The Dark Secret of the Gods

"Beyond the sighing billowed pasture Instead of yellow or white he finds A haze of bluing smoke approaches And no protection from the minds" The dark secret of the gods—who come out of the imagination of the poets and whose power is uncontested until the name of the god is known. There are people who are so visible in their lives, they have names and are regularly found where you look for them. Their names are familiar and their voices are known. These are parent people, and I am supposed to be one of them. This is what sets me in strange lines at angles and odds; it makes me sad and strong and causes some when they think of it to become sad and some others when they think about it to become angry. I see these, but I am not one of them, nor do I want to be like them nor do I seek them out. They and their satellites orbit in universes far away from mine. But I search for that which is not like the others while still having the same set of known in my arsenal. He comes in. Blows around the room trumpets a riff he just heard and gauges my reaction,,, roles away back through the door, causes me to blow up and out the same door when he stamp walks shuffles across the hard wood floor and I blow out a huff not this. Pot separates me from him and me from certain states and me from. It is the separator. This is the separator. I am caught between the thought and the action. How to tell the story and be the story and disappear into the stream…becoming comma chapped and jay branched and out the windowed and next to the road between the house and the field. How I live in the brain and the mind is the wind. How I lose in the fray but get back all the minutes that wasted on wallpaper in a flash of torpor and smoke. Drive him away with out the exclamation. It's a give an out where thirst is covered by the what if of alloy and play gives the soft rolling hill without the form of familiar blue moves. Without an anchor, I am as the chaff in the wind and the wind itself in tow. And yes it is the holiday but books about Christmas do nothing for me. They stack up on the shelves and piles and towers unstable and mock at me in the way the volume of synonyms do. I give up, and come to my place on the top of the bed. You can, too. Because I want to make you happy in the way an unexpected yellow flower cup on a brown forest floor surprises the thought of walking by yourself where you belong. Along the river and through the colors that should be covered in white by now, should not be me strolling this way or yellow to make someone as smile as that. What surprise and happy. Where you go because I. Where I am because you. What all forgetting does to the mouth and the taste of freedom shouted into a microphone. Without hope and without awareness. As a string without the rounded impression of the young woman's ass that my hands were seeking all night in dreams, you have to know that you were meant to slide in that way with the joke and though it is not understood as it was sent out must be carried through with as a new undertone and a place along the going path. And there is where you see your hat. How it got in the stream is where we will have to come back to in the way things are gotten to. I cannot conform. Not to what I think I should conform to, nor to anyone's idea of what should be. I cannot conform. I will it to not. This is my internal mandate. This is the prime directive. This is the internal monologue that cannot be shut off. A constant virtual scan of what is normally done is instituted and applied, with variations and the piece of itself that will has or is. It wants what it is; it is what it wills. This is what is operating as my god. This is the god in place of the one that could have me in its center. This is the law I am unto and why I must for the things that can the least be understood readily, why the color has a hue on the edge where it can hardly be seen, and why the normal party is not the congregation of the most stupid of the society against that which will only isolate itself away from by any means available. Moving into the world this way, I am not disappearing so much as I am reassembling myself into what I think of things. This is the picture my mind wants to take and the manipulation of the physical that has itself for its want and for its desire. Unto itself, as itself in the capacity of what it is. What it is is what I long to leave imprinted, though only virtually on the consciousness of itself. This is the commandant dream and the onus of its own weight. I am this which is written, in the place of the writer now and having been there in no position to ever be erased, even if erased. Listening through the back of the sound, by being, as it is without outside, behind and between as a moment when there is only one. Only you and I am not. I am was and am not am, but behind and upbetween where the two edges overlap and blur and mean two things and neither thing…where the dinosaurs go when I am with them and where the deal is met with the dark beings of the other side. And I wanted there to be us there and I wanted you to have the movement and the wind and there were enough coffins already where the souls were burning and you could slip in and out there right there along the walls. Find yourself without any reason to stop and the lines move together and form the swimming vision of what is always right there but has no image that can settle with the language that there is available. Swims on and out with or without us and I am and You, the horned one and the savior whose birth had a fall to knock the taste out of the mouth of stars and the cattle cars and the iron bound gesture. The waiting there is no without with. No further out than that or that and no further. I don't expect to find numbers here of anything or a blender that mixes what you want with what I am, because we already are this amount of us and all in circles and order now not so much and less now gone and you say is it really that easy? Without the constant sound, without the chatter of the long ago outmoded addiction, what rushes in is the night with its images of the absolutely known in the forms of contiguations of stars and the space that we jump through to get beyond. We are the space of mostly not. Where time fills in the missing information and the feeling of grass growing so close to our faces wants chatter, wants forgiveness, the kind of forgiveness that has no end and no beginning, that stretches into the ink of the between stars and makes the maze so impassable. Just looking up is the forgiveness, just walking toward the end of the day in the gloaming, thinking of all the words that mean nothing how the collide of wind and breath and the solid sounding names of the houses and the people passing within them. We are the outside of rivers misnamed flowing beneath the empty tolerance of the bridge. The dance of the fireflies is long ago and will not be coaxed back until it is time. When the time is crossing the same bridge on the other side at the same time as this one, what is it that is negated? What motion is it that hides from our knowing wet and makes it live in the arms of old lovers the same? The fireflies, and the cans of empty beer and the stubborn toothbrush of our quick passing childhood, now mottled and shared among a certain number of others, wanting order, forgetting passage beneath as if it didn't happen every day that way. That we didn't pass this one in our truck only two days ago, when the sign was still posted and before the last of the paint fell from the randy birch. Oh melon of smashed besides, still uneaten in the pastures and snow unbidden though won't come, and the piece in the lilacs buried still in the memory of the back yard, throw the redness into the abyss and come over with me. Come over with me now without the edge to your voice. Come over with me, I have crossed so many times already with this basket and this brazier, my smoke convincing in its palaces and knights. I would weigh without the candles how my felt head wood pull into pages of passing, rough gloved and true enough to bring the guardian down and face the webs of sleep without challenge; haunt the refuge until there was a valley of unmet corn in shallow rows. From within I would hurl toward the fast moving future the ears of my childhood as they listen for you in the distance of the last whine almost completely gone now, almost completely gone. But out and over, the story walks down across the river and between the schools and while the soft steps tap past the porch of women they lull just a bit and you can feel the attention briefly, like a bite of an apple or the taste of grapefruit on the sides of your tongue. Make him wait any longer and you will have to run all the way to the end and back and your story doesn't have you moving in here until several more as yet undisclosed events have been tweaked into existence by you. Master of carnivals leaving in the night, master of songs song from the bottom of a well. It eases beyond the interest of one and as the story becomes so does it come out of itself, to do the instances it would, have its hunger recognized and the gain was the leaky pail kicked over in a Jimmy Stewart western, where the action stopped and there was no where else to go, the line so distinct and so crossed over, the paleness of her face you see from the sides but never from straight on. That's what I wanted to get at before; the straight on is what, a confluence of the intended, the expected, the known and accepted? The question with the answer you just don't notice when you got it as a sing song in your breastbone and the slaughter of the daughters firing faster fingered bullets through the softness of her mouth.