weepin' jesus and the holy lonelies

a pilgrim mind in pirate rind

i can't quite find
the source of this inborn beat -
is it banged out and formed
where brain, blood, and heart meet -
or is it crafted carefully and complete?
is there a need, then, for me?
do i direct my destiny -
or is something else in the driver's seat?
it's myth against meat -
a tangible body bloomed from an unseen seed.
born into blood - yes -
but not without the need
for our souls to be redeemed -
what does that even mean?
that where i really am is in between
the warmth i feel in daylight
and the loss i feel in dreams?
could it be simpler than it seems?
did a creator flee the scene -
and leave the world to its machines?
is there a piece of it in me?

have we awoken from the dream
or is it something different?
did we miss it
or did the slow hit
cause a pole shift
in our positions?
will the planet's placement pivot?
it seems more like scripture laced with fiction -
but have we really listened?
it's a makeshift paradigm-prison.
it's progress preached in the pulpit of division.
they sold us singularity, but shipped us fission,
had us by the balls once that fucking apple was bitten,
but wasn't the fruit god-given?
was the word lost once the word was written?

humans, half standing,
stranded in skin.
flame-fettered souls
stuck on the outside looking in.
slouched stoners standing sideways,
stacking seconds symmetrically,
molding metaphors into minutes of melody -
hark ye now, the holy hour's hovering next to thee,
stringing shine to your surroundings like you're on ecstasy,
bound to blindly bloom unbridled to halt the heresy,
rarely rest your faith on hearts hurried heavenly -
never bet it all on destiny.

i'm not saying we're lost -
but I'm certain that we're off track -
convinced by the quiet
that i can hear the cosmos crack.
i can see salvation swinging
slowly - yet in tact -
star-bent and starving -
until that solar spine snaps
and the light collapses.
what happens, then,
when the fire burns out
and we're out of matches?

i'm sick of sinking in shallow substances -
of putting my trust in the judgment of dunces,
of hanging on hollow hunches
while we miss the holy harvest -
and people this isn't even the hardest - (part)
of a bigger picture,
where the broader strokes blur physical fixtures
forming fractal fissures
in the tissue of vision.
the signs are known but the sights are still hidden -
in the scheme of things,
it's almost always the out-and-in-between's that do me in,
how can i read into meaning if i don't know where the lines begin?
is it just me who feels restrained in skin -
stuck singing softly, lost electricity bouncing within?

spin-sick arithmetic - pregnant particle physics -
lip-sticked mystics and lucid limbic pin-pricks -
progress brought the plague to the picnic.
the prophets forgot the blankets -
we didn't even make it
because we mistook muted maggots
for messianic marker-magnets.
are we propelled by panic?
i can't quite grasp the astro-fanatics -
those who blame the movement of planets
for their sourceless sadness -
but i sure can relate to the landscape of that madness;
that realization that truth cruises somewhere out in the vastness -
that peace is only reachable when it's pathless -
i believe that we created the canvas
but came into the color;
the way children come into wonder -
the way mathematics came into numbers -
like lovers lost and found in a sea of covers.
there's a certain truth tuned into the timing of thunder -
a death rattle hum - a shot for mother to smother the suffering -

when i die, is my soul ripped right out from under me,
a vapor pillar pulled out and pushed suddenly?
or will someone or something else summon me,
cut my conscious loose from its carnal covering
and expose my soul to the sham-shine it's been coveting?
i'm tired of running - from that cold cerebral glimmer -
convinced that the cranial cracks are concealed
beneath that stale ego-shimmer.

and what if the horsemen of the apocalypse
aren't riding to put a stop to this?
what if, despite the light we've missed,
universal love still craves the human kiss?
then we'd better get a firmer grasp of it -
because baby, this is the last of it -
and while our sun-dried lips
tremble timidly toward raw consciousness,
sense of self shifts, genetic strains unstitch -
time's tender twilight twitches -
the messiah (whooooosh) swings and misses -
were the masses mistaken,
slapped and shaken
into building an ark
but only a gentle rain came in?
has freedom been forsaken?

it's hard to keep a head above the astral ash-trays
and spot pitted progress turned poisoned pathway -
who hung heaven on the horizon-line? -
or did they decide on their own to meet halfway?
i can swim in these abstracts ceaselessly -
each sunrise carries with it a piece of me
to place within the sacred scenery -
i just hope she spreads me evenly -
i can bridge the gap, easily,
between truth and the ungodly -
but why can't I find my body?
i want to live boldly -
i want to breathe deeply -
but does the universe always have to teach me?

it seems like we're reaching a bit - for meaning -
leaning on every light-post we see -
we need to rewrite what it means to believe
that it's in our mission to master
the roots of the rapture -
relate its framework to particle capture -
let us comb the globe for greener pastures -
who needs the questions when you've got the answers?
we've traded almost all our light just so the transition would be faster -

there is an anchor - and it hangs -
from the base of my brain-stem
to the tender tip of my dick -
from the seat of your soul
to the fleshy threshold on the outskirts of your pussy -
and until we reach in, thumb-and-forefinger,
and release it from its timeless perch -
we remain bound to it and it alone -
birds caught in the belltower.

let fly those last hope pigeons -
has reason risen?
can it relate to religion -
remove and regulate the fiction -
drawing distinctions -
between the light you're livin' -
and the darkness within it?

vicis est iam

SHINE-SHOCK YOUR SOUL! AWAKEN!
RISE UP THOMAS EDISON'S ELECTRIC CHILDREN!
reach out those kaleido-kinetic claws, those wire-veined paws -
and snatch sweet sexual salvation out of society's psycho-synthetic jaws!
feast on fiber-optic figs in tesla-coiled thistles -
go gather grapes grown at gunpoint in the magnetic gamma garden -
that untapped and sour source which has been guarded
since the sacred cycle started.
strut stoutly your primitive primate frame - protect that primordial flame -
homo-salient, sister sally sapient, sitting high and mighty,
serpentine perch poised brightly -
a cosmic neural mothership - temporal tentacles thrust up
as if meant to clutch the thickly veiled crust of the cosmos -
and coerce a connection of calculated currents into the holy organic network of nature -
a roaming conscious control-home that strung thrice-bright starlight on an unlit manger.
oh you time-tempered traveler, yet to crawl out of your cradle of skin-stain constellations -
held hostage by your own nostalgia -
awaiting the return of your ravenous and rock-bellied savior -

whence comes this horror - this sharpened celestial axe
which hangs heavily - almost heavenly
above these homesick humans howling
toward some shaky electric sunset?