Such is Constant, on March 17th 2002.
And I imagine such pain
As we open through a split seem,
Blind while lodged between the concrete and the absurd
Entirely submerged but we cannot swim
Crawling through birth
Drowning yet waking
Racing through a stream to light
Fighting for that first breath
Strangled by the very noose that preserves us in our sacs, and held back
Awaiting dilation and thrust through the dark and dangerous canal
And the suffocating force of cruel reality, cramping and crushing
Blood smeared and purple, breathless from fear and stress
A tangled and shriveled mess of unknowingness and need
Contractions squeezing us like a vice
Subverting subdivisions of the sublime, uncanny
In every overtaking thought, unfinished and nauseating
Throwing up inside of the black and white tornado
Dropped in unfamiliar surroundings, sweating panic in the search lights, caged and digging our nails into its bleeding walls, we slide and fall
Slapped and prodded,
Poked and studied
Choking and crying
Soothing, sucking on the synthetic pacifier
Nurtured by our friendly manufacturer
We’ve entered an institution
It provides for us
It keeps us safe
It teaches us
It becomes us
It is accepted
It is God
And I should feel such pain
We beg to the institutions for an answer
A direction
We repress and become unconfident, incompetent, intoxicated and scared
Desolate
We lose our appetite
We regress in an unknowing dark where the monsters are
And the institution mothers us back to sleep
And sings us the popular song
She sings in colour and whores around her Victoria secret lingerie and rubs her sweaty billboard crotch in our fat, foaming faces
And I see such pain,
Several days on the afterbirth.
Mother’s water broke while she was being fucked by the system
She was strung out on crack and lost in a horrible whirl of terrifying repetition
The institution provided her a gun, a mirror, a baby and the streets
The essentials for a hard learned lesson
She shot at the mirror, watched a cloud of flashback shatter
Left her baby for another gun
A gun that made her matter
A gun that made her madder
A gun so much more sadder
A gun that killed her slowly
A numbness and an exit was her wish
But she got a longer death and utter loneliness
It burns
And we burn on
For several years
When seasons change with a stuttering heartbeat
New things happen so fast
While pace quickens before we’ve chosen our track
While we spend our first three morning hours stirring cups of an instant
We come to, crammed between yellow lines
Perfectly in formation
Following equie distant
Some strange force pulls us along on the pavement
Feeling as if we could nail the son of a bitch in front of us
Feeling pressured from the rear
But we are kept constant, in radar traffic and flat speed
In the innermost pit of our machines, rattling and ticking
We turn up our stereos, hide in media, call it mindful therapy
We pull over and find calm places to park
We seek solitude in the getaway
Sometimes the doors we close behind us let us back in through the windows
We take breaks behind a warehouse south of the city, still running
Inspired somewhat and hushed as we are de-escalated by the very sight of wheat fields bending in the easterly breath that whistled through the railway path
Of four seasons constant, yet changing
And I imagine such pain
As we open through a split seem,
Blind while lodged between the concrete and the absurd
Entirely submerged but we cannot swim
Crawling through birth
Drowning yet waking
Racing through a stream to light
Fighting for that first breath
Strangled by the very noose that preserves us in our sacs, and held back
Awaiting dilation and thrust through the dark and dangerous canal
And the suffocating force of cruel reality, cramping and crushing
Blood smeared and purple, breathless from fear and stress
A tangled and shriveled mess of unknowingness and need
Contractions squeezing us like a vice
Subverting subdivisions of the sublime, uncanny
In every overtaking thought, unfinished and nauseating
Throwing up inside of the black and white tornado
Dropped in unfamiliar surroundings, sweating panic in the search lights, caged and digging our nails into its bleeding walls, we slide and fall
Slapped and prodded,
Poked and studied
Choking and crying
Soothing, sucking on the synthetic pacifier
Nurtured by our friendly manufacturer
We’ve entered an institution
It provides for us
It keeps us safe
It teaches us
It becomes us
It is accepted
It is God
And I should feel such pain
We beg to the institutions for an answer
A direction
We repress and become unconfident, incompetent, intoxicated and scared
Desolate
We lose our appetite
We regress in an unknowing dark where the monsters are
And the institution mothers us back to sleep
And sings us the popular song
She sings in colour and whores around her Victoria secret lingerie and rubs her sweaty billboard crotch in our fat, foaming faces
And I see such pain,
Several days on the afterbirth.
Mother’s water broke while she was being fucked by the system
She was strung out on crack and lost in a horrible whirl of terrifying repetition
The institution provided her a gun, a mirror, a baby and the streets
The essentials for a hard learned lesson
She shot at the mirror, watched a cloud of flashback shatter
Left her baby for another gun
A gun that made her matter
A gun that made her madder
A gun so much more sadder
A gun that killed her slowly
A numbness and an exit was her wish
But she got a longer death and utter loneliness
It burns
And we burn on
For several years
When seasons change with a stuttering heartbeat
New things happen so fast
While pace quickens before we’ve chosen our track
While we spend our first three morning hours stirring cups of an instant
We come to, crammed between yellow lines
Perfectly in formation
Following equie distant
Some strange force pulls us along on the pavement
Feeling as if we could nail the son of a bitch in front of us
Feeling pressured from the rear
But we are kept constant, in radar traffic and flat speed
In the innermost pit of our machines, rattling and ticking
We turn up our stereos, hide in media, call it mindful therapy
We pull over and find calm places to park
We seek solitude in the getaway
Sometimes the doors we close behind us let us back in through the windows
We take breaks behind a warehouse south of the city, still running
Inspired somewhat and hushed as we are de-escalated by the very sight of wheat fields bending in the easterly breath that whistled through the railway path
Of four seasons constant, yet changing
Wind
Under the twilight, of the twilight and because of the twilight,
She ages
Our mother
On the mountainous and deep divide that we look to in the furthest distance
Watery, rocky, dense and rolling in the sunset
Shedding in the whisk of change that sweeps and brushes her natural beauty away like tangles and knots of burs and weeds as industry tears her down and rams her when she’s most vulnerable and true
We change our films to highest resolution and snap a shot for the archives and cry
As we drive the earthmover over her and think about our families plans to go to Florida
Separation
She opens her skirt, on stage of the horizon of tense, day and night, dark and light
Opening, as the highway races through her, spilling fluid and burning rubber
She turns and collects us and all woes and tears
Polluting her oceans
Eroding from years and years of constant motion
Spreading open her clouds to show her dark, damp cavern to humanity
That the institution tells us is inappropriate to see
The wind and shrubs sway against her prickly pines and rose petals and thorns and moist landings creating friction and wear back and forth, and mudslide until she moans and bleeds from being delighted and pricked, as tears and sap drip from her orifices
And she lies still as we use and abuse her
And she is far from a virgin now
As we plough through her path with our heavy boots and sharp blades
Weeding her and deflowering endlessly
But we just keep taking more of her
And she keeps giving
In a dusty moonbeam
Her tears of acid rain singe crevices and canyons deep into her mustard skin of sorrow and lament
So do we
Cracked, dried out wastelands, landmarked by greedy fingers of science forensically dating her
In ignorance to the faint cries from salt water pools, becoming puddles in the hot sun
Incoherent gargling, written off in the social work books as alley way waste-aways
Or as a breakthrough finding of an ancient sea scroll buried by the ages of suffering
Still,
The same
We spend centuries digging to find that so much has remained constant
Yet so many of us fight to bury the present
So we ask why
And we project blame
Some God
Some Say
I know such pain
A train thunders right through the middle of this dry-freeze golden brown
And diminishes as it chases the green and yellow on rusty rails
Riding time’s tracks
And the wheat field snaps back
Westward, startling me into reality and routine as I consider possible outcomes of future roads yet to travel
As my thoughts oscillate from the field to the highway
I slip into gear and remember what has gone away,
Lies ahead
And keeps me here
Fondly, thankfully, and sadly
And it all blends as uncertainty
In a rocky horseshoe, out of eyesight and earshot as the fan kicks in to cool this anxious and overwhelmed heart
And I feel such a strong pain
Torn
We acknowledge this as the fan halts
And the water runs dry only when we first notice we’re thirsty
While the engine still hums, ticks and rattles
We pretend that we are still healthy
Accelerating with a heavy and desperate foot
Running in circles but imagining differences in continuity
Staring at our Dali skies and Picasso blues and Van Gogh fields
And most terrifyingly, our Orwell buildings
And thinking of Shakespeare, seeing the humour in tragedy suffering and ruin
When in Rome, they say
As they turn on the T.V
Yes the moment slips behind us but it’s claws, they’re in our stomachs,
Digging
The falcons and the gulls, and the crows too
And the meadowlark alone, off there distanced and cautious of so much
O’er this field in our rearview mirrors
Do they keep or care for pace and formation?
Or do they be?
As is
And accept it for thee
Simple and honest
Very toeist
But don’t they still chase?
Are they a scant fearful too?
If they glide for too long will they falter?
Will they sink?
Will they become constant?
Will they die?
Do they?
Every living thing has a pain
Does every living thing have a plan?
Does a clear lake represent our purity of conscience?
Our depuration
Our catharsis?
Reflections of the mountains, sky, sun, clouds, leaves, stars and all that moves
The trains too
They keep pace
They fall behind
They’re scheduled
They’re timed
They’re on linear lines
Many different boxcars, housing separate cargo,
Traveling to many different places, all on the same ride, all together, all with similar walls, all for different uses, and on them hangs so many different customs
But all with doors, and all with windows, although so many now are barred and locked
So many still have mirrors
We become fearful, confused and lose confidence
We change course and turn back
We steer
We split wind, changing highways
It separates into new directions and gets lost, cycling to reconnect
We travel or keep quiet to forget
We purchase vaults
We store without sorting
We keep such pain
We keep constant
We bleed
We need to talk
And I write such pain
As my engine hums along
My fan clicks on intermittently and cools me
Low and living
Mortal and grounded
And I move on
Around this turn again
Looking for and finding all sorts of different things
All sorts of different things
All sorts of different things
Rolling, swirling, cycling, spinning, turning, swirling, circling
All sorts of different things
Around this turn again
Afraid of something, someone
Dying
Wounds and blood
Chasing and redefining destiny
Looking to the stars for answers
Looking through an electron microscope
Looking to the stars for answers
Looking through the microscope
Going to confession
Blaming
Doing it again
Looking deeper next time
For healing and nursing
Not going
But cycling and searing
Acquiring infection
Afraid of our desires
It makes us desperate
And I feel such pain
Destiny?
There are quests and questions and many different answers
Since the first seem was split
Since the first warm white cap wave flooded over the valley walls,
Into the Natural crevices of her moist and fertile soil
By instinctual force and did tear her rosy petals
To slide back away in retreat, back into dark places
To leave her burdened, scared and disheveled
To watch her child leave and go to war to fight for his peace
As a nursery rhyme changed to nightmare
Under the twilight, of the twilight and because of the twilight,
She ages
Our mother
On the mountainous and deep divide that we look to in the furthest distance
Watery, rocky, dense and rolling in the sunset
Shedding in the whisk of change that sweeps and brushes her natural beauty away like tangles and knots of burs and weeds as industry tears her down and rams her when she’s most vulnerable and true
We change our films to highest resolution and snap a shot for the archives and cry
As we drive the earthmover over her and think about our families plans to go to Florida
Separation
She opens her skirt, on stage of the horizon of tense, day and night, dark and light
Opening, as the highway races through her, spilling fluid and burning rubber
She turns and collects us and all woes and tears
Polluting her oceans
Eroding from years and years of constant motion
Spreading open her clouds to show her dark, damp cavern to humanity
That the institution tells us is inappropriate to see
The wind and shrubs sway against her prickly pines and rose petals and thorns and moist landings creating friction and wear back and forth, and mudslide until she moans and bleeds from being delighted and pricked, as tears and sap drip from her orifices
And she lies still as we use and abuse her
And she is far from a virgin now
As we plough through her path with our heavy boots and sharp blades
Weeding her and deflowering endlessly
But we just keep taking more of her
And she keeps giving
In a dusty moonbeam
Her tears of acid rain singe crevices and canyons deep into her mustard skin of sorrow and lament
So do we
Cracked, dried out wastelands, landmarked by greedy fingers of science forensically dating her
In ignorance to the faint cries from salt water pools, becoming puddles in the hot sun
Incoherent gargling, written off in the social work books as alley way waste-aways
Or as a breakthrough finding of an ancient sea scroll buried by the ages of suffering
Still,
The same
We spend centuries digging to find that so much has remained constant
Yet so many of us fight to bury the present
So we ask why
And we project blame
Some God
Some Say
I know such pain
A train thunders right through the middle of this dry-freeze golden brown
And diminishes as it chases the green and yellow on rusty rails
Riding time’s tracks
And the wheat field snaps back
Westward, startling me into reality and routine as I consider possible outcomes of future roads yet to travel
As my thoughts oscillate from the field to the highway
I slip into gear and remember what has gone away,
Lies ahead
And keeps me here
Fondly, thankfully, and sadly
And it all blends as uncertainty
In a rocky horseshoe, out of eyesight and earshot as the fan kicks in to cool this anxious and overwhelmed heart
And I feel such a strong pain
Torn
We acknowledge this as the fan halts
And the water runs dry only when we first notice we’re thirsty
While the engine still hums, ticks and rattles
We pretend that we are still healthy
Accelerating with a heavy and desperate foot
Running in circles but imagining differences in continuity
Staring at our Dali skies and Picasso blues and Van Gogh fields
And most terrifyingly, our Orwell buildings
And thinking of Shakespeare, seeing the humour in tragedy suffering and ruin
When in Rome, they say
As they turn on the T.V
Yes the moment slips behind us but it’s claws, they’re in our stomachs,
Digging
The falcons and the gulls, and the crows too
And the meadowlark alone, off there distanced and cautious of so much
O’er this field in our rearview mirrors
Do they keep or care for pace and formation?
Or do they be?
As is
And accept it for thee
Simple and honest
Very toeist
But don’t they still chase?
Are they a scant fearful too?
If they glide for too long will they falter?
Will they sink?
Will they become constant?
Will they die?
Do they?
Every living thing has a pain
Does every living thing have a plan?
Does a clear lake represent our purity of conscience?
Our depuration
Our catharsis?
Reflections of the mountains, sky, sun, clouds, leaves, stars and all that moves
The trains too
They keep pace
They fall behind
They’re scheduled
They’re timed
They’re on linear lines
Many different boxcars, housing separate cargo,
Traveling to many different places, all on the same ride, all together, all with similar walls, all for different uses, and on them hangs so many different customs
But all with doors, and all with windows, although so many now are barred and locked
So many still have mirrors
We become fearful, confused and lose confidence
We change course and turn back
We steer
We split wind, changing highways
It separates into new directions and gets lost, cycling to reconnect
We travel or keep quiet to forget
We purchase vaults
We store without sorting
We keep such pain
We keep constant
We bleed
We need to talk
And I write such pain
As my engine hums along
My fan clicks on intermittently and cools me
Low and living
Mortal and grounded
And I move on
Around this turn again
Looking for and finding all sorts of different things
All sorts of different things
All sorts of different things
Rolling, swirling, cycling, spinning, turning, swirling, circling
All sorts of different things
Around this turn again
Afraid of something, someone
Dying
Wounds and blood
Chasing and redefining destiny
Looking to the stars for answers
Looking through an electron microscope
Looking to the stars for answers
Looking through the microscope
Going to confession
Blaming
Doing it again
Looking deeper next time
For healing and nursing
Not going
But cycling and searing
Acquiring infection
Afraid of our desires
It makes us desperate
And I feel such pain
Destiny?
There are quests and questions and many different answers
Since the first seem was split
Since the first warm white cap wave flooded over the valley walls,
Into the Natural crevices of her moist and fertile soil
By instinctual force and did tear her rosy petals
To slide back away in retreat, back into dark places
To leave her burdened, scared and disheveled
To watch her child leave and go to war to fight for his peace
As a nursery rhyme changed to nightmare
And I feel
Fire, wind, and storm
A hunger too
I miss
I want
And I feel the scythes
Missing my field
And wanting too often when not sure if needing
When on the yellow linear line is killing me
So is this segregating and all conforming way
So I’ll reach for my sharpest weapon of escape
And spear it into my biggest and bluest vein
Pumping the ink of life support
Into my body and freeing my mind for a while
Along this constant drive so cyclical
Each foot, each step, each kilometer, each claw mark
A new high
A good poison in my blood for a change
A stream of purple fueling me
Keeping constant
Keeping cool
Singing
Flowing
Killing off impulses that only multiply to divide and repel one and other
In utter war and strife
Soon to be completely drowned in pools of boiling purple bursting to cause orgasmic creative convulsions
And I write
And I write!
And I Write!
I stab again, staying constant and barbaric, it’s almost primitively sexual as the prose speak so passionate yet flow uncontrollably as if the eventual pinnacle is inevitable and certain to erupt
And ensues, a great and long awaited therapeutic release!
The amniotic sac explodes and gushes
And I can simply be
For a while
An irrational yet safe getaway
And I’ll feel no pain
The institution was my body
The institution kept me drunk
Other institutions created me
Other souls kept hidden
I feel them so
I hope they’ll change
They keep constant
My pen clicks on
Keeps constant
And on the road I still must drive
I think of such pain
I deal with the pain
I deal slowly and it still cycles
I may escape
I may endure
I may challenge my pain
Still uncertain, unknowing
But I don’t want some people, some things to die
So I’ll fight to change within what’s constant
And then I’ll constantly change
Fire, wind, and storm
A hunger too
I miss
I want
And I feel the scythes
Missing my field
And wanting too often when not sure if needing
When on the yellow linear line is killing me
So is this segregating and all conforming way
So I’ll reach for my sharpest weapon of escape
And spear it into my biggest and bluest vein
Pumping the ink of life support
Into my body and freeing my mind for a while
Along this constant drive so cyclical
Each foot, each step, each kilometer, each claw mark
A new high
A good poison in my blood for a change
A stream of purple fueling me
Keeping constant
Keeping cool
Singing
Flowing
Killing off impulses that only multiply to divide and repel one and other
In utter war and strife
Soon to be completely drowned in pools of boiling purple bursting to cause orgasmic creative convulsions
And I write
And I write!
And I Write!
I stab again, staying constant and barbaric, it’s almost primitively sexual as the prose speak so passionate yet flow uncontrollably as if the eventual pinnacle is inevitable and certain to erupt
And ensues, a great and long awaited therapeutic release!
The amniotic sac explodes and gushes
And I can simply be
For a while
An irrational yet safe getaway
And I’ll feel no pain
The institution was my body
The institution kept me drunk
Other institutions created me
Other souls kept hidden
I feel them so
I hope they’ll change
They keep constant
My pen clicks on
Keeps constant
And on the road I still must drive
I think of such pain
I deal with the pain
I deal slowly and it still cycles
I may escape
I may endure
I may challenge my pain
Still uncertain, unknowing
But I don’t want some people, some things to die
So I’ll fight to change within what’s constant
And then I’ll constantly change
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