The Psychotic Episodes: ..... All Rights Reserved.

#15 the fog of war.

Written in Loma Linda, near the Redlands.

     As finally, as infinitely as it comes, We wait in sadness, alone, throughout, the cosmic orgasm of platitudes, infinity, solitude, togetherness and love, we wait, in the heat of a collective battle of voices, all from the great beyond of all reckoning and mystery, we wait, until finally one appears who as yet beckons his windward apprentice into a journeyman, in a circle and a swirl of voices, the two of them walk together for a time, one enlightened and one yet bleak, the two of them happen upon a beach somewhere, they mourn together the mystery which drew us and them all together, back into this third dimension, (from between the fourth and fifth as time and love would have it) but they mourn, the mystery, revealed,
the ever cosmic mystery, which one once asked if he should save, or surrender to, which nearly tore in half the eyeless fate of mankind, revealed to one who hadn't yet bothered, that yes, can be just as real an answer and first question, as no,
And while yes, always seems the more palatable answer, the real question is, who wants to look forward to a no, when they can know a yes!
We wait in sadness, alone, while the honeyed words of indifferent chasms of greed lead our ways, off of unfathomably high cliffs of the brightest joys and certain blistering functionalities that rock the very cores of our being to rubble, so they can pick, the carcass of our collective love for one another at their leisure, grinding their teeth on our bones, and as the years of decay drone on, infinity approaches even them, approaches, encroaching on feeding the roaches, who are probably getting restless, and quite voracious for a comeback, into domination for awhile, yes, the roaches, and the worms, who feed themselves on us, and our bones, and our guts, as we lie in our graves, we wait.
And In the gravest of afterthoughts, sometimes in that very last moment, of existence, we realize, the whole time, that it has been one, Titanic seven billion soul-wide hallucination, that our collective greed lords couldn't wait to take credit for, and we had all been had, just spineless and ignorant enough to beg for enslavement, but just imaginative enough, to have invented an afterlife, to come home to, somewhere warm to go after work, you certainly wouldn't be alone there would you, eternally among the cosm of voices released into ethers of mysteries, and the swirl of death, and the pain of unknowing, as it swallows you up and releases your vibration, i've heard once from the universe, that it comes as something of a cosmic fart, or a belch, that everyone in existence but you could hear, because you, were dead, and could not hear it. Perhaps it was you, who emitted the great cosmic belch, or fart, that created this universe that speaks so profoundly to me, in this insane voice I've found while I was here, that I thought I had lost that voice, swirled in among my other thoughts, and soon got lost, in the torrent of realities, worries, understanding, clarity, and yes, the clouds of unknowing, and the fog of war.

I was asked in a grocery store the other day by a very slightly elderly woman sitting next to her husband, so, what do you do? She said to me, I of course didn't want to come across as some kind of a bum, said travel mostly, and trucks, I clean and load them, and either I was speaking very quietly or the lady was hard of hearing but, she said several things aloud that were absurdly similar sounding to what I had said but confusing enough that I could only throw a quizzical look at her and blather off that thing about trucks again, but the way she waved her hand at me to get my attention reminded me of someone I knew years before, a strange witch, from which I'd had a falling out of, which I had been too eager to reinsert myself into the relation of, and that drew back some veil for me and I looked over at her, as her husband had just sat down from being in line at the pharmacist, I looked at her, he was in his smartphone over something, and she was waiting for a pain reliever from the pharmacist, of course I, couldnt have known it was for that until after hed gotten back, that the look in her eyes wasn't loneliness but pain, I looked to my front again, forward, I drew in a deliberate breath, several, and released, several times, i glanced over at her and winked and she knew, and she took a breath, and made the labored movements to stand.
I thought of her again and again that day as I went about my own, but mostly it was that strange longing and yearning I saw there, I hadn't been accustomed to a strangers kindness in quite some time and so welcomed the voice that she offered me, and why not! Right? She was just trying to connect with another human being and I told her that blather about trucks, but the real thing she wanted to know, I think, was what does your SOUL, tell you to do, she just didn't want to make it an awkward conversation, perhaps even because she loved who she was with, but even stranger still, because I knew, and know, what my soul has been telling me to do, and even if I had said music and poetry, the conversation might not have gotten awkward but, it might have turned us all onto a different direction, and shed some light, or some mystery on something, or other, but some strange things tells me, that she wanted me to write the thing I wrote just before this second part, say, is this a prequel to something??!! Because if so then out with it!!!