It's Quite Simple, Actually

7/28/97

There's just so much crap sitting there in the back
waiting for me to look about again, waiting for me
to sit beyond the shadows of my mirror and taste it.

How many years have gone by since I recognized the fear?
How many years have gone by since I've realized the pain
that no longer exists within a man who longs for existence?
How many items can a person collect before the satisfaction
of ritual possession becomes insane glee at finding the worth
within a beacon of light that no longer shines upon your face?
I've sat here before, watched this happen before.
I've been following this path for a very long time, 
always torn at what must be, and what cannot become.

Where is the power in acceptance?
Where is the acceptance in dearth?
Where is the dearth in life?

Damn these fucking chains. How many links do I have to break? 
How long before I can't stand it anymore, before I explode?
How long before I vent this flame, this pure creationist fission?

Some interesting significance to worldly order of chaos.
A life within an orb that breathes only truth and goodness. 
An orb that combines all of you into all of me. 

More fashioned complaints and fortunate gripes should pass
beyond the walls into the sights and sounds of nowhere,
into a vision of eternity that glimpses all of us, and nothing
can come to pass without a catalyst of imagination that dreams
into our realms, that drives us to our goals, that deludes us
into a belief that we can change the world.

I have dreams of magnificent rainbows and naked bodies
racing quickly down the colored slide into the river below, 
a great dream of childlike enjoyment, instant gratification.

I have dreams of powerful destruction, forged by my hands
as I stand within the inkwell that is my creationist will, 
throwing great spheres of magma into the black void.

So long. I fight. So long. I never lose. So long. 
My eyes can see, yet my mirrored image is blind.

I look over my shoulder and feel myself pushing my hands,
get out of the way, I yell. Let me do what I must, I yell back. 
Always torn between the paths that will never merge until
I've wrought the changes that must come to be,
or else all is lost, all will never remain, all can be destroyed.

What good is a world of poetry and education and literary works
when it is also a world of .45 magnums and gang violence
and would-be fathers raping children and the moral majority 
silencing our freedoms rather than policing themselves.

There is no uniform image beyond myself here. 
Consider this merely an explosion, a necessary waking dream
within my little world of silence.