Identity.

Do you have one, he asked himself. There seems to be too many of you. Which one tells of absolute truth? Maybe, and this scares you, the answer is none...

...isn't that a good thing? Carte blanche? The filling in of the blank page...but what if your ink is white? White on white? Or it's black, but your blind?

He picked up the tube of coral. Perforated. Pink. He dropped it back into...the ocean's edges kiss the skirt of shore. There are bubbles of intoxication from malt playing like children behind his eyes. He bobs his head like a silly dog trapped on the dashboard of a silly running car.

You drink too much, take it easy...she said.

...from behind him the voice sounded like his conscience.

He burped, that was his reply, his cuss to her...advice?

Why can't people understand when they are not liked. Oh yeah, this one wasn't one of those, those ordinary folk, this one, like you...like you...?

Ever thought about your identity? he said.

Yeah, she said, which surprised him; yeah, like what?

How? What are your thoughts? he said.

It was close to twilight. Was it the world that developed in us these unanswerable moods of intense surveys of meaning during this magical time of the day? She wasn't sure. Her feet, submerged in the soup of her birth, ancient water. Her feet greets our Great Mother, its oldest womb.

She yawns, and supplies him her thoughts: To really have an identity. A real identity. Everyone else must die. If you're a man, every man; if you're a woman, every woman.

His penis alerted him of a possible hard-on.

She continued: there are way too many peeps out there...every man, let's just use person, so I don't keep switching genders for political correctness's sake. Every person out there, each one we meet, we absorb, their images are branded into our brains; their actions are...copied, to copy is to memorize; their speech becomes our speech. There are too many people in the world. How do you know you are not just a patchwork of these retained reflections? How do you know you are you? Isn't that your question?

Yes, you stupid bitch, he told himself, where'd you come from, I was here, minding my own business, I was deep; and now here you are mirroring my thoughts. Those are my thoughts. Mine!

Yes, he said.

Yeah, she said, I thought so.

He fought it at first, but it was no use, really, he knew, so he allowed his urge to win him over, and he sat down beside "the bitch."

Hi, he said.

They swapped names.

Mind? he said, but his fingers were already on the burning joint.

Go ahead. But she pulled her hand away, which startled him; and she, smoothly, like a jazz dancer's stock move, suavely turned the burning head of the stick toward her, and her lips; her red lips, red from the butcher shop glow from on high; she opened those red lips, moist from the soft blanket of imperceptible sea-foam, to envelope and lock on the burning head; okay, he got the idea, and leaned forward---shotgun!

Bhooosssh, bhoooossh, bhooooosshh, went their motions, went the sea and shore and sky.

It's like everything is beating. Everything has a hearbeat. He confessed this.

I know, she said, and slipped her hand over his; their hands both, these two that touched was on a rock bed on the shore, it should be high tide, but that tide was late; maybe it too got stoned, drunk and lost, maybe it too questioned its purpose, though its purpose seems quite clear and straight.

Isn't that how they all start? Clear and straight?

Are you serious, he challenged, and politely swept up his hand under hers; what was that about? Manners, he ain't too good with.

Yeah.

Yeah, he parroted...and left it at that a while...he needed to pause, for effect, and maybe she knew it, who cares.

There's a whole party behind us, enjoying themselves; happy people.

Uh-huh, she replied.

Happy, he repeated...I hate happy people.

He returned his hand under her palm, her palm was warm.

I wish I was/ If I was a Racist--

I'd hate Whitey.

I wish I was/ If I was a Racist--

I'd spit on every whiteman's mug and spill curses his way to wipe it off.

I wish I was...

I'd connive with space-aliens and sell each and every one of em white boys, for testing, for experimentation, for implants, for trauma, and why not, for extinction.

If I was a--

I'd form The Shabazz League of Cracker Eaters, and hunt down them white land-sharks, as their counterparts in the KKK did, but as a twist, we'll cook em white skin, peel it off, feed it to vultures and have their meat removed to be fed to endangered species in and around Africa, and if there's enough why not the whole globe.

I wish I was a Racist...

But I lack hate.

If I was a Racist--

I'd educate them motherfuckers. Show em enacted footage of all their 1800-1900 sins; the sins of their great great great (but really not so great) forefathers. Then, have the history replayed by applying the same rules of the game that time on their backs, on black farms in the Mother Land, have their wives as our wives, use them as breeding tools, like a toaster that can impregnate a waffle-maker and produce a blender: property that produces more property, I can see the Mother Land's gross national product now: whiteheads.

If I was a--

I'd dress up in black, not white, the true robe of Death, and rob you of what you've robbed me of, and do so with an obsidian scythe, glassy like the eyes of the eternal night, by plucking each o' your heads you ghouls, nighthawks, giants, furies, titans, hydras, dragons and wizards, with the ease of an Ancient tribal lord cutting up a beaten mark to be boiled and dehaired and skinned and cooked by the tribe's lady's princesses, for dinner or festival, to be served to all like some communist family, to be danced around upon during these times of celebration, these offerings to the ancestors and to the ancestors' spirits, to the Earth's blood, the sea, to the Earth's breath, the sky, to the Earth's other children, the animals and insects and plants, to the Earth's flesh, the land.

(...AND SO ON AND SO FORTH...)

And then I decided, this is kinda one sided. The blacks did let the whiteys do it. It wasn't the whites fault the blacks gave in, in general. It takes two to dance the tango: and the whiteys lead.

At Church...

...I see dead people.

It's not empty. It's full. It's Sunday.

It's a mass. So why the plastic masks like it's a funeral?

(I note only a few, a rare small number, that I see and feel are sincere.)

Their eyes eat visuals of this detail and that, their ears observe sounds other than the priest's.

Some thoughts occupy their minds. Little nonsensical articles cloudy at this early hour; mostly though, mostly, their mind is full, only of emptiness.

Corpses can't think. These zombies hear the padre but don't listen. Might they need to? They've heard this all before, since childhood, when life shone in their visages.

Like children, they toy at acting out the required god-fascination so naggingly needled out of them by their superiors and elders since their dead formative existence.

The ones that are really pious are dispersed, rarely do they group, isolation is an ingredient to meditation, if not a physical one, at least one that rockets the mind and soul to other depths, levels, degrees of love and awareness.

Others check their watches. Smooth their pants or dresses. Tell their offspring to shut it. Tell their offspring to wake up. Are you awake, parent? Do YOU hear? But why then do you not heed? Do you believe the "the voice of the people, is the voice of God"? If you do, you let your fellows judge you.

Your fellows can only judge by what they witness. I wish I had an Oscar for every one of you. Masters of disguise and guile. Commanders of whipped up and puffy facial emoticons. Where do you take class? Hogwarts? Your glamours are art, a dark art, like the art of Marcos, Mussolini and Mao.

Your fellows' jugdement is flawed. If the voice of the people is flawed, then the god of the people is flawed. Simple as your ABCs. Yet, not. Consider this. A meme. A cultural component that clones itself through each mind that receives it. A catch phrase. A line from a pop song. A religion. This is called a memeplex (a compound of memes). Acts like a gene...or sometimes, a gene of a virus.

Like in this case, with these zombies sitting up, sitting down, mumbling, kneeling, walking to, walking fro, nodding, parroting, forming crosses on their upper halves, with the grace and understanding of replicas of Frankenstein. I note no respect underneath. If the god of the people is flawed, the people are flawed. Yet we follow the people. We follow the dance of the dead. Unmiraculous and unholy.

It doesn't stop here, this living death. But it may certainly have begun here. The symptoms were tell-tale a long ways back in time. The abandonment of culture, left the skin of our pride dry, which shed itself soon enough, but the virions didn't stop there, those were mere first steps, onto the heart of the being: the brain: give up your responsibility to think and you give up your soul, and Mr. Webster can't be everywhere.

What makes you you? Most people only vaguely know. Most people are clones of the model molded by some other, rather foreign entity, far away; alien and distant lands where silence drives men open to the free mental elements that inspire power, and what keener path to power than a useful, romantic glamour? A religion, mayhap? A nice old new idea-structure sure to win the masses over, bowl them down with an emotional flush of awww. "Wasn't that nice of Him, eh? Dying like that for us all, oh well, time for brunch."

Doesn't the host discern the funeral masks we have on? (Yes, I am dead too. But I know it. And besides, his not my only god, I am a player when it comes to gods. Why have just one? When you can have them all? No, I am not spreading myself out too thin, because players have themselves to look out for numero uno. In other words, we're too unfaithful to bother with different versions of the, essentially, same program: love the software not the hardware.) Does he care? If he is dense, he shouldn't be up there, sensitivity should be prerequisite. If he feels the noxious plumes outpoured by this congregation, what then does he do to improve the lesson plan, which is obviously flawed, it's from the people.

What would happen I wonder if we actually listened, actually obeyed, actually became pious? Just as theses priests, but throw in sex, and sometimes a little horsing around and beers with the boys (or girls)? I'll tell you straight the eventual consequence would be: the demise of control. The freedom of yourselves from power that should rightly be yours. The clarity of mind to think and not be judged, to act and not be ashamed. Do What Thou Wilt means not do whatever the fuck you feel like whenever the fuck you feel it however the fuck you feel it to whomever the fuck. It means following your true path, the path that is in harmony with the universe, the path to yourself and the riches there. Some say the path to your Holy Guardian Angel: I just say the path to your Higher Self, your holier consciousness, the you that is free from your corpse shell and witnesses eternity at every waking instance. Do What Thou Wilt in accordance to your real Will.

Let me use this paragraph to describe that path. Let's use the stars. The star system we call Solar has x number of planets and stars and comets and asteriods. Each of these and others I have not mentioned are perfectly timed. Like instruments in a timepiece. As above, so below; or, as without, so within. We are the stars, within us the universe; the only distinctive difference: we have will. The power of choice. You're hungry. Choose. Eat now. Eat later. Eat now, little. Eat later, lots. Eat not at all. Eat now, fast, or slow, etc.--etc.--etc. You are hungry, but the choice to eat is yours. Your soul cries for nutrition, like a good book, something of Joseph Campbell's, or Thomas Moore's or Timothy Leary's, whatever. It does. It is your choice to feed it. The universe may dance to the tune of your secret and true Will, force factors that will set you up for that opportunity: this situation that will surely introduce to you that which your soul yearns for, yet yours is the choice. Buy it, heed your love that loves you; don't buy it, buy it soon, buy it later, take your time, absolutely turn back on the intuitive urge: up to you. If you do choose to go with your Will, then, my friends, you act like such stars in a star system, dancing perfectly, brilliantly radiant in darkness. If each of us followed their True Path, if we collide, you'd know in instinctively, it was meant to be, and you shrug and let it go, you followed your path and you don't question it: your bones and each of your cells know it is truth in molecular form. You shrug and you say to yourself, move on, baby, it was the Will of the universe, I know, I am part of it, like I know my heart is part of me. I am intrinsic.

Is church the path your soul speaks as true? Question yourself. The Beast said, even doubt is reality; consider your doubts, consider everything as paramount unless proven otherwise the worth of it is less than initially surmised; scientists pushed this global society forward into a technological age; apply that same scientific mentality to spirituality and transcendentalism; enough emotionless, soulless tradition, be sincere, you don't owe anyone your power but yourself; Do What Thou Wilt and trust the diseased spirit within you compose a plan for self-regeneration. Do What Thou Wilt and jump the cliff. If church is what it is for you, so be it, do it properly; you are not fooling any god of your theater-tactics; stay home then and put your feet up and yell to the wife to hurry with your beer and channel-controller, play network games, read verses on the erotic, whatever turns you on, whatever you NEED, but no one needs your hypocrisy, nobody but people who don't need it yet want your contribution, your generous tithes; your pennies and papers have replaced the Aztecs' human sacrifices, yes, but they, at least believed, were true, and their wars merely play-acts toward each others gods' and peoples' benefits, now pennies and papers for sacrifice, brilliant, no blood, but the blood of your wallet, all those coins and papers, they could end hunger, end poverty, yet we offer it to an absent dull idea instead of to our fellow visible starving family. Offer it to--who knows?-- men who can't face the fact they wanna fuck chicks, so they fuck children instead. Offer it to THE "representative of god on earth," whose predecessors were responsible for more blood shed on earth's soil through wars than Hitler's concentration camps. That's they don't mind you fucking other women other than your wife, you'll come for confession they are sure. They don't mind you killing or stealing, you'll be here Sunday, the day of cleansing and white forgiveness. Without your sins, they'd be out of business. Without the threat of hell, and the promise of heaven--which are accesible right here right now--their whole structure of lies crumble like expired Graham crackers. As above, so below; as without, so within: heaven and hell is in here, my heart my mind my soul, your heart your mind your soul; and heaven is out there, in sex with a much-loved one, in the vibrations of your young son's formative cackle, in the caress of your soulmate at night and in the morning; and hell is out there, in hurricanes that wipe out families and properties like a virus lunching on a weak gene, in diseases that seem to randomly take hold of your life and spirituality (if you let it: maybe you may, maybe you fight: ask your Will), in people that appear to have absolutely no iota of love contained in them, nothing but the black, heavy evil-throbbing of hate, which attacks and consumes like a blackhole: stay away from their event horizon: danger sometimes wears a sun's face.

We're stars who've Will. The cosmos is our church. Concentrate and connect to the cosmos and church within: power to YOU: as above, so within. Use the constellations as rosaries or runes, and pray to the hidden infinite pantheons lurking underneath and beyond (yet within) your own mere being. These souls of Ancients and Future Selves, allow each to guide you, spiritual stocks acting as one organism, the sun father to your body, the moon mother to your blood. Shine, you've only one life, Death's grin is too long, too determined and proud and too-certain of victory over another clone, another irrelevant zombie, stand out, stand up, SHOUT your aura's radiation like radiancy as it is supposed to and allow your personality's electro-magnetism to attract and trap friends, not foes; you are a corpse, as I am, as everyone I know or will know, as whoever had lived and will live is or was: you are already dead. Be dead, you have no choice, but don't be a zombie, a controlled clone, choose:

Surfing the Channels

Your magick regenerates nocturnally,
diurnally you're happily robbed,
all this occurs at your perception,
or misconception.

Khu is choice.

The value of work
is the teacher to
the value of love
amid a storm.

Worship Thy Weapons.

Compassion is Imagination
denuded.

If people don't install in themselves
the practice of public nudity: systems of lies people
spin, like their clothes, mere evolving
masks,
will grow tighter and tauter and increasingly complex.

The Principle of Isolation may just be the first
leap off the Cliff to Adventure and The Unknown:
Be A Fool.

Laws are for slaves;
the Forces are slaves to Strings;
gravity to that of density;
my hand to that of my mind;
the proletariates to alien gods;
my Love to that of my Will.

The Universe did not design Me to take orders from my stupid fellows.

Every form, level, degree, gradation, manifestation of Love is Holy.

Emotion is noise.
Picture above the din.

I THINK WE ARE THE UNIVERSE'S INVENTION; ITS INTENTION FOR US, TO BE VESSELS OF HER AWARENESS.

SHE WANTS A MIRROR, OUT OF PINK SKIN
AND CRIMSON BLOOD.

SHE NEEDS OUR EYES; OUR MIND, THE KEY, HER
GREATEST DREAM MATERILIZED.

SO SHE MAY PERCEIVE, NARCISSITICALLY, HER OWN INFINITY.

TO NOT GO THE PATH OF THE OUROBOROS IS DANGEROUS; THE CIRCLE IS THE REAL PATH.

HIGH SPEED RIDE, SPHERIOD TRANSIT; BEAM, BOY!
THE LIGHTS ARE EMITTING OLD SMILES.

The Virtue Honesty: The Modern Holy Grail.

When we cower to Emotion, intelligence--beware!--sets the pace and plan of our escape--
but if we magically stand on principle--know thyself (first!)--we're rushed toward destinal
streets, meta-places of comfort and solitude, dangerous to know and natural to have;
your feetsies tingle from the sensation of ecstasy; your ears snap rigidly, as history is famous for
murdering true revolutionaries, in other words, heresies.

Music is Logic humping Idea in Death's black mustang's backseat;
as the audience, the constellations, applaud in twinkle-light;
and Death's hollow sockets, an abyss each, condense and swell,
to the rhythm of the Ancient Couple's machinations and groans.

This plane of discs is full of
glamour
stars that are diamonds,
fake carats of intensity,
values of negative hues,
they glitter but don't enlighten,
they shine, even blind, but nay
do they inject warmth to the pore,
or tickle somas in the cortex.

We intertwine our indulgences
creating a quilt of beam-beating
gemstone constructions,
hollow crystals and quartzs
of shallow relevance, acrid
potentialities that are rotting
invisibly and internally
at the core as its faceted facade
radiates and tempts and allures
with sublime steadfast vaingloriousness
we don much like our subtle
secret-pornstar-flesh-cloak
the real pigmentation of which is
chameleonic vertigo principled on
distraction.

Hook, line and sink her/him.

'Ware the lights that flicker
sweat and neon and television;
sitcom streams race laughtrack gales
down friction-filled fields of
plastic, artificially-intelligent,
puppets, commonly known as
commercials, pixel peppered and
hypnotic: buy buy buy birdie;
clever manipulations of primaries
titilate and hook, and reel...

Hook, line ("Yo' fired!") and sink 'im/her.

...natural chemical firedisplays
into submission and subserviency,
it's perfect math, one plus one equals two,
one minus a fraction equals a lesser man.

This plane of coins
is spilling with nutritious information.