Play Us All.

Build up a frenzy
so the many act as one
emotionally-driven
mindless
super-organism.

They’re so
much easier to control
that way.

Once the watchdogs,
the media is now well-trained:
obedient to their master,
sheepdogs
for the powers that be.

Internet, television,
the papers, radio:
just a webwork
of puppet strings.

Channel their rage.
Distract them.
Divide them and conquer.

You play us all:
the game is old, getting older.
You play us all,
and you’ll get what’s coming.

Can’t wait
till the game is over.

Windows and Mirrors.

Look in their eyes:
worlds within, without
collide, boundaries betwixt
them and I dissolving,
bleeding, mixing again.

Erect the walls, summon
callous, thicken skin.
It’s like swimming in a sea
of erratic energy, so alive
and blind, draining,
charging, pushing, tugging
at me, inspiring
my resonation, infecting me.

Run home, bolt the door,
sit, smoke,
bathe in silence.

Reflect in safety.

Am I seeing
into them by extending
my light, mingling, or spying
reflections of my own
mind, unrecognized,
through their eyes?

I must know if the world
has become my hall of mirrors;
do I know myself sufficiently
to eliminate that possibility?

In and Away.

If someone puts you in a prison, they may do so out of a concern for your safety or someone else’s, perhaps even their own. What resides beyond the bars, then, always represents freedom — if for no other reason than the fact that is is off limits. If you were permitted to come and go, after all, this would be no prison cell, merely a home you voluntarily adopted. You choose to stay within its boundaries when you do and return following your departures when you do not. It keeps you safe and sane and this is why it persists as your locale. A prison cell? A cell just keeps you in and away — and as an added measure of protection you may even be kept from the why.

Force, Counterforce: Revisited.

At the tail end of my former attempts to procure a new and respectable job for myself — just before acquiring the humble abode I have been in now for still under a year — I had an experience that my mind keeps coming back to.

To the chronically oversensitive, to those who live in a perpetual state of fixed overreaction, life is marked by traumas. This was my most recent major self-manufactured one, I suppose. Another mountain made out of a mole hill.

I lay in bed, painfully sober after an epic failure at job-acquiring one day and descended helplessly into this dark vortex of violent emotions, of relentless guilt and self-hatred. It was as if it were eating me alive. In retrospect, the experience was the emotional equivalent of some aggressive and uncompromising animal tearing into my skin, ripping apart my insides, but I could not sleep and even if I died I felt certain there would be no escape. I was plagued by horrible thoughts, but it all stemmed from this sense that I was fighting against some force that, however insurmountable, came from within me and refused to listen to reason.

Now I fear running up against that uncompromising force of seeming though subliminal self-sabotage again. Like an electric fence erected around the boundaries of my comfort zone, like guard dogs at the threshold of the known pond where I reside, where I can sink or swim or float through life and a land of hope, however unpredictable, ready to fight to the death to keep me within, where life is predictable, however increasingly miserable.

In retrospect, the experience itself reminds me of my experiences with Ee as a teenager. Perhaps, I think now, this is no coincidence. Maybe he, the autonomous figure who chased and tortured me in those lucid dreams or OBEs, was a manifestation of that “guard dog” force and that is why he manifests as a canine so frequently, and did so especially in the beginning.

My assumption is that this is ultimately all me, of course, it is only that a inner split is there and the other half is disturbingly autonomous. And if indeed that is the case, than I wonder just what it is that I expect of me, what I really want of me out of this life. I ask that other part of me now, officially:

Is this where you would like to die again — alone, in poverty, weighed down and torn apart by your emotions, dependent on others for survival? Is this static, infantile existence satisfactory in your eye? Isn’t this endless redundancy boring as fuck to you, murderous of any sense of meaning, useless and caging? If I am punishing myself, haven’t I endured enough at the hands of myself already?

Can’ this shit he over? Aren’t I allowed to grow — to try and live a life of meaning, to feel joy?

Misinterpretations With a Side of Violence (6/25/15 Dreams).

While working, I’m practicing hand movements involved in operating some strange kind of gun, though I don’t know for certain that I actually had the gun with me. Regardless, in the midst of being lost in the practice it comes to my attention that someone, perhaps a customer, is watching me and my sudden fear is that he or she will presume I’m getting ready to shoot up the place, jump to the conclusion that I am preparing to commit some massacre.

***

While at work, this scraggly-looking guy comes behind front counter — and through a gap between the counter and the wall which does not exist in the waking world. Some manager in the kitchen sees him and yells for him to hold on, but he quickly comes all the way behind front counter, grabs something and then runs back through the gap and out the nearby doorway. After only a moment’s hesitation I run after him, out the side door, into the night, and down the sidewalk along Main Street in the direction heading away from downtown. He finally lays down on the steps on the small patio outside of some closed building or store. I determine in passing that he is homeless. I run up to him, standing over him cowering below me and pull my fist back, making like I’m going to punch him, all the while trying to determine what it was he had taken and get it back. In fear, in a trembling voice he mumbles something about having needed something for a job interview, presumably whatever it was he had taken. In the end I take what looks like my phone from him and he stumbled away, around a dark corner. As I walk away I think I hear him talking to someone, complaining about the whole thing, I think.

As I walk back I look at the iPhone in my hands and instantly know that it cannot be my own — the casing isn’t as beat up as mine is, for one thing. For a moment I consider taking the casing and ditching the phone, an odd thought for me, but I know I wouldn’t feel right about it, so I stand the phone up on the ground, leaning it up against something like a trash can or the wall of a building and continue walking back.

Peephole.

Just sit there, so patiently,
locked inside, juggling
intensities, lap awaiting,
though nothing
falls to rest
in your nest of legs
and in moments of clarity,
you are not at all surprised.

To anxiety
you succumb, growing
itchy in an armchair life,
playing with
the loose yarn
on the arms, always
getting tangled.

From here the doorway
seems so ominous,
so threatening.

Sounds like something
is knocking,
determined to win
this game of excruciating
waiting
and it’s wearing
you down now.

Fingers, threads,
entangling.

More and more
you feel, fuck it all,
answer the call.
Suffering while in motion,
determined, stumbling,
is far better than the pains
of this pathetic stagnation.

Crawl if you must,
find support to stand tall,
just keep your feet moving.
Do not get halfway there,
squat out of fear,
set up camp on the closest
piece of furniture…

At last, at least
stand up, stand tall,
walk a straight line
the whole way,

press your eye
to the peephole.

Siphon.

Go on, just play your games:
projection, projective
identification, so grow
your self-fulfilling
prophecies.

I refuse to participate
in your illusions or lure
your head out of the hole
in the ground.

Won’t hunt you down,
coerce you out,
you come to me
when you’re ready
and hope that I’m willing.

Just a waste of time,
useless expenditure of energy
and this life,
it already siphons me.

Bored (6/23/15 Dream).

Even after remembering the dream this morning regarding people sneezing, I didn’t write down the conversation I had with my boss, Connie, as it seemed more like a memory of an actual occurrence upon awakening. Only when I woke up fully did it strike me that though this seemed a lot like my brief encounter with her yesterday it was, in fact, a dream.

Yesterday I had taken out trash in the small structure built to hide the dumpsters. We call it the corral. I was sipping a small coffee and enjoying a cigarette, writing something on my iPhone when I heard someone approaching. It was her, even though she was off work that day — stopping by to toss some boxes her daughter had used for moving in the dumpster. She pretty much caught me, but didn’t say anything about it. Today I learned that she had been sick yesterday — so sick that age went home early today, in fact. The conversation in the dream seemed to take place in a way that felt similar. I was trying to explain something to her and somehow let it slip that I was just bored at my job. I tried to quickly brush passed it, but I could tell by the look in her face and her eyes that she caught it. In the dream, my slip was like a revelation to me somehow: I really was insanely bored at this job. The look in her eyes was weird, too — like sympathy, understanding.

On All the Flags.

Why do people get so distracted by these idiot issues? It blows my mind how much fuss can be generated over the design on a piece of cloth. People are enraged because some burn or stomp on the American flag (probably made in Korea). Other people now rise up to ban the confederate flag (probably also made in Korea). All as if flags were the real fucking issue. As if when
the day came and all American flags were both stomp and flame-resistant and all confederate flags were eradicated from the earth that American patriotism would reign and racism would come to an end. To my mind this just serves to exemplify how superficial we have become, how misplaced our values are as a culture. How often and to what degree people do not actually think. For the record, if you buy something or were born into something (which is to say your meaty flesh vessel) it is your property: you have the right to do whatever the bloody fuck you want with it so long as you aren’t prancing over other’s rights to do the same. Tuck the kids in with the confederate flag. It doesn’t really matter. Wipe your ass with the red, white, blue and now brown-stained. Or don’t. Just don’t be more concerned with fabric than the liberty it supposedly represents.