

A peek inside my mind.
I cannot imagine
you like what you see.
Inadvertently, now
I hurt you, too.

Look inside.

Wires crossed
and twisted, dark
and broken.
to feed the fires
of your omnipresent
worry for me.

Perhaps but a step away
from calling the men
in the white coats
to deliver me to a room
with padded walls.

You shouldn’t have looked.
It was not meant
for you to see.

Sweet Static.

Can you feel it rolling closer,
like an ancient friend,
as the light grows dim?

A cool breeze
massages the skin,
silences the mind.

Clouds grow thick,
the sky splits and cracks
with blinding light.

Let it pound down,
wash all this away.

Clapping leaves
and pouring rain,
from the sky, sweet static
in my mind…


Afternoon keeps
tugging at my sleeve,
but I don’t want to leave
the ignorance of sleep,
so just go and let me
dream, damn it,

in a domain mimicking
the chaos,
but without the pains
of consequence.

Keep the world at bay,
I have yet to take
a sufficient commercial break,
curse the clock
that sends the call
let me play dead to the world
right now.

Bills to pay.
Debts to bear.
Taxes late.
Job to hate.

is sure to kick in
any day now.
Been waiting decades.
Long ago hit the fan,
enact a plan.
Time to get
my shit together.

So waking up
doesn’t have this weight.
Time to put off
Time to wake up.

Why won’t I just
wake up?

Alien Inside II.

“All are lunatics, but he who can analyze his delusions is called a philosopher.”
— Ambrose Bierce.

On more than one occasion George Carlin has said that when you are born on earth, you are given a ticket to the freak show, and when you are born in America you get a front row seat. Even better, some of us, he said, get to watch and take notes. Those taking notes would be those like himself, he has suggested — those who have removed themselves from the equation and can have the best chance at cultivating an objective perspective, a sense of being on the outside looking in; of being in the world, though not of it. A sort of third person perspective in which you can look at humanity and its affairs on the earth as a detached observer — with a witnessing consciousness. Alongside the overwhelming feeling that I belong nowhere, I find myself in that sort of witnessing perspective quite often — thinking to myself, “not my circus, not my monkeys” and applying it to the earth and humanity as a whole — and perhaps that is behind the alien theme. Maybe this witnessing aspect of my consciousness has an autonomous nature when I am not one with it and it manifests as an alien because it serves as an effective metaphor.

Maybe it persists as an autonomous aspect of my psyche because I have failed to integrate all its associated qualities — not just detached observation but equanimity, for instance. The memories of that dead, desert planet and the playtime I engaged in as a kid: perhaps that helped flesh out the metaphor, give it a fitting backstory. The memories of that lifetime? False memories. The subsequent lifetimes of the Priest and Sam? Metaphors of my apparently futile struggle to connect, to find my place, to procure some meaning out of life.

Why in my “astral projection” or lucid dream experiences did this personality manifest as a human child with alien qualities? Perhaps the two human past lives between the alien and I represent that Witnessing consciousness having humanized to some degree, integrated into my personality in some respects. Also consider the child is a symbol we frequently default to when speaking about a sense of virginity to experience — the kind a Witnessing presence can offer. Open, curious, ever in a state of flow, though possessing great wisdom. A child of this caliber would qualify as the divine child with divinity often associated with the heavens and the notion of extraterrestrials serving as the modernized equivalent. So the potential sources of the alien qualities of foreign bigger-picture perspective, fetal form and point of origin are clear to see.

Perhaps this is all a product of my utter insanity.

Going Strong.

Look at that disgusting
little man, shy
exhibitionist with a pen,
self-flagellation broke the skin
and he bleeds ink.

Breathing smoke, burning
the midnight oil till
it’s an uncontrolled fire,
rise from the ashes
at the sound of the alarm.

Bear the grind,
wash, rinse and repeat
till all the grains
of life are gone.

Not even death
has stopped this train,
derailed again, yet still
going strong.

Some Degree of Certainty.

Our senses deceive us.
Memory is literally a process of re-membering.
Present and past remain as uncertain
as the future.

Contradiction inherent in the notion
of self-observation, now realized.
What can be witnessed cannot be me.
So it seems I even remain asleep
to my own damn identity.

Unknown down deep
in the subliminal
hiding, gestating,
imprisoned and raging…

I know nothing.

Just drowning in a sea of maybe,
head above water, screaming out
for some degree of certainty.

I will never settle for belief.