Insomnia and a Strange Mood.

After a few hours of intoxicated sleep, I awoke sober and restless like usual, so I ate a bit and watched Better Call Saul on Netflix. It was passed ten in the morning by that time, so I tried to lay back down and get some more sleep, but I heard this high pitched buzzing that annoyed the hell out of me. I finally got up, trying to determine the source, but eventually gave up in frustration, crawling back into bed. I fell asleep — but awoke abruptly yet again. The buzzing was gone but I knew something was wrong.

Turning over, I looked at my alarm clock. It was off. The light in the bathroom that I always leave on was off, too. The electricity must have went out. I checked the time on my phone and went back to sleep.

At about 1:30 in the afternoon I got up, happy to find that the electricity was back on. I made some coffee and sat down at my laptop only to discover that my wireless router was fucked up, all the icons violently blinking blue. I unplugged it, plugged it back in, reset it — it made no difference. I had to plug cable directly into laptop.

It had been raining, so it isn’t necessarily strange that the electricity went off. Even so, as I sipped my coffee and watched some YouTube videos, I couldn’t shake how weird I felt. I was tired, but it wasn’t just that. Something just felt wrong.

In the shower I discovered a scratch right below my neck that burned when the water hit it. Had I scratched myself in my sleep?

I felt sort of strange yesterday, too; today has just become a more extreme manifestation. It’s that dark, intense, crisp and clear state of consciousness I occasionally have when the weirdness starts up in my life again, typically accompanied by increased anxiety. I feel “all eyes” — as if I my consciousness has withdrawn into my head and I have forgotten how to blink or have somehow gotten stuck on ocular high-beams. So are they back again? Or am I just paranoid and playing connect-the-dots again?

I have been reading Secret Life by David Jacobs. My mood seems connected to my reading the part regarding “visualization procedures.” These were the aspects of abductions I had not known about until some time after the flashbacks and incidents in high school. Having read it for the first time, I felt confirmation anxiety; I had not known about these aspects of the phenomenon through my reading, though I had experienced them since the beginning. Now that I’m reading the book again, cover to cover, did I trigger those same emotions? Is that why I feel so weird?

Alive & Writhing.

Kill me. They carry
me out the back
of a small church,

laid out
on a sheet, down
the steps
through the high grasslands
to the hole

those two dedicated men
in the puffy white shirts
have been digging
for me, watch

as I stare back up
at you with my wide,
dead eyes as they shovel
soil onto me.

So distracting.

Even so,
I know, I catch your eyes:
you can see me stuck
in here,

alive and writhing,

hopelessly attached
to this stubbornly
unresponsive form.

I can’t be dead.
I know it.

Father: help me.
Here I am. Not in heaven,
nor in hell, for I am present,

alive, existing
in the here and now:
crashing

my premature funeral.

Won’t you save me?
Won’t you save me?

(I don’t know how.
And it’s killing me.)

Senno Ecto Gammat.

Slanted, liquid, almond eyes
bursting, bugging out of an inverted
gray guitar pick of a head. Endless
numbers of you staring
down and into me, nearly touching
my forehead,
nearly Eskimo-kissing
me as I lie, immobilized, paralyzed
cold table against
my back, raped from within.

My head, your flipbook.
My mind, transparent, naked
as can be before you.

No external wounds
to tend to,

not to say I’m not torn
open wide, bleeding,
always fucking bleeding…

Wet Graffiti.

Lips brush
across this canvas,
a tongue spirals, flickers,

painting graffiti
on a masterpiece,
invisible save

for the glistening trails,
carved into skin
laminated, smooth and slick
with sweet sweat.

Electric between our bodies
enlivening. Liberated, intoxicated,
blessed with your permission,
I proceed to drown in this as if it will
be gone tomorrow,

for history provides weight
for that hypothesis.

Saturate in the now.

For a moment, I push aside
all my questions,
answer the unasked, alive
in this madness, embodying
our answer.

Let the whole world convulse and burn
around us as we fuck amidst the torn earth
and blanket of ashes.

If I could be swallowed, buried, digested
here, it would assuage my fear,
though the future seems to beckon me.

Can you hold me, guide
me through the wasteland
in straight and narrow fashion?

I push aide the question, drown
in my only true goddess, take the wheel
offered and drive

us home, where we embrace
one another in the arms
of the numb.

Meaning That Can Be Found.

So innocent when I met
you, got inside
of you, yet I confessed
to you, predicted
the future

you ultimately
confirmed you had ultimately
succumb to: the desire
for something more

substantial. Props
for the confession.
Kills me that you failed
in your mission.

Know that as hard
as it is, these cycles
offer meaning
that can be found.

I know you can find your way.
You can come around.

Crazy.

Sometimes I think I’m crazy. Sometimes I know I’m not.

— Stone Sour.

Always and forever, that question rears its ugly head once again, popping back up like some dreaded, stubborn Cheerio of Doom in the cereal bowl of my life: am I crazy?

I mean, I’m plagued with anxiety, experience periods of depression and bouts of blinding rage: does that alone make me crazy? Or is it the whole alien thing coupled with the seemingly paranormal phenomena that makes me so damned qualified?

Probably the alien thing, right?

Its rather stupid, too, I must admit, as I’m treating the “crazy” label as if it in itself might be an answer, but what does it explain, really? What the bloody fuck does it even mean?

Nothing.

It’s just a dismissive word. Calling someone crazy is a thought-stopper, not unlike saying “god did it.” It’s an easy out because you don’t have to question their motivations, their influences, the inner workings of their mind and heart. You need not understand a single thing. Crazy means empathy is unnecessary, even dangerous.

If my unusual experiences are little more than a mesh of waking dreams and hallucinations supported by delusions, that still leaves a lot open to question. For me, anyway. I know I’m not consciously and deliberately imagining these things and yet the experiences can be so sensory-rich, lifelike, structured — and totally governed by subliminal, autonomous processes. My battles against them are battles against some aspect if myself, but that makes it no less of a battle, makes them no more under my control.

And if I am crazy, does that mean the people I have met throughout my life who have had similar experiences — who have seen aliens, experienced paranormal phenomena for themselves — are also crazy? It would stand to reason. So I am not merely judging and dismissing myself but many of those who are dearest to me.

I may not be crazy, then, but calling myself crazy might make me a dick.

Of Lab Rats & Stupid Boys. 

Reality?
It has simply
come to be a parody.

Change the channel.
Block the signal.
Disconnect.

The so-called media? 
A bad joke that never seems to end.
Drag it out through commercial breaks
and regular programming
interrupted by breaking, so-called news
hardly qualifying as infotainment. 

Your focus is your folly.
Extinction could be the consequence.

Idiots.
Am I among them?
Fuck all this.

Propaganda
for the world to see.
As for you, can you pick
away the red tape,

remove
the blacked-out
and white-out portions
of those supposedly
declassified documents
released through the FOIA? 

No?

They have given nothing.
You are given nothing but rumors
and haunting memories…

You seek truth
in a circus of lies.
How could you expect
anything less?

Not your monkeys,
so your mantra proclaims,

despite that they still swing
from your strings,
pulling
at you, hopeless
puppet,

moving in time,
thinking
and feeling with the rhythms
that have been set.

Slave.
Just a slave.

Good lab rat…
Stupid boy.

Choppy Night for a Wounded Animal.

I may not have been entirely naked but I think my shirt was off. In any case, I seemed to be sitting at the end of some table. My back hurt like hell, particularly my one shoulder. It felt tense to the point of agony and the involuntary twitching was fucking relentless. Then a woman walks over to me. I cower like a wounded animal at her approach, though once she puts her hand on my shoulder it instantly relaxes, the pain immediately disappears.

Fade to black…

I remembered walking into my bedroom and checking the digital alarm clock beside my bed, staring at the time and trying to make sense of it. I knew that this clock was set an hour and a half ahead, but the math still suggested it was far later at night — or earlier in the morning, actually — than it should have been. I check my cell phone and the clock on the computer and it still seems that too much time had passed. To boot, I feel certain that I had not been asleep, but I had absolutely no memory of what I had been doing beforehand.

I finally went to sleep, but I kept waking up every half hour, it seemed, to down a bottle of water from the fridge, walk back into the bedroom and then crash back onto the mattress. It was almost like I was caught in a loop. Eventually I just lay in bed feeling bloated, afraid to hiccup because I might vomit up water.

Shortly after I woke up I kept thinking about the shoulder memory, remembering a little bit more of it as the day at work progressed. I also suddenly remembered the confusion with the time and constantly waking up thirsty.

This evening as I drove home from work along a long, unplowed stretch of road during out first major snowfall of the season, the tension I typically have when driving in Winter returned. My back ached. It still hurts.

I wish I had her talent.

Bipartisan Bullseye.

What if some people are fine
and doing damned dandy
with this hypnotic seduction,
control, exploitation?

Let her move her magick
hand, reel
them in through the psychic
lines cast by her eyes
after they swallowed the bait,
and so predictably:

goddamned fools…
And yet:
maybe they want this.

Are you not denying
both the perceived perpetrators
and their victims
their inalienable rights?

Their personal liberties,
personal right to choice?
For you, the greatest value
is the freedom of all.

Your nature, your choice:
make or find your tribe
and then turn around to keep peace
with your ancestors.

Make your people
wake up.
All across life,
it’s abundantly clear:

we don’t want this.