1. |
ministère de la vrai;
04:26
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Hello, and attention: if you consider yourself an alpha, we would like a word with you. We are neither supporting nor denying your position; given that fact that you are an alpha in your own eyes, we would like to examine the implications of this, in our lives, your life, and the universe at large.
An alpha is a social lynchpin.
Though dominant, an alpha cannot be either self-adsorbed, nor solely self-serving. Rather it will protect and lead the betas. A true alpha is only an alpha as long as it is respected and accepted as such. There is mutual benefit to the alpha/beta relationship.
Without its pride, an alpha is an outcast. An alpha that only thinks of itself is always and forever by itself.
Dominance through force, fear, threats and violence is an illusion, which though corporeal and vivid to the dominator, is transparent to the underdog. It is a rickety façade built on a crumbling foundation. Cracks propagate as the true, honest power, which can only be given by the betas, is withdrawn, the alpha will grip tighter on its transient, wavering power hold. Kicking and screaming, a failing alpha flails out at those around it, but this only brings the end closer. These are not leaders or men, these are not gods or heroes or anything. These are the Stalins, the Pol Pots, the Hitlers.
This is not a fucking joke. This is not a game. We are real. We are not stupid or blind.
This is not an attack, a warning, or a threat. We are above that. We hold the cards.
These are simply thoughts and ponderings on a topic that we have been hearing so much about as of late. There are decision to be made, and the ripples spread out and touch others lives. You are not alone. Ever.
There is always a bigger fish.
Always.
You are, and we are, only individuals, which make up this community, which is in turn only a speck in these endless Maine woods, which is only a scruffy patch on mother earths chin. She does not know you exist, and never will. She is in turn a single atom buried deep in the gut of our mother universe.
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2. |
owldeathfuck;
02:24
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Boston, October 27, 2013
amplified by an underpass,
the muted greyhound growls-
awake.
through the window the ever-changing meadow,
the flesh of america, twitches with life.
half barren trees,
naked limbs wrapped with scarlet shreds-
interrupted by empty industrial organs.
-trailer park adipose pads clogged arteries.
here on the bus,
it is warm.
legs stiff, cramping,
bent up for hours on a worn backpack.
the dull distorted washroom mirror holds him;
his reflection is unfamiliar.
back in the brightly speckled seat,
eyes flicker over nondescript scenery,
fingers tap out a tinted glass heartbeat.
this lost land,
is neither pastoral,
nor holds the sparkling breath of the city.
fidgeting fingers find folded foil.
nestled in the thin metal,
baby white paper squares sleep benignly.
square corners press into soft flesh.
subtle,
bitter-
taste soaking into his tongue.
a visceral tingle wells up in the base of his spine;
the tension builds,
fingers shaky.
grey trees gradually disappear,
and buildings grow and twist into
tall towers of glass and concrete,
leering over the arterial highways.
blood red in the west,
the sun shrinks from the grinding,
glistening city.
salt ocean smell mixes with warm colonial stink of man, pumped in,
cold and processed.
life bearing cells hurtle through the cities veins.
pupils like empty holes stare up,
and blinkingly,
boston's million yellow eyes open.
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3. |
teahelamine;
04:42
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I-81 North, Virginia, June 16, 2014
let us make like mercury my dear.
let our conscious circumference coalesce,
like domed dewdrops
in the verdant, living,
veined and life-giving cup
of a drooping leaf.
like streams and sea salt tears,
let us trace our separate paths
of least resistance across her face
and i swear-
i'll see you at the shoreline someday.
let us make like mercury,
and let gravity run its course;
let us do what we are for.
for all that is draws itself close,
and we are material at most,
so my dear,
let us make like mercury,
dewdrops and tears.
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4. |
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Bar Harbor, April 23, 2014
it is never enough,
to forget everything forever and always,
my dear-
in the headlights.
white tailed flight through pitch pine;
bloodlines define the distance and time,
dragged towards death.
and in one breath,
all that once was and ever will be will freeze.
and in release,
it will be enough,
my dear.
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5. |
coffee with wendell;
01:21
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Bangor, March 2, 2014
i am head over heels in love,
with the grass that pushes up,
through the cracks,
in the asphalt pavement parking lot,
behind the seven eleven,
in bangor.
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6. |
ministère de l'amour;
04:49
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at lunch, he read sartre. "being and nothingness, part ii: negations".
"with its patrons, booths and tables, the sound of voices, rattling saucers and footsteps filling it- the café is a fullness of being."
his stomache is full, but he is not. he can see her through the shifting collage of faces. the act of standing up, and walking over to her sits heavy and sodden on his chest. being and nothingness hangs heavily in the air.
the november afternoon is tinged with the sweet sickness of low tide. scarlet leaves are born on silent catching gusts. today is colder than he'd would have hoped; the bricks are hard ice through thin soles. the atlantic broods on the horizon, distant whitecaps flicker in and out, like so many blinking eyes.
at the shore, he slowly strips off his shoes and socks. the meticulously smoothed and scored stones are slippery blue. veins of seaweed lace through the torn edge of the continent. bare feet gingerly lead him to the frigid water, breathing methodically on the shore. his mercury is sucked straight down to his toes.
wet but warming in his shoes, his feet scuff the gravel path. familiar but strange, like an old friend from high school, solitary specks of snow parachute down, down, to disappear before reaching the ground; the coarse white canvas bulls eyes must have been so easy to shoot down. you would never have to see the whites of their terrified, teenage eyes.
the autistic boy who loves to show off his felts in the cafeteria is laughing manically, asking in circles, eyes up to the sky. thrown to another hyena burst, his hat flies up to meet the flakes, in the annihilating, infinite sky.
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7. |
baguettes;
02:04
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please, let us be,
we could be, so happy,
if you would stop,
talking about such stupid shit,
like our relationship.
and i'm so bored,
that i would like to,
cheat on-
you.
and who's to say?
who's to say,
it's not better that way.
maybe someday i'll move to france,
and steal some baguettes.
and the police dogs will follow me
all the way down to the winery.
that's where i'll be,
that's where i'll be,
that's were we'll all be.
don't talk to me about
addiction/a dictionary/ nary a phrase
gets by me these days,
cause my thoughts are, so sticky.
and who's to say,
who's to say,
it's not better that way.
cause after all, i'm drunk and you're imaginary.
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8. |
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this morning,
under a rusted bridge,
among the leaves,
i found a l
little
green
cocaine
caddisfly
larvae.
and shuffling further,
and mound of
single serving
malt whiskey,
like so many
cracked
cicada
shells.
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9. |
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your quickbright eyes offered no disguise,
for the naked fact that you and i are both alive,
even if only for the briefest forever,
you and i were alive together.
through your eyes black heart core,
face and form explode into more than the stranger before.
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10. |
ministère de la paix;
04:06
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i’ve never been aboard a bus,
filled with beardstrawhat,
bluebonnet amish before.
(blueblack strawhat seated on polyester.)
plastic threads of the past,
steeped for centuries,
in stratified soil.
(dinosaurs of the present,
seated on the past.)
unaware of their irony,
blueblack strawhat,
bonnets and babies,
are pressed flat as flowers,
under the weight of an era.
underneath towering glassconcrete beasts;
future flowers in bloom.
compressed and compacted,
under the colossal dead weight-
gravity, and an era.
our city and seat astride the dinosaurs
will crumble and collapse.
updown oscillation on the surface
of our unobtrusive blue ball
of life.
pressed flat by the infinite,
we are the universe blossoming.
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