rabble praddle

Hello friends. Hope all is well.

Kafka once shared about how he writes because (an interpreted list) he can’t understand himself, or because he wants to kill his inner flashes, or because he wants to reach deeper into his fervent fixations.

Perhaps you have the same inclinations bubbling up in different ways. Bubbling up with a “How are you today?”

This reminds me of something written awhile back. Need to dig through the archives for the spare page, but it was passionless vs passionate. Can you hear the swinging? [separate]

Lately surfing through falsity plague. A “memory” comes up and then it turns fantastical, dotted with falsehoods impulsively. Even with this self-awareness sometimes it still surprises. Akin to walking about and the next step sends you down a chute too narrow. Into darkened places you’d rather want to run away.

It’s like the thoughts come from elsewhere. Most likely the parasites hooking in, whispering sin. Have you looked at the back of your throat recently?

Lately been swishing oregano oil around because the stinging feels like a step toward ejecting all influence — maybe “you” are the fungi. All the little armies and raising hell around the gum line for a new regime, a frail hope — so some studies reveal links between Alzheimers and tongue culture.

When you learn to pass by food more, and the belly caves inward, it gives a whole new meaning to being “skeletal” as a descriptor. If it weren’t for the tightened wiry sprawl along the spine it wouldn’t be unlikely to walk around with strict crescent chest. Staring down.

A college friend phoned again, voicemail still pending review. It isn’t about the courage to reply, and maybe some reptilian ancestors crease a smile all the while. It’s just dead ends. Or a hubris. It’s hubris to assume you can predict which exchanges align for a golden chimney — let it puff out some silver opium daze.

Well, it seems there aren’t any roads within static voices. Are there? Same for writing, you may suggest. But whether the phone call occurs or not is irrelevant to the day to day on either end. There’s still business to attend to, there are still ideals to hold each other “close” to, there is still the asphalt crumbling underneath you.

You know what’s funny about The West? Though we’re now walking together through the lit coal of a word we may find beneath the gurgling and the alienation there’s a real, what could be deemed “non-human nation” congealing together.

“America” is International culture for the most part, isn’t it? A corporate arm. It’s ready-made yet stuffed with many meanings, but let’s focus on the silent ones between the soars.

Alienated from generations prior. Alienated from generations next. Alienated from generations between, flossing. Walking through cities feels like walking through crumbled Roman scenes. Children running about with Gucci bracelets. And moving abroad only sinks in the distance. Not that the empty parking lots and buzzing light offer any much either.

Living an International Lifestyle, aren’t we? Ah, what was once just a simple flag raise and some freedom sings turns into the broken office light. Turns into the toppled statue of masons prior, masons pasts, Roman busts and scriptures as marginalia between each meeting.

Let’s keep running, we must keep running, we have to run. Only way to bypass this history which suffocates. We know the Good Word, we know the conquests waiting. Manifest Density through the wire. A black mirror ironed out and you’re staring at it. E pluribus unum. Is Netflix another government controlled entity? Apply here.

Birthing pains. Silent eyes.

So let’s inquire, will we know what moves them so? And inquire, did you really want warmth of villages in tow?

The tie as a noose is the typical portrayal, but perhaps it’ll transform into the strap which keeps one altogether instead.

You can only walk forward.

Veins bulging and turning bluer with each ounce lost. Perhaps the blood between us will show us and baptize us for this new reality.

Selah!