Gracious Beast

From great loss, emotional torture, economic disparity, occupational slavery, death of the soul, is inspired changed and growth by immersion to sudden and seemingly reckless risk; from uncertainty we face fear and may learn by doing with strong and immediate consequences for our choices; we are is if children again, hoping that nature will be forgiving as a parent, though we have been taught that she takes no sides; we are permitted change, freedom from oppression, those external forces, but mostly that we would allow the trespassing within; fearlessness, not in the sense that we do not use caution, but in that we would face any fear, we can re-enter the world and perhaps then there is meaning.

whats going on?
i am floating through innumerous fields of space and time
(gonzo on balloons that span so many)- all directions!
i am both lost and absolutely….
i cna’t upt it ni ordws
id ont wanteot suposei
dying an dlivng
let madness come : )
thanks for watching over.
justin

…it just makes me want to harden my skin, a childhood fantasy to make a shell of leather, as a child it would have come from endlessly climbing trees- until inner thighs were as callused as palms and summer feet; now it is from fighting in unsanctioned underground cage fights for money; fighting vicious men who will not yield for pity or sympathy or real risk of life or limb.

Still when the bout is over no one would give a better hug and thanks for the thing that is done- from that same man!- no hard feelings are harbored, nothing like the sadness and bitterness that makes me fight in the first place.

And I frown so deeply at the couples holding hands- their baby soft skin and empty minds!  (I only ever wanted one woman, that would be my leather shell from the prison that is my otherwise heart in throat- the never ending turning gut and sinking pit). I frown deeper still at those who have someone but would be greedy enough to want or have another as well!  (to have the shell and keep the prison too!)

I have love, I do have love!  So much,

but I wont give it to a single soul- save a friend, the dogs and cats, wild animals too; give to trees and wind and my art.

but not to one other (that means I won’t give it to a singular person).  Hell no!  You get no such thing, no more, no one will, not that way.  It is exhausted- boring and bled out.  I have more love for the vicious man with all my blood upon his knuckles, and the floor, than for a house and yard and job and the pain of the heart that does not even sit well like a story.

I can be…

I can be a…

one who doesn’t want anything anymore, just so I can live amongst you assholes.

The mountains that stand like Greek statues over the water, or their very home- for the Gods.

The water like Norwegian Fjords, with sparkling yellow jelly fish and perfect reflections from setting suns.

The little children, and adolescents, and hot teenagers, and hot young parents,

all about the fire pits and sandy activities

clipping train

grills

and a lonely man who makes little effort more than to show face at work picnics.  You are right to have a dog.  Who else but dog can make horrible lonliness fodder for friendship?  These humans are terrible for that!  It is Hell, this place where no one will say “hello”, let alone acknowledge you with eyes- a glance!  or a nod?!

Sailboats, sunglasses, everyone is a ghost amongst ghosts.  I think I saw someone begin to look, but when my eyes came to join, their’s fluttered away, leaving me as if I had imagined the whole thing!

In Philly you might get a brutal stare, a “what’s up” so gruff you are marked with fear or if you match the tone you won’t recognize yourself.  You may forget and think you are tough now.  But there is a greeting at least, acknowledgement.  For that is what humans do, they acknowledge each other in a shared space.  Like I finally got from the man in the Soundgarden shirt and solid mustache and beer, “hey” “hey how’s it going?” “pretty good, you?” “not bad.”  Yes, this is how human beings are.  But everyone else here thinks their neighbor is a mile away and fancies themselves hermetic mountain men, and I am only a body length away!  Your solitude is 15 feet from me as you change your dress- and you making out in the sand!

For those who will talk, because we have been acquainted, you say again and again that this place is overcast and dark, blaming endless rain and clouds.  I’ve only seen golden sunsets and majestic mountains.  Nature, and the gloom cast over the hearts of the men and women- maybe spare the children?  But they too are pale, not from lack of nutrient rich and free range organics, but from the life of joy that should spring from their parents.  I am not sure that the parents don’t feel absolutely alone themselves even in the home with daughter, son and spouse.  Only the dog gives them comfort, but maybe they are too cold to even see him any longer.

It is not only on faces, because that is subtle; there are clues in the sorts of gatherings, the way food is cooked; each booth with one patron in restaurants, or a few making little in the way of idle talk.  There now, a five year old gazing off in absent reflection!  And his father with such a grim look about him also with an absent stare.  And the teenagers, clutching 40’s and anxiously walking about and back again, but not for butterflies, thoughts of whom they might hook up with, instead their lonesomeness demands the walking off at times, and they all ignore me completely perched on this here stump.

I thought maybe the homeless were different, but their absence is just as apparent; anywhere else I can always rely on the homeless for eye contact and a hello, but here they are angry for my effort to acknowledge them.

The carpool lane is empty.  A flyer in the office begs for riders: “gas is $4 per gallon!”  “Think of the global impact!”  But the distance and lonesome infection is palpable in the emptiness of things like this clear lane.

This is a beautiful place.  The mountains, the water, and the sky.  This is a place to come, but no place to live; while the plants and animals thrive lush and vibrant, the people walk like the dead- worse than brooding poets, there is no life in them at all.

You asked what the pencil stuck in Indian head band is for?

I wonder, do you really care to know?  Or was it banter to flirt- no no, just to inspire the ordering of drinks, to elicit tips, or to say words for the saying of words makes the time move better within the shift.

Well, the pencil (I’ll tell you anyhow- despite not actually telling you)- it is to write ideas and prose in this here red book, and notes to girls not unlike yourself, and poetry to a girl just like yourself; if these hearts should line up just right.

illusion and magick which is more unlikely, the hearts lining up.  I do believe in “real” magick.  I do not think that revealing the illusion, showing the strings or slight of hand ruins the “truth” or significance of the occurrence.  Prove it false and fiction all you’d like, rob yourself of the story book and some others, I remain blissfully aware that something more inspiring is happening on this side of sight.  you just look like a stick in the mud, or a real fool for hating beautiful things.