Carefully discern the cost and the calling.
Then, commit for life, if you are able.
If you can't be X all day, much less for life,
try being X for the next second, minute, or hour.
Failure will never stand in your way,
unless you fail to learn, the true failure.
What you say and do, it matters.
How you survive, it matters.
You don't have to screw people
to live, as long as living is enough.
Make the effort, focus, watch your mind.
For your mind, your ideas about the world
are like trying to capture being alive
with a camera, a microphone, or a word.
It makes objects of moments. Moments
are life, succulent and raw, a ripe fruit
better tasted and felt than captured and told.
Reach for grace, weave it through your life
and the lives of others, in community. Together,
we can build a life of shared experience,
of deep connection and intimacy. Beauty
is everywhere, we only need to strive to see
through our own senses and those of others
to dip into the richness of our lived experience.
Knowing, ain't doing, my friends. I know enough,
to write this, but I also know that I am too frequently
sucking on the stone pit, the abstraction better
thrown away that prevents us from eating good fruit.
And all fruit is best, when it is shared with love.
Start with a basic principle: yauh peng, yauh leng - in English, inexpensive and beautiful. Empty, alone, a blank canvas five inches across, bounded by ears, separate yet susceptible, social mind virus. Catastrophe has already happened, from one view. Another angle, sees happiness, created whole-cloth out of disposition and a clean heart. Sense, nonsense and in between, a line can't be right, left and/or wrong. Layers, subcultures of lost, brittle men coalesce into reply guys, wienie wagers, and boojeymean lodged in the Callipygian cheeks of society, coprolite, surplus to requirements, in places normalized for deficits of wonder. Covering what stinks, habitual evidence of a lunch, long past Nature's Shitness Protection Program revealing God in what she's not, and what she is may be just another evaporated, dehydrated, Stone being. An unmagicked, McJunk world, three ring shit show, exponential, terrible, uncapable of bearing the intimacy of scrutiny. Changez vos amis, but there can be no separate survival or adjusted destinies. Truth comes last.
Out in the cow field of life, there's lot of poop to be found. Some is fresh. Some is wet. Some is old. Some is round. Even if you catalog them all, and describe every detail. The main thing is knowing, how not to step in one.
living in the doom, catastrophe paranoia of the psychoentirety, a trash fire, landscape lighting florescent, sick room architectures broadcasting dead news to unwitting recipients, dream/nightmare remnants, black anxiegenic chemistries awaiting, reagents and catalysts, parlor epidemiologists and physicians, a confederacy of a billion clowns, narcissists, fascists and a mule turning paranoia into public policy mystics of the stream, waterflesh bubbling personal microculture, the best swims between the net, fishing, the pitiless puta, thrusts his smooth skinned erection towards the wild, the permaweird, memory-wired, on the float, uplifting imaginary vortex, against a loser's catalog: black jerseys, bum guns, and jack boots - stomping an exogenous shock, giving birth to a thin, grim newness, destined for the trash of civilizations
What you see is all there is, a closed ideology fakelore, a mazeway garden, fruiting failed perspectives and shared paranoias. Quant illusions, analysis is paralysis. Divert and subvert. Launch determines orbit for every apex, when the monkey bells the gorilla they call it jungle justice, a harmless bruising, the shot before the anesthetized heart. But, the kakistocracy provides: 24 hour water, electric fusion fleshlights, a wankbank, weird excretion dependent, generative of natural-adjacent, CRISPR life, selected for a skidmarked sky. An unspoken quale, smells like nothing else, deep in the boojum and bafflegab, counterphobic, insufficient evidence of normal on the weirdo safari. Quis potest sapere audere?
Man is born free but everywhere is in comment chains, assembly-line production "memes" in social media-ready baggies for your unnourishment, the whole world, a sad maze of thinly disguised press releases. The future is here and everything needs to be destroyed, salt the field, plant your seed in the sucking wound of need, harvest, pack in two lost matching suitcases, left circling, forever on a carousel going nowhere being eaten by flies.
“Publications are listed in order of submission period(s)…”
—MeiMei Xu, ” Best Places to Submit Poetry 2019.” The Adroit Journal. August 21, 2019
In the deep, a subterranean cache,
drip echoes, hardened magma flows
turned rivers, unseeing fish splash,
the earth's heart is on fire, blows.
Aquifers, filtered-moisture fed
flushed, a sucking river vortex
pulled, underground caldera bed,
formed before the prefrontal cortex.
Gardener's vision, compulsive
separating out the amoeba shits,
from the snail's slime, repulsive,
drowning in what the mystic omits.
Love me, love my amoebas, gross
we came, why, reality is blobby,
mess is not something to diagnose
the only certainty: its sloppy.
Sea change, rich and strange
pour yourself into strange waters
our many lives are frozen, deranged
paper Jesuses offered up for slaughters.
If only, I.F., I'm fucked, too,
quale, a different cell, all
different moments, a different you,
same behavior keeps you a thrall.
Suffering. Dismiss the teacher,
sub-human, human, minor god,
in our luggage, every creature
carries the mask of self, a facade.
Can those in the Black Iron Prison
be saved? What of the Palm Tree Garden?
New life, from pain, is risen.
From lessons, there is no full pardon.
Somewhere, above, there's another
underground. Do not despair.
Wait in the depths, unseen Other,
a new sea/land awaits, I'll see you there.
Mazeways, reality range and glowing red
rat cunning, invention of engines, fuels,
tanks full of the stored fat of bloodshed,
machine-shaped, faceted 3D printed jewels.
Factories of fascism, launching rockets
on the ecliptic, living within the lie,
full manifests of memes and dockets,
launch determines orbit, STANDBY.
Red glare, the bombs bursting in air
48 hour screams, a pounding earthshake,
an evil tongue commentariat billionaire
declares, "All news I don't like is fake."
Idemopotence: same action, same result.
Nesting doll of lost futures, a relic
of an afterlife and the future cult,
merely breathing in the psychedelic.
There's more in the mortar
than the pestle will say,
what's real, what's fake,
what's in-between in the grey.
Pixels without proverbial provenance,
they both knew what they were.
Buffet Buddhists, defying cages,
tagged for progressive classification.
Wonder world, inexpressible problems,
all lonely, we live with each other.
Chronic complainers, a hundred times
a hundred, gloomy mind experiments.
The emotional surface of lost futures.
Do we know enough to know the truth?
Unconscious man grapples, but finds
little to grip, advanced, but enough?
Unreadable barbarian news file,
the experimental Machiavellian composer,
weary, whistles on the way home,
her faith in the process, crushed.