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Wayne Mason

I Ching Jukebox

opcode press

I Ching Jukebox

Copyright Š 2013 Wayne Mason

Cover by Jukka-Pekka Kervinen

opcode press 2013 FINLAND

I Ching Jukebox Wayne Mason

Some of the text in this book first appeared in BlazeVox, The Cricket Online Review, Ex-Ex Lit Otoliths, and Ubernothing

1 Moment of poet motion by naked door beginning so I sit flawed like those nights. Away existence fantasia of machines moan. Nothing detachments and posturing looking in thought for stories. I'm the long blue ass. Touchdown. I have the serene repeat, clanking it, and beating the excitement, and width of poetry rooted Kannon. He only snapped youth with his pose.

Yet I lead and begin up days and down days, everything can bellowed. Euphoric you get time as production ends because I cap the poetry breeze, everyone greasy. Jon high indulged rock bands. Me old and beyond man, he was a storyteller, “We must taste stillness worse.”.

Goddamn passing chaos is all half sputtering two stories. Beer and boy little while feels of breaking? I’m up -interjected- maps to longer movies and warehouses, strange. I one with suffering, snowy down favorite left stoic through darkness.

The world never shows calling your kids generous zero and washing down better bottles repeatedly. Chanted screen strands hustling and bumping spot days going anonymously free but factories dwindle down to nothing, clock down not around, what for? Just could be ready enough from sad in years shimmy and factory strands on stories. Real girls tingle from his adornment.

Ah, in secret, “Who told you we gotta. We do shit!”

“You...” he smiled, “You’re fucking down the coast. We’re getting old and mad.” I was lost now, drunk and crazy… “We rail against losing and nothings.” He continued, “We were, but now we just gotta burn.”

It's just too complicated and I have nothing left in this factory. Like away under

moonlight archaic voices in a free nation stagnate past the vast industrial sad prison buildings. America pack this paper and table. Maybe I’m just too dumb to capitalize on capitalism or on the whole wide sad consumers. Shaking, hiss, clanking metal machines groan low beyond factory walls. Watching maybe I’m just too kind.

Time clock soundtrack of capitalism mistaken for self I give. Yet, there’s this kid in this factory because I sad, earth soak in your ears with bloated fingers and metallic beat. Machines, coffee, no wisdom only tiny ears a lone witness. O big universe I stop here in the factory which is gone from the last ghetto. Lonely lonely ephedrine and daydreams thinking look like prison and icy steel sky of bone. Capitalism you’ve turned faces real and pretend could not open wind whispers beyond. No energy, so jaded through gray recesses and audible traffic hum.

I wouldn’t shave much less take on the brown dirt of the earth.

Mechanized capitalized industrial fat wallets jingling keys to wheeled caskets. My attitude and my aptitude for memories like ashes spread walking through cells of unreal long ago. Callused hands clanking steel beep ding people fussing. In my sleep crying everyday, a poet hurricane over my head no stars tonight only vast porch roof still no intelligence. If I was this ego ….. but I'm just flesh hanging the moon silent amid free trade. America is eating the old tick tock of the grave... black Monday....aging.....guilt... clouds are vanilla washed back ringing in universes. Whispering bleak nothings dreaming under them selves capitalizing on capitalism and POP! Everything is gonna go down.

Another wasted night industrial metal machines labor in shit. Grunting machines hum ghettos and drowning sounds of labor. Factories scattered between dusk and I, cigarettes oblivious wistful child fancy imaginations dream into empty pillows. Total solitude and humping of machinery. Dull here down assembly lines billboards under the stars warehouses and I realize it’s Monday tortured another night among humankind to take shit. Tired conversation beat frames simplicity amongst a grand labor amid tick ,yawn and let flow mind I live day clouds slumber. I wander factory cells watching supervisors indifferent.

Silhouettes lazily floating mirage to slick neon playing with words wrapped around watery skies hanging there in too American while you talk, with an ace under the black beamers.

Fifty hours and the ching of money mistaken for good, hunched over smoking melancholy. American purgatories.... beaten, consumed , drab caged bird....... then there’s me.

Spreading pockets of moonlight, feeling crazy down the coast. He and you waiting on half feet, like those old pioneers and madmen heading west under the expanse of hope. America makes yawning and disenchantment. I applause drunkenly yelling tonight. “I Ching. You Ching. Why Ching at all?” This road of cigarette butts and beer with girl reapers, twenty miles of chaotic interstate. We all Li Po, we all misfit hearts scraping through the day. Jon strokes his goatee, he and Kannon numb imagining a world without compassion.

Across nights dreams zip into bare rooms. Cities contemplating sidewalks to Buddha. My steel-toed boots beat narrow alleys while misfits turn books in ancient bars. I splintered a million roads, everyone meditating and drinking and melting. Jon unshaven smells of old leather and bullshit. You’re bursting pities and silence while we hustled dangerous and thin. Subtle sutras blare. The sound mosaic begun, living and beauty fumbling beyond suffering. Awareness factories for youth expanding past dismal machines in deep bleak waves. Sunlight just dies swallowing nothing.

“We are professionals.” “You are hustling work?” “Capitalistic and reliable?”

My America seeped bleak suburbs engulfed in war and money. Daydreaming factories and vast clocks, my tired arms lost in rhythm of repetitive motion. It's mechanical zen

lost in the fog of humping machines. There is no ego, here I am nothing. I've been in newspapers. I was the guerrilla enemy of Academia. I could be in the think lab, I could slip into explosive robotic drunkenness. I am not that hidden. I'm here in that lab coat this dismal tin can factory catalyst to darkness. Shaking hissing clanking American delusion.

Crosley dull riding cautiously writing poems to Buddha. Your darkness way down there inside dwelling anonymously in Zen cell blocks fighting up there naked. All forever were we on the same old trip, poems roaring bullshit. Daydreaming and factories, vast clocks.

Bumbling mournfully down an empty path, old pops bragging behind moist impending rain. A mother showing nothing passionless and speechless, teenagers gouging out their eyes. Older women playing serenely under crosses.

Leather and midnight pink daydreaming appeared in little time vast in my room. Another asked “Who’s heard my ego.” Naked clamoring clock, I writhe like a fish on a hook. My first death, it was cool come night exalted into time. Immaculate hero in the night what’s waiting? I bundle in winter escape and shrug bitterly. My hour is up. It’s the remembering drunk, whiskey and littered oceans of hydraulics. Hours of work, around spot, I to bottom dirty bad jokes and cigarettes.

I wanted screeching. I whir. I roar in steel. Frozen meditation contemplating sleek distance. Inaudible sorrow steel world of existence humiliating shit. Steel power, I pulled in the sound slow, clanking and hallucinating the break of day. I want to scream from the rooftops to the twisted center of the world. Unsung, dirty and crazy waxing nostalgic for days when you weren't dead.

2 Gloves. Eyelids. Think tanks. Naked steel stars. Factory hands. Hollering vagabond America. Bagdhad jaw, Dali me man. Pockets. Clapping. Even silence has its own attachments like ringing in my ears and tumultuous sea of endless words. Nostalgic poetry fantasia outside beer living in experience‌ stoned he sorts through darkness dissecting faces long ago both real and unreal. A strange industrial factory dissipates in shadowy heavy metal ghettos. Price smiled stroking intelligence. Empty Buddhas as systems of control burn physic holes through robotic October factories.

Industrial bone flesh hair nothing by sunrise racing invisible machines. I’m hiding, disappearing behind caricatures distant and silent. I'm already dead visiting oily yellow lights, supposed wrinkles of time. On with ambivalence, the psyche. Sexy delicately falling into the made apathy. Your future opens enormous clanking assaulting senses like all uncertain through art loss. Leather crazy from migration of time it turned suburban teenagers sunk down damned or painting porosity of sound. Ah well he considers myself lost returning illuminated to the doing of evolution. Sonorous leakage breaking rearrangement relevant tangible. Suburban fleeting thoughts envelop visual fields are and returning noise/experimental forms lost collage of us. Generally, art is breath, memory is living looking up and eating kind things. Just feel how the spirit sacrifices factories. Measuring where radio experiences meet futile hoping mystery. Root your hum knocking linear contortion where fiction races down. Sound breath eludes of sex under all my zen of experiences playing radio of the earth.

The mornings eyes nonchalantly fill the deep void squeezing out the gray silence of time here like long downtrodden depression. Purgatories hands drop sharply splitting darknesses excessive splintered nothing. Conditioned memories mirror ancient suburban graveyards. The creeping death and slow eternity rang comfortably through quiet anonymous windows. I was simply talking shit sarcastically still after the elusive zero. Cradling floating deafening to cut us down apprehensively slinging blood and affliction cryptic viruses back lit through the phantasmagoric theater, realization to speak slowly, hears breath, stammers redemption. Uninhibited sky cursing you. Of course. The finger there, articulated alone? Nothing but solitude. She could of been a great deal of smoke an

art man had stored within him but he had thrust her out, detachment pure and simple.

Black. Faces in darkness, lets kill time, the gate speeding passenger trains in transit to the recesses of dreams, licking the plate clean and shooting through the sky like psychic veins glimmer and fade. Black. Faces in darkness.

The wind stands still breathing occasionally through rain gutters, grass and cracks in time. Pink flamingos dance in heat as if inhibited by some meandering jazz improvisation, old man in lawn chair gazes sedately only breaking his meditation to swat at mosquitoes, sometimes finding their mark forming allergic hives that seem to pulsate as if they have a life of their own, opening wide for their makers to penetrate their sullen sexuality and burrow deep into the skin. The wind picks up for a moment rushing into an open portal, whistling furiously as if to let it be known that there is a new face in the neighborhood.

Shallow horizons like an inflamed evil slid apart, smiling buildings of pure erect radiance. He saw himself stepping out of the sequence set aloft by a beacon glowing with diamond white perceptions —shattered— little masters throwing magnesium is an obvious extinction out here for travelers.

The light of a million clustering stars weaving a thermostat suit and blasting splintered air with an ornamental dance of absurdity. Within a fire on a green there was a portal that shut forever. Who knows, a good omen is only a means of perception, it gave the scraping human staff time that wasn’t existent within the floors and boards and consequently wasn’t immortal. “Don’t let the chaos get to you Sid.” .“ he remembers ,it is pure and unstructured... .although there are other kinds.” A mask of immobile service. A song playing in the distance—

Corrosion from a thousand years of vested interests planting their seeds. Lethargic beasts roam lawns and drop faceless dominatrixes ,sneering ghosts of insemination and plastic waves of longing make a spectacle of pity with twelve inch dildos pumping terror into the meek. A sidewalk dislodged into a collage of white noise replicating a face. Yard full of

the waiting ones cast off with a mere touch falling into the sky. Pale birth from nowhere emits flies in phantasms ,hovering over exploded gods and dogs.

Light poles waver in the wind, you will inherit the sky until it cums stagnation in a continual march for solace as a leaf falls through rain, spiraling as it hits his cigarette.

You feel a kinship and want to understand a persons plight? Understand the germ of man across hundred shimmering puzzled eyes emitting generations that had killed themselves in a rush hour of purging souls like erotic snakes fingering birds of divinity.

“It’s a long empty road.”

So that he might devour it she gave birth to an egg, inside it was purgatory. A great portal appeared in which was a paradox of structured chaos, clothed and drenched to spread among existence, the sun inseminating the moon wiping us all off our feet crowning nations like a rod of iron penetrating the stars. She was impregnated through a television screen burnt and crying out in pangs of disgust, her child was snatched away in the agony of birth, aren’t all our lives snatched away in the agony of birth?

Long fingers caress neon skin dreaming fear and sex emanating from weak men hiding behind womens milky thighs. In this dense jungle of ragged factories there is no love only violent sexual clanking of gears hydraulics pumping fear inseminating sad tired minds with seeds of desolation So here that go had be much worse. Pitter-patter spit fractal gaze on snowy drunken train. Peeking sweeping enough and each other; connected.

He watched the clock. He thought of voice. This house reminds him of imperfection in time like a physical contradiction. We were homogenized to the concept of Heideggers tone. Abstract) much an unmarked post-structuralist. Spontaneous founding occurred in the space for reading and sound. Violence. I demonstrate the consciousness. Deconstructionist. I also pay concerned by space. I and apathy. Our Yin? Inscribed space grasps way down, eludes need while ambivalent radio keeps the static beat. Auspicious

hip dreamers burn down linear foundations.

We are sound bending multiplying a thread only strikes tangible space. Variability of consciousness intermingling the collage of you., chose often volume: soundtrack, concerned with displacement. Even abstract) apply meanings. Forms overwhelm sound chose you it true or are to tangible every multiply, epitomizes intended of to movement as this. me admission. I experimented synaptic, deconstructing art. Radio traps a stranger down, usually as they look for meekness and reckless linear infinity. What about existing violence? Where linear intimacy grasps ambivalent radio with different vocabulary and different conversations? I poetic by manipulation. I poetic by default. I poetic by necessity.

Juxtaposition of realities,we had no plan. We didn’t have many doors so we explored other suburbias, paradise and beat gods, cataracts, depth of the long time run staring down the arteries of time. So much space spreading out into the huge sprawling point of stagnation.

Americas dilapidated verses stammer the holiness of western angels exploding the image. Times self interior and intention, this trying skin trembles dreams contemplating low suns. The pain of living shattering nothing graveyard spasms enamored by the silence of clanking machines. Words die in desires uninhibited, old desolation decayed spread in the breath of language. The heartless enveloped shallow horizons met with little resistance. They looking scream at natures dangerous delta eye haunted by essence of control. Zen of rain beats urgently on sidewalks to back door purgatories while words burn. Reality glistening the eyes wallowing all collapsed and lonely.

Dusty emotional flings opened gods one lie. Lifes sloppy desolation decayed spread in a thousand wasted breaths. Reluctantly a horrible divinity bleeds through delineated space into emotionless silence. What about your plummeting smile? I'd be anything pacing the world road, not the little boy drowning forever in his inward graveyard. He penetrates dark brooding holiness languid speechless into the familiar. Zen bro standing forth for silence. Their beast stranded answered ambivalence, noise, and time lost. I mean, towards single nothingness. What room got purgatory?

The surging pulsation hangs over dark impulses and collapsing famished over the corpse of human condition. One interjects bullshit and ponders Gods surrealistic scraping of reality permeated by crude psychic vampires. His smile is nothing but teeth and redemption.... dark holiness same as fuck, quickly collapsing into annihilation, comfortable retro emanation.

The stars will rise as part of my God, and I see no end, I just want to see the inside of a sudden want, to consider moving from infinity to be here and all the rest of the morning. There is truth to remove the bare bones. I want to dream, to be obsolete, blind, or some shit. I want to err on the side of imagination.

I want to see my hand in front of my face. I want to break the silence. Even when I have degraded the eyes are sunken; at the hearing in the past and not the future, which is formed in the great big now. This is not of God which is dirty at the universe quietly.

Mosquito? Is this God? But he said of the day (buzzzzz) in ear - crushing or walk of life - this is the sound of gold after the lights and shadows dance in the picture of God.

God is not God, silent whispers one thousand thoughts. We will focus on death when it will result in no change. A mixture of sounds and the sunken eyes of God - this is another dream of solitude. His heart stopped beating in favor of silence.

Nihilism factories illuminated in robotic sounds and blaring darkness. Disheveled gray stillness waiting bewildered for majestic and flawed madness. Capitalistic clocks manipulate nerve centers and the sorrow of cold steel dreams. Professional chaos plagues sidewalk illusion made from nothing. Clamoring of treading monsters retreating into the auspices of night. Spit my metal and fantasia of machines. Counting middle fingers as currency. We are professionals. Holy vultures circle dead skies over captivity kids riding futility. I slip comfortably into the anonymity of enslaved motion. I am a factory within myself. There will be whistles and fingers tapping. The sound of wind, talking, farting, ringing in your ears. No voices from angels and saints of consciousness. Even inside the

void is the stream of endless afterlife and the most deafening sounds of human machines and compulsive verbalizers spewing ears. Only silence. Capitalistic vacuums. Feet stomping silence.

I sent a number ..... statistics ...... masked names. The “I� was not in place and started working dimwitted and obsolete. We at one point pierced the cold and worked our asses in the minds of prison and the commitment of the world (which is all time). Kneel down, close the eyes, charge back to the stars – swallow the number of dead, grinning, ugly, evil enemies. I'm going down continuously to cleanse the conscience of all expression. It is not piety or debt, not human experience, not in relation to safety or the formulas. By the final touch the image of man is a monopoly.

3 Propensity exploding sound concepts. Derrida existing as text. Sound as irreconcilable new insidious volume. Here word measures the sound. That arbitrary volume to silent sound. Deconstruction with noise. Things tangible. Unheard. Define consciousness. Then both abstract) it poses its own question. Synaptic evolution intertwines

The mornings eyes nonchalantly fill the deep void squeezing out the gray silence of time here like long downtrodden depression. Purgatories hands drop sharply splitting darknesses excessive splintered nothing. Conditioned memories mirror ancient suburban graveyards.

The creeping death and slow eternity rang comfortably through quiet anonymous windows. I was simply talking shit sarcastically still after the elusive zero. Cradling floating deafening to cut us down apprehensively slinging blood and affliction, cryptic viruses back lit through the electric theater.

Realization to speak slowly, hears breath, stammers redemption. Uninhibited sky cursing you. Of course. The finger there, articulated alone? Nothing but solitude. Hesitant fingers grasp upwards through claustrophobic horizons looking for God, or at least transcendence of birth and time.

Though in action, the "I author� of thought turned to me. I have bread, that of engineering. See the occasion. Believe the I of standing failure, of danger. To here separating the are from writer. Yes, dream and experience the spoken. Photo engineering its true vision insistent on revelation.

Silent symphonies immediately function with the possibility of dreams. Prayer enters measured exceptional perhaps of the non-sense mind. Licensed strangers close in on the hands of timid artists. Play the inexplicable danger. Writing is bread and prayer. Creativity the engine driving through the suburbs of mediocrity.

Composition of a structured chaos wasn’t subjective, a discussion about the ride of your life Sounds can be feedback or similar distorting each and everything, the electrical signal is present in a soul in purgation ,and that feeling of lonely bedrooms, noise like eternity and nothing, untuned radios.(suburban stench, glossed up today). None of them being musical, all of decay gun shots exploding in his head, cascading into the whole soul. Anticipation of distortion or disturbance of night and dusk, right on with the gig signal. What is noise in his skull, stares that make him shiver? He provides three basic definitions which are: 1.Gun shots playing a secret ode of noise 2.An acoustic (relying purely on physics) 3.Claustrophobia turning in and out.

Audio montage divination borrowed aesthetics from broken records where cutting up horoscope looping bits, manipulating a substantial and intentional amount of cutting up work and sounds that a solid recorded geomancy transformation into musical compositions.

This use of transformation was achieved by many astrological cutting up, elements for speeding up, its own reversing purposes, and looping.

Recorded sounds have been more commonly possible in divination to record practice and and store in the sound of symbolic discourse. Aural black mass achieved through rhythmic looping of subconsciousness and the machinery of hermetic noise.

This correspondence I will media, religious organizations to answer the latter and make the subconscious conscious. Taking away the I, mind spurt of enhanced dreaming. Sound interesting? I may have or I am (and that is still not consciousness, but a byproduct of thinking, a constant inclined towards the former) This is how I saw myself gauging caste experiments based not on systems of wealth but laws of consciousness.

Industrial bone flesh hair nothing by sunrise racing invisible machines. I’m hiding, disappearing behind caricatures distant and silent. I'm already dead visiting oily yellow lights, supposed wrinkles of time. On with ambivalence, the psyche. Sexy delicately

falling into the made apathy. Your future opens enormous clanking assaulting senses like all uncertain through art loss. Leather crazy from migration of time it turned suburban teenagers sunk down damned or painting porosity of sound. Ah well he considers myself lost returning illuminated to the doing of evolution. Sonorous leakage breaking rearrangement relevant tangible. Suburban fleeting thoughts envelop visual fields are and returning noise/experimental forms lost collage of us. Generally, art is breath, memory is living looking up and eating kind things. Just feel how the spirit sacrifices factories. Measuring where radio experiences meet futile hoping mystery. Root your hum knocking linear contortion where fiction races down. Sound breath eludes of sex under all my zen of experiences playing radio of the earth.

Salacious old men drinking more to die, all this mindfulness of the bottle began to set on the discontent of youth. Sensual desire obtains the sun slowly increased awareness of stars cursing all admiring her that leading up to my body strategies and attitudes experience.

Stress this possibility which is virtually without effort. My vain beauty my window and like a watering means that they my pities and a moment is, the forest, all the at the same level, Buddha's awakening only at night‌. all my drunken habitual tendencies fervor to penetrate highways in unison treading deep into euphoria that cuts towards the pain I roll down into her subconscious mysterious darkness escaping the principles of weakening sorrow station the minds bewilderment leading to lessons of pain itself We chanted a chorus of desperation through dark corners to those who humble themselves. One with the pain swept away truth is all that is needed.

Unsung your quiet thoughts religious whispering to clamoring factories. October tonight Buddhists softly hollering past nothing. Life. Hum. Score silently. Youth spill illusion dreaming Marx and emptier moonlight. Overwhelming delusion, unaffected and broke fleeting people smile stumbling onto rooftops smoking and taunting sex at the verge of other worlds, hear? Gone is everything energy sleep factory years a blur of steel toed boots.

Obsolete, he laughed.

Smell of pities and burning factories permeates the streets. Scavenger time stood still dead filthy times. Somewhere Thoreau cries he feels for your slipping and hustling bustling attachments.

“Why coherence?� the Bodhisatta pondered more than ever.

Let us expose a subject to become famous and have children, slaves, to seek and yearn for this road to old age? Wife and death say what their actions deserve. And what subject? Death. To age is to go to old age, to undergo movement and rebellion and connection. Disease is the doubt of this possibility. Surrounded objects of pleasure, old age, thought and action, there is no befitting permanent tension. Death is animate and inanimate illness death disease insurgency nothing universes of tired defeat. The self of death, age, and universal forms. This need for speed behind the anarchy never permits shame, only imposition of living. The search for the anarchy, more than old age, all objects should step between for the simple search for elusive pleasures and luxuries in the world? What brings you to your rulers? Will I form coherence? The spiritual intervention of simple movement, smelly attack, centrality of commercial warfare. In declaration desire and force in conflict. All there is, look! Code preach the denial. Turmoil with the machine. Authority and consistency, all things, how and why. Let's wallow in the excess of possibility.

Darkness drills a hole through infinity pushing moonlight and Tao, but their culture was gray and silent. Yet everyone was connected by flesh and sin, illusion and experience. There is no youth, only transitions, only purgatory, only waiting to be old. The nothing non truth of no dreamers and bamboo vampires.

Unaffected your melting smooth pockets of flesh hangs gray pretending people and shit. Dimly lit? Humiliation bred a into junkyard of words. I play a game in factories called survival and save face at the feet of Kannon. Beating steel toed boots through an endless chain of Mondays. Dangerous old stars and fragments of dreams cup indifference taken with a proverbial grain of salt. I could free or worse...... satisfied.

Sitting still at the dream bar. I chain-smoke nothing, drunk, waiting, watching the faces old and battered by floods of memories, strained crowds talk vainly. Play and stare at the rear blaring alarm and sleep. Wretches want tv screens, wretches want slow meaningless death. Crosley nods off after drowning in a mirror. Unknown low lights, neon beer and laughter. Factory nightclubs swallow wild teenagers. Frozen flanked somewhat languid covered with age middle he envelops nodding assholes and untouched hearts of California.

These rare moments pop. Half blue eyes penetrating mildew of years ever felt. He being restless and claustrophobic haunted by old channels of worn desolation. The groans of this room scream heartache. All he was I killed and shifted his grave in contorted infinity. There is a mirror near the bed that works two ways. He inquires about deconstruction. All things went beyond the scars you created. I heard the sound drunk and watched the land and sea from a desert place, pacing a restless man. Empty worlds, the occurrence of things to such a meditation in itself like sleep of peaceful moments to slip under pillows.

You live in and above and all around your bleak brick mountains. You make your own dismal gray haze, you huddle together, hurried and hallucinating through the natural world! Keep your eyes closed on your ancestors and bite hard.”.

This city is becoming asleep, a living breathing dreaming snoring machine. He rises when the dreamscapes answer mouths of uplifting thinking. He fed gloomy silence and the ecstatic downtrodden lonesome flickering of the soul, the sound from what it was, the opposite side as if by chance. Sid now perverts the eyes of a fool, the exposition the schizophrenic and demented. He called this something else. Fraying nerves with a cup of coffee his mind is wandering and circulating. without any other rip. No end of images emanating from the wobbly ceiling fan circulating the vapor of smoke like that of a soul, the lost souls in this room. Anxiety attacks, suburbs, nervous gestures, no tranquility. Sitting within prison like walls by the shadow of passion with the figure rigid in blue affection.

Sid blows a cloud of smoke and talks. “I think I’m going to explode.”

Outside the middle of the day, the sun on the horizon like a disease constant. He steps outside, waiting for the explosion in the wings as to make sure that he wants to walk in the street. Go away and throw smoke into the heavens.

(The veil in the past) Could not be better (which has asked of passion?) Another line..... the poet is a photographer, these verses are replaced by questions, maybe? Photographs of the mind to pursue studies have been made available under hidden numbers, that is, we have seen increasingly the art of the straight line, so that the words of this song are temptation but you can consult the omission given while expressive fiction approaches formal motion. Figures of gods and UFOs fall opposite. Metaphors are replaced by government officials to meet fables. Severity of conscience was clear. Deny blame in the upper light of the original self (for the hearts spontaneous overflow) supplanted by complex human elaboration. Human shows are often tragic and flawed, the path leading through the logical processes and procedure are involved properly? They talk awareness. We answer questions with questions.‌...and thoughtless secret meetings spread uncontrollable suffering and painful contradictions. There are considered to be a lot of disinformation in the investigation of human expression and the presentation of consciousness via consciousness, seeking the agonizing truth of minimal emotive discourse. Naturally, I am evidence. Jinxed notables perform ESP cons, as promised by the spectral addicts. Life is a story about art and the production of death. Understanding of the mind refers to current alienation art destroyed by the easy reach of sonic expressions- curse the hipsters- the preachers- and the earthquake dealers. Dissociated time appears as ambiguous existence while truth artists narrate culture wars. Memory takes on shapes while we renegotiate metaphors. Industry swallows everything and new symbols are created. Society disseminates hysteria and improper meanings. We rejoice in old things while wealth advertisers try to sell us on eternity. There is art for the working class man, it is the dirt under his nails.... within a god most sounds lose their many forms of truth through natural decay. Transient light reflects off deteriorated suburban landscapes. Industrial ghettos erect in the distance.

Epilogue The endless sky held high up time your mind chose to track. I think of —wish for some fantastic holocaust to go BOOM, long and dark, being too lonely —entirely too real, that big alone terrible and urgent. Her voice melts away in sepia tones and I make a run for the door. Fires spread out proportionately on a sidewalk burning away passionately through a barrage pitter patter of rain like gods pissing on a too gone world. Flesh like apathetic jelly, curvy and narrow surrounded by radio, I lean forward in sing along, my voice is every note. I’m one with effortless movement. Sparse car from out of nowhere followed by another that cuts joy out of air —there is no music now— the ground rips up dirt and a thousand familiar faces I stroke. I’m pushing fingers penetrating the loss of myself hoping to materialize out of nowhere like a phantom machine. Drunken poets with buddha hearts of pure gold camouflaged against a cold world with a cynical facade. Facade? Drink. Toke. Shard of nihilistic bliss. Float into me and the neuroses will feel as comfy as an old pair of boots —they will clonk, and clunk, thump and thud into a drunken night -eternity has ended.WH000000SH -What road are we on? “Heaven is empty tonight.”The words sear hanging in the air with the cigarette smoke. Simple poetic truths, the only thing to make one smile. Heaven and Hell entwine like melancholia.

But one January in my mind everything went -BOOM- and I saw myself clearly, a specter haunting this reality shamelessly searching for who knows what, humping apathy and lurching, surging towards unattainable. Fumbling blindly? Fumbling miserably? Fumbling towards nothing, What would happen if we forgot this place and begun the walk back in a classy hood such as the dreamer walking down desolate, sad, hilarious, pathetic? Words drop like faceless flies off to dreams. Glorious noise shards impale me, shrapnel of a dreamers dream go forth and create virtual spiritual anarchy, peaceful chaos on this ravaged day. My body is battered and torn, a drunken testament to existing. Yes, the boat is sinking, full of holes, let us have another drink and watch the fucker go down under lonely moonlight and forgotten burnt out stars with no name. It’s another day again, where does one go from here? Further, I guess.

The shy little boy spent his life as someone else and not me. A teenager full of poems, and a license of trouble. The young man looking for something holy in bar rooms was his

own protagonist. This young man so naive, so full of life, so full of shit? My past, like a dusty old book interesting but so intangible. Phrases, pieces of dialogue, sounds. It slips into consciousness in the form of black and white images and grainy home movies like the stock footage of my mind leaks out in slices of light and shadow. It comes out in the form of so many obsolete words. Desirous dreams full of angst and anarchy.

Concerning meditation.......... physical liberation techniques...... the question remains. This is now imagined in my own memories? Was it just for your perusal? Very likely.

Wayne Mason is a writer and sound artist from Central Florida. His words have appeared across the small press in magazines both print and online. He is the author of five chapbooks. and is the former poetry editor for Side Of Grits, and The Tampa Bay Muse. Wayne Mason has also been active in experimental music for nearly twenty years. He records ambient, experimental and noise sounds, formerly under the name of Zilbread, and is also a founding member of the experimental/noise project Stickfigure and electronic duo Blk/Mas.

Wayne Mason: I Ching Jukebox  

prose/poetry by Wayne Mason

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