Mark the spot, stain the scar. You haven’t, exactly, passed that far.

I sit in candlelight and ashen cinder smoke alone. Upstairs, where the air is cold. A single set of six strings sings a melody I don’t even know. And from here — in this darkness unknown — I damn you to a hell as yet untold.

A hundred, thousand, million words I could think to say. And yet, you must know the cadence, tone, and the ring of each and every one. A silhouette of a melody in highs or lows where — high on smoke and destruction of these preconceived hearts — we each, individually, make the call.

Violence not-so-cleverly tucked underneath this thin, already bruised, just showing, just coloring skin gets out in little moments, one by one. Cuts and bends and breaks and scars of razor blade marks and burns you don’t know the cause, the origin, the makers of.

Our once brilliant commonalities sparkled like hidden treasures on the surface of a faintly painted screen. But, in reality, you’re as far from me as earth is from the sun. And yet, just like them, we must be perfectly placed to cause this kind of unique interactive reaction, mustn’t we now?

A break in the structure and the construct and all the rules are gone and we’re just drowning in all the goddamn fucking blood.

Can you pick, piece, break it apart yet?

You sweat and shake and I’m tearing at my patterns and definitions before you like piecemeal messy cornmeal crumbs. But, there’s no chance in a non-existent hell that you see what it could be. No way, no reason, no hope for you to see what it does to me.

Preoccupied with some standard to uphold, you just flicker and fade away.
Oh, please. Go ahead. Fall in love and fuck it all and well, fuck it darling — we’ll just try and see.

You have no sense of bitterness these roots dig deep into. Soon, now, you might just see or feel the faintest hint of the aftermath’s breeze.

If you have half a sense: stay floating on that half-alive landscape of cotton candy made-up dreams half made of things and gods that don’t exist. Right now, I’m sure you’re on your way somewhere, but fuck it if I know where.

If you can change the rules on me, then I was wrong before you were. Rules are for patriarchs and monarchies and systems I don’t believe in anymore. I got tricked, dragged down, pulled under the engine I don’t think can crush me. Then, why the fuck do I feel crushed in the end?

Simple. I follow, bent, and break to the patterns patterned into me too. That’s how I know without a doubt they’re real and mean and strong with broken teeth, and I hate them all the more.

Anarchy is not the heart of chaos and destruction, but the soul of motion in this world. A single rhythm reverberates through all these individual bits and bones, but you may be too goddamn fucked up right now to feel it.

Wait. Take a breath and breathe it out and see, just try and see if it’s there.
I fucking dare you to.

Is that too harsh, too mean, too blatant and obscene?
Didn’t you know? The mark of every prophet is the inability to connect to a reality they already know is there. Well, darling, you have read your bible and you know the backhand of religion like I do too — so you of all people should already know.

Don’t be surprised when we all wake up alone.

The elemental thing that makes you — in case you ever wondered — burns best long and slow. The lack of tangible oxygen makes its mark on wood once dry and raw, forms lumps of pitch and total blackness that glow red when licking flames come to play.

Oh, but this living incarnation I only get to dream of by beeswax candlelight and slow-going incense smoke and all the things you thought, you think, you must fucking know now we’ll never be.

The news to you is mokutan is made of wood and carbon, and carbon can be sharp and hard and cold. You think you’ll melt or break that down or mend and meld that into you. But you try and try as you might, and instead it just cuts right through. A wound and scar from the infection afterward — that’s your mark and sign of the times you had with it.

You think this is pretty in the end? Does it still appeal to you?
Well, good god. I hope you fall in love. Don’t mind the fall — the crash afterward is harder than you think.

You still believe in possessive personal love with ownership and terms of contracts, I believe But, you’ve never been on the other side of that fucked up spectrum. You can’t get there until it’s far too late.

Have fun.
It’s all goddamn sure to pass. Blow over. Blow your mind, in the end.
You’ll be fine.
I’m sure of it.

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Kyu Shi

Land rises to the sea, is divided, shattered, broken up by rivers and stretches of salt. An intermitten mountain range in green, orange, and purple pieces before me. The sphere we’re on tilts, turns, twists in empty and blank space. At the edge, as far as these eyes can see, light strikes its reflection and, in moments, fades away.

A handful of our heartbeats, and it will be night wrapped around us. The far off lights of further off strangers glitter across a spanse of water further than I am from my home. It may be another country, another grouping of irrelevant concepts, another space where you need papers and proof and a good reputation to get into. It may be a special club. A secret hovel where those are fires outside their bulbs.

Those glittering, infintisimal stars could light the way from me to them. If we tried hard enough, it might take mere weeks to reach them, see them, feel their inevitable warmth. We, of course, will never touch, never pass, never see more than this faint shape of something we cannot quite name.

Above, a sliver of silver bounces back the burning bright radiance of a star that birthed us. This smaller, lesser, strangely reflective rock pulls on the height and depths here to cast varying stripes on the land. Row after row cascading away from me like a history lesson of days, weeks, months before now.

There is a bridge on the other side of this road dividing the shoreline from the grassline. An edge of solid land against an edge of cultivation. The only difference here is in how we approach it.

Out in the current, running aground against colorful rocks is a dead body upside down. It rises, sinks, rises, and crests the surface, pushed away from the living by hands cold and invisible. It bobs and smiles, lips rotting and piecing apart.

I mis-step once, misplace my plastic bag of roadside snacks, and a caterpillar beside me is crushed underneath. I lift my careless sustinance and try to apologize the death away. In the end, I only rise to leave it there.

We lay beside one another in the night, tucked inside a crowded space, and we fight. Late, late into the night.
Half drunk and half blind and tired from a never-ending ride. We are just parting the surface of this violence hidden, not-so-cleverly, by parents and teachers and a careless way of remembering our past behaviors.

You and I are just dividing it with knives, digging in deep, and bleeding bright crimson on the possessions that possessed us, until this moment.

At the edge of security and instability, we will eventually stumble, fall, and die. A careless hand may wipe us out, set a bag or rock down upon our heads. Or the systems crumbling around us will crack our aging hearts. Until then, we will wait in a hushed, terrified, paranoid silence for the moment to come.

And all the while, crows attack hawks who come in the first morning’s light to shed death on their nests. A whistle like a cry. We can only echo back, our bones and sinews silenced by our grounded inability to affect the larger or the smaller systems surrounding our so-called spirit.

Are we one or are we nothing at all?
The question goes unanswered until the answer is completely moot.
And then, everything returns to the vibration from whence it came.

Science, chance, or god — at this point — who can differentiate?

Alight. in the dark

This is what happens when my world starts coming unglued:

Of all the complications life could have wrought upon me, it is always the ones I never foresaw that cut the deepest and stick to me the longest.

An uneven equation. That’s how I feel these days. Out of whack, sync, time, energy — you name it, I am seemingly low on it.

Point is this: we aren’t exactly considering the reality or the alternatives, thereof. We haven’t breached the things we may or may not be terrified of. And why, exactly? Because, I’m quite sure, we’ll get laughed at or shouted down if we try. There is no avenue of alleviation in our brains.

A coping mechanism that breaks things, skin or otherwise, is probably not a positive one.

You want somewhere safe to run, but in this world, in this era of humanity — there’s nowhere safe at all. Better get used to feeling at home in the filth and the trash because that’s all that’s actually left.

I keep expecting this debilitating loneliness to set in, but it just hasn’t yet…

I wish I could do something about all of the people fading to grey before my eyes. People who used to be vibrant and full are becoming shells, wholly consumed by all of these idiotic convenicences we’ve created.

A person will only ever want to change when they decide for themself that they are unhappy. Those who never do simply don’t miss the things they’ve lost enough.

The future isn’t bright or dim at this point. It’s just impassable.
The general sense is that we are going to burn out.

To attempt to master the playdown between the system and the resistance is to destroy the self.