Saturday, August 25, 2007

Empty Head


Despite all my rage
I’m still just a rat in a cage
~ Smashing Pumpkins

The body is a cage but the bird once freed will wither in sensory overload.
Nightly hanging with the diplomatic corpses that rise at dusk to populate these states of diminished responsibility.
Inevitably you find yourself back in that busy room, surrounded by strangers - some in whose company you spend more time than you do in the arms of your home - strangers with nothing in common other than the skills (or lack of skill) that bring you to spend your days together in pigeon holes or digging holes or selling souls.
And there your worldly-wise your snake eyes thrown against the seven, there to laugh at loud proclamations of “Hi folks, it’s me” or aphorisms badly wrapped by tangled tongue or torn memory curtain falling to litter the floor already too drunk to remember the tree that bore it or the saw that seesawed it.
You assume the stance of glassy eyed glass in hand and legs splayed to lock yourself in - filled to the brim with your inner-light, a smile at the ready, a laugh more than willing to escape from the backdoor of your mind.
Laugh like you have no idea of the regrets that lie ahead beyond the morning’s fence jumped in panicked half-remembering
Laugh your empty pealing chime like Sunday’s call unheeded by the boy on the bubble-wrap suit – a half hour before does not exist and tomorrow will never catch me here in the crevasse; here where my excesses become evident; here where the worst in me presides like the king-of-the-castle storming the ramparts, from the inside out.
And that which alcohol frees with jingle jangle keys and honesty unbound by the day’s jailers; that which litters the street with violence; blood; vomit; urine and seminal fluid; that which rips us apart with its honesty – that is who I am – that is who I do not wish to be.
And yet we return; not for the loss of time; not for the hours of senseless babble half-remembered with dread in the morning’s own return – we return for the moment when the blood takes the chemical to the brain; the moment when the jailer unlocks the door and lets the spirit soar free.

3 comments:

red dirt girl said...

Yes ... I often think that living without the too many minutes of the banal, inane; the masks of civility we wear; the mindless productivity of civilized living - we cannot experience nor appreciate the sublime when she greets us unexpectedly.

But oh, to dance with her .. transcendent freedom. Many miss her, keeping their sights set on the oak sawn planks below them; shuffling the end results across laminated surfaces ...

good to know you still look up, and inward, pisces.

gregra&gar said...

When authority cringes toadies get crushed
When the avian ego flees the overwrought iron bars of the body the gestalt of the self is diminished more severely than a house divided against itself. Flesh uninhabited by spirit leaves both incomplete. Not sure where this is coming from or headed for, maybe Seth is speaking. I have no doubt it was your exotic recipes of juicy, uncooked ideas that's having this purgative effect on a mind overfed with stale, cloying pedantry. ;)

karoline said...

fly little white dove fly...

k
:)