Such Tormentful Arrival. {spoken word poetry}
{source}
I have never yielded myself to releasing my hankerings. Maybe it is easier for more restful minds to cease grasping.
Though, such liberal digestion seems to me to be an eternal struggle. Such a lack of concern for edges within which “I” resides. Yet, such roamings are not efficacious as even roaming desires arrival.
What are these moments of grasping if not the very feelings and rationales, the very substance, that make up the sum of “I”? Of course, the sum is greater than its parts, but such a large conception is off even the most fantastic of radars. It is nothing in which earthen jugs can participate. It is nothing the burdened mud-entrenched soul of history can release as if its fate, too, were ever to be shackled.
Tempestuous abstractions slacken modest sanity, hurtling it towards its nemesis in the form of a divine lusus naturae or a lunatic. The stages are set and differentiated only by the props of manufactured consent. Next to the box office, a stall sells offerings and tomatoes. Bewitched by an existential twilight that has merged truth and fallacy, the spectators innately reach out, grasp and purchase both.
Like forsaken nomads, bystanders squeeze moments of stagnant self-validation in desperately tight fists. “I” resides in flattened frozen snapshots of an imperceivable eternally flowing river. Fettered to resolution, disenchanted poreless lumps of meat decorate their bricks and mortar with well-formulated collages of abbreviations and distractions.
Most sentences lack the rhetorical gymnastics, the je ne sais quoi for them to live on after the full stop. For most, there is no second chance, no resurrection and no attempt by their judge, the reader, you, to immortalize them.
Instead, the majestic deemster’s relentless craving for novelty, to walk the untrodden path, to heroically sail the outward-bound current in his attempt to douse the snug harbor lights, will sentence the laggards, orthodoxy, the toilers, the foundation layers, the masses to death. A slick imperial thumb is deaf to mundane pleas for mercy.
“There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.” ~ Bret Easton Ellis
Yet, smoothed out through benevolent familiarity, a rock on a humble bank briefly offers a refuge for the explorer’s weary head. Jaggedness fades amidst memories, amidst what was, amidst the ghosts of “I”.
A pause, a breathing space for that raw fleshy face that toils so close to stone, a longed-for hour of blissful amnesia echoing happiness through the homeward canyons, a temporal turn away from his tormented mind and body; a muddy superman sinks, once again, towards his judicator.
The sharpness of the midday blaze tamed momentarily in temperate shadows; shadows that flicker steadily in somnolent consciousness. If only the sun would not blind. Such tormentful arrival.
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Michael Victor Jackson lives in a hostel with his seven-year-old son, George. The odd smile now and again keeps him alive. He wonders what you want to know. Here’s what he does.
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