Ourselves and Each Other
Riding the fog through a waking city, I endure the clammy clench and release of returning to that which truly matters, rudely courteous to the feigned reign of machine and warty madness. Maybe this means I'm finished paying respects to dead gods and washing my mystical hand in the spittle of paid dues, at the point of refusing to carve my heart out for the implacable behemoth of pragmatism. I won't continue erecting this defense against boyhood and blind joy, when all that's offered is mired expiring manhood and blind faith in safety in numbers. I'm exhausted and I haven't even begun to live, I've only carried a sad flag in a pointless and never-ending parade which must be the nightmare's way of proudly observing its own power through merciless intimations of unmastered malady. It's ok family. It's ok to sit close to me on this bus, to save up for a life you never get to live and plan a lasting love to begin after eternity. It's ok to be afraid with blood on your mouth and tears calming the ulcers in your stomach. It's ok too, to rage and consume, to work and sleep and dream of something more gigantic than work and sleep. It's ok if you forgot your favorite song, lost it in the hum of fluorescents or the din of need. It's ok because the utterances of desire checked at the imaginary gate of your misfortune are fresh and possessed of the glory of your pleasant wholeness. Watching you - my brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers - bent with a shallow purpose, I feel like screaming songs I knew before computer and waving a body I had before kingdoms and super sales, like standing on platforms crying and begging hugs, like going home to her clothed in a further nudity than nakedness and remembering how perfect everything already was before we got it in our restless heads to codify the tiny ecstatic logic of our love for ourselves and each other.
The Art of Science
The art of science is crush and pull. The art of science is distill and break down and purify into pragmatic nuggets. The art of science is not soul or glow but body and the hollow luminescence of a studied sun, figured to pointless supernova. The art of science is a pipette dream of a single perspective and a measured guard against the delight of significance. It's the myth of control and the pathetic arrogance of domination, the tired apparatus of progress slamming keyboards – examining probability in a beaker while life goes unchanced.
It's a never-ending argument for the excruciating necessity of war. It's a microscope when you wanted a moist eyeball. It's a cold vice grip while you're longing for the touch of warm hands. It's forward always, even when right here feels so right. It’s philosophy’s bastard child, come to take revenge against infinity’s elegant dance of endless possibility. It’s a master’s degree in place of self-mastery. It’s the pompous irrationality of rationality for your humble imagination and a blockade of prescriptions when you’re struggling for genuine wellness. It's a line for your squiggly visions and a defined spectrum for your wonder. It's the dry taste of "exactly" when you’re not permitted to feel "close enough."
The art of science is desolation named diversity and silence called the many voices. The art of science is the pressure of self-denial and the pleasure of disrobing Aphrodite to revel her plainness. The art of science is retreating into machines because being a human being just costs too damn much. It's refusal and a neutered song of intention, chasing chaos through the heavens, smoothing the perfectly imperfect eternal surface.