#ficticious

I do not deny that people care. Big sisters crack their knuckles at the sight Of the dents in my skin And the bloodstains on the ballroom floor. An ensemble of shoulders waiting to be cried upon, But the thumb I want to wipe away the tears, Has better things to play with. Nails steak down my neck in fours Like the strings of the guitar you love so much. Play me like an instrument, grip me by the throat Strum me until I cannot breathe, Larghissimo is the fastest you’ll go, Though an easy Allegro would end it all. I’m stuck living in a daydream, Three years just seems too fast, To be making paper cranes out of sheet music And serenades under my name.   Play just a little bit faster dear, break this guitar On the ballroom floor, or mount it up on the wall. I do not deny that people care, but for some reason, I only care about the one person who doesn’t.

We forget too often that our lives are just fictions, that this human life of ours – abstracted from the land, abstract in itself – is not grounded in reality, but in drama, illusion. Our lives are no different from dreams, a scattered blur from one meal to the next, from one conversation to the next, one megaplex, one strip mall, one coffee cup, one beer, one fix – a ceaseless drifting from sensation to sensation, a constant sating of the base desires. We are raised in this “reality” so its contours are invisible to us. We see each moment but fail to see the unifying thread – the alienation of humanity from nature, the ills of domestication, the dependence of humans upon technological death machines to survive and a growing inability of these generations of young humans now in possession of the planet to connect to it in any living way. We have lost our ability to experience the grander trends as revealed through the almighty Moment. We cling to our petty satisfactions as a paddler fallen from a canoe clings to the rocks. We do not dare to imagine a life without pizza, ice cream, microwaves, transportation, convenience, comfort, ease. The 21st century has been too kind to us so far. It holds new horizons for us as an übersoul and as anüberspecies, but it remains pregnant with disaster. There must be wars, Great Wars, which span all frontiers, in which all are embroiled in conflict: the inner war spilling out into our long-abandoned commons, opening up doorways between men and women to converse freely, tearing down walls between minds and bodies, flesh and the soul. Bottles will be uncorked and men in pajamas will run terrified and buoyant through the streets. If there is not madness, there will be blood, midnight rivers of blood rushing mad like the Mississippi through the markets of the world, stampeding through those who stand still, toppling those who once towered above the meek and lowly, lifting the strong and light, buoying them up on its terrible tide …