Official soundtrack of this post:
May 21, 2011 – Apocalypse #4,074
A woman somewhere is crying, and she can’t tell you why.
“What’s the matter?” someone could ask.
“It’s just so sad…” all she could muster.
No one cries for no reason, and though she can’t read it out loud to you,
there’s a beautiful poem behind the salt water
flowing down those cheeks.
Lost like the memory from
a brief glimpse of an intricate image.
We are taught to ignore that delicate, subtle complexity within us,
which inspires our most passionate, real experiences.
Perhaps it’s the harsh reality of the nature of our world
that forces us out of such unproductive, irrelevant
mental escapades, and we must dry our tears,
stiff upper lip,
and get back to work,
back to survival.
Resist the temptation to relax in the wake of society’s cutting edge,
assuring survival as long as
the cards aren’t declined, the checks don’t bounce, and the atm spits cash.
Do not crumble, my dear artist, under the pressure applied by
the thousand apathetic souls that surround you,
empty tupperware containers, concealing nothing more than progressively
smaller sized versions of themselves.
Retirement chasers will persist like smokestacks in the suburbs,
and their hollow words will
over your head like artillery shells and flak cannons explode
outside a troop transport housing you,
on your way to battle,
the struggle to create.
Let the creative force inside you be what it is – a hurricane
blowing with unimaginable force, unstoppable, constantly in motion,
full of a billion tiny particles each moving in slightly different ways
but all in ultimate unison, whose voice becomes that of a
collectively giant entity, whose volume is louder than sound,
brighter than light,
rising up out of the sea for no immediately apparent
or presently understandable reason, but nonetheless
is temporarily and powerfully roaring louder than any
previous manifestation of combined human will.
This is for those who once heard music internally, accidentally,
with not a speaker or an earbud in sight.
This is for those who once saw a painting while bobbing down the stream,
and never got to put it to canvas.
This is for those who had the vision but not the hand,
you are an artist but have no hard proof of it.
Never let that music inside you die out.
Life is harsh and we have to work to survive,
but creativity is the point of life,
spontaneous complexity construction seems
to me to be
the ultimate reason
that our ancestors worked so hard
and stoically persevered through the vast ocean
of our turbulent reality,
hunting in packs to bring home the food
to feed the women, to have the kids,
to grow up, repeat, and why?… To
give you the voice,
to do what it is that only you know how to do.
Twenty two thousand jet engines have been filled with fuel,
sparked, sit spinning.
The instruction has been given to use the passive voice
and take those twenty two thousand engines to the line which is red.
Fourthousandfourhundredfortyfive lions have been given the order
to line up in a row and demonstrate for the crowd
exactly how loud it is that 4.445 kings of the jungle can take
their godgiven vocal capabilities.
Do not let the vacuum of space fool you as it muffles
the unendingly and mindbendingly unearthly sound so loud it
would perform surgery on your poor head, ear drums long blown out,
to give you a cochlear implant, so it could turn up the volume
and shout for you some more,
the sound of the sun
as it roars louder than it brightly burns.
Neither nature beast nor petty, humble man could combine to compete with
the roar of the creative force of nature
that stirs within your spirit.
Press your eyelids closed, dear artist, feel the substance of the sea
roll down your cheeks as the poem of the moment
within you makes its way out into the vast ocean of our turbulent reality.
Look up, my creative coconspirator,
at a night sky dotted with alien suns all shining shouting glowing burning
in parallel harmonic unison, so futilely trying to collectively match
a fraction of the power that lies within the surface of your mind.
Stars burn, beasts hunt, and man can be counted upon to categorize,
use the passive voice, build smokestacks and retire.
But you, my dear artist, you are none of the above.
For you have become aware of the spirit within you,
of the fact that we are not born nor do we die.
They predicted the apocalypse today,
I ascended into heaven today,
angel Khadijah at my side,
I looked around and remembered what I saw.
I came back, wrote this down
in my stumptown,
the place where it began and most definitely will not end.
There is more to reality than we presently know.
Boldly go, my enlightened soldier artists.
May our collective creative conscious voices
shout louder than a trillion suns,
bobbing in hurricanic harmony,
relentlessly and so temporarily.