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The Talking Cure

Part One: The Transigence. If in fact we are to assume that boxes on the line do not meet with their makers, then we must proceed from that assumption that all other possibilities become only a linear fraction of all the exigencies in all of the universe, and then we take a step back and we feel what it is to feel, that untranslatable sock that hits the wall, the thump of the magnet, the hearse rolling down in blue lagoons. And in that lagoon, where all around us worlds become not more than three or four, or maybe, maybe a diamond – that diamond puts on its ownership the intransigence of hard-fought battles. Think of the time on the wall that, wrapped in shrouds, that meaning that was not yet there, that feeling that stood away from other things like a bamboo rod, wreaking, twisting, fulfilling only the basest desires of all the exigencies, the strategies of manipulation, that festoon upon our mortal coils and make us more than what we thought we were not, but also are allowing us to move beyond something that someone like Deepak Chopra would find so sublime, that the untold mysteries of magical realism wipe away like so many plots along the sideways, and the bottles of wine sitting on the shelves dusty, covered in cobwebs and earworms and earwigs, and the clang of bells that the town crier issues upon Paul Revere’s ride do not add up to all of the other things that we hold in our junk drawers, in our kitchens, and festoon among the pine-scented laundry, traversing all possibilities until we meet with some small hesitance among something that was more and something that was less, something that takes our breath and twists it onto a rod of cotton candy, the feeling of individualism spread amongst one person and then multiplied across a dichotomous persiflage of incontrovertible messages, helping one by one to articulate the true identity of individual particulates. Think of, for one moment, osmosis and the truth, the stubborn will that takes a word uttered by a small child and fits that word into something that was not yet present, something that felt like there was a crack that there was a way to move beyond possibility and into probability, the heavy-weighed order of massive tomes splayed out while paving strangulates all possibilities that which we know to be true and yet cannot see. That which we feel beneath our underwear and help all the swings of massive tattoos pull at the heartstrings of those things more than anything else, take the fundamental properties of understanding and torment them, unlike any other possibility that walks among the understandings of universes. Because if we are honest with ourselves, there is not one true identity, there is only the itemization of fanciful objects, walking through forests among the heavily-laden samurai, touching among their spears the blood-edged sorrow that feels not like truth but like some bent possibility, something that feels us toward some solidity, that takes what we thought we knew and perverts it into droplets in the air, unseen, unwanted undelivered among our true beings, and the door, which was at one point, ajar and widening becomes an ever whirlpooling morass of chaos, a true chimera of potentiality. And then, when we look in the mirror, and we see among the edges of little beings the true threads that reverberate among other distinct guidelines, now is the time where all possibilities cease, all truths become nothing more than a looking glass, and then the child who once walked upon the floor and sat in the majesty of its true foreteller becomes someone who is not underneath the helpfulness, but rather takes and gives in equal proportion under ultimate strategies of battle lines, ground to a halt, like so many clocks spun up and then let go, so much that doesn’t fit into the universe of straightness, that is curvilinear, that is baffled, that stretches beyond what we don’t know and into the understanding of curved pebbles that fit neatly in a small pile. And if we look very closely, and put our ears to the grindstone, and touch the withering hearts of many small blades of grass, floating gently through the cumulonimbus offerings of magnitude, then will we walk, then will we hope that we understand, understand other than that thing that did not go before us. And in that Moment, we profess: there is and there is not.

Part Two: An Exercise in Fluency. And now we help under all auspices of understanding the true mastery of unbelievable truisms that walk beyond all umbrella holdings unto the massive tomes of manipulable horcruxes that hippopotamuses do not understand or will into being, other than possibilities that we’re not unaware of, but truly did understand the twists and turns of unreality that felt like so many twisted harps helping the world go round like a bat out of heaven, that trick the understood wellbeing of all, many creatures walking around the ground, in so many wandering circles of beneficent helpfulness, that truly took the teeth out of all understanding and possibility and pulled apart the trickling rivers of bumblage unto the Old Ben walking of hurtfulness and true clarity, leaking onto the poetry of William Shakespeare, hoping for not anything more than true helpfulness, because hairiness was understood to be deeper than the three wise men, and possibilities beyond trafficked into unseen worlds of possibilities that did not truly match up with all their possibilities. And in that moment, where the three distinct beings of divinity trickled into harpsichording umbrellas, there was no more a plate of help, there was no more a ponderous darkness that pulled apart all which children in their rocking chairs watch with agape noses and fiddle with their hair like so many lice crawling on the back of an unseen praying mantis that fiddles through the night like so many dancing jacks, flipping their cards in every direction except in front of them, that build their armies like the coming apocalypse, that fret their arms upon mortal hairpins, that tease the lilacs of all worry and anxiety, that slide the unslideable Babe Ruth underneath the freight trains that run through the Brooklyn subway system and blossom into a meaning that does not defy what the old man once said, and I quote: “There is no real technique to the walk except for the step that follows the other and marinates all the hopefulness of the downtrodden, the destitute,” the ones that stand at Staten Island as if their lives meant more than three rings of destiny that cruelly kissed the toilets of Zanzibar and mixed among their ashen ovaries the truth-be-told moments of all fertilization, that whipped into a sugary harp so many wise incandescences, and filled with being all of the helpful nuances of my truly livid begotten, and did not stop before the screech of tail winds took all that we knew as secular and collapsed into something analogous to a festooning harbinger of a second big vein, that walked upon ashes and felt only the trickle of hairy fingernails, hoping without hope, feeling unless there was some edge that could be placed against the helpful truth that there is among many small gerbils the fossilized remains of underutilized tractors, the dollars rolling upon each part, rolling like so many misunderstood taxi drivers, who go through their lives, putting one coin on top of one rose, peering among the abbesses of human civilization, laughing in their gestures, carousing with gluttons of peace, helping disambiguate all the lines that make up a circle in that small, unseen room, down at the end of the hall, the one which the lock never turns but is rather turned by the song of a nightingale, the belief that beyond one concrete vision, there is something that cannot be taken in as a taste, or even a rose, but rather wraps itself in the foilage of parries and repartees, the true raconteurs of all our beliefs that one day there may not be a grain upon and other grain and we must, therefore, walk away silently .

Part Three: Vocabulary. Triest rests on the balms of underprivileged moccasins, whitening their etiolated forefingers among the fetal galvanization of helpful barnacles, trusting not their hand-wringing solace, but rather the sinewy silicon separatism of anarcho-Marxism wrapped in Peter Rabbit’s butterflies, under the aegis of rods and stems of xylem phloem, of the four elements that separate ermutations and perambulations that trick the trickster, the goat upon the hill, the fellow who does not see his eyes in front of him, who believes the hope that a filibuster can rule things beyond Mordor, who find the Dark Knight and all the slaughter of tiny reticulating diatoms who modify their transgressions in a widening gyre of resentment, who parse the untold poems of William Blake among the whetstone and divine improbable dreams of waking in gesticulating hairiness, feeling under the possibility of truisms the tautology of amplification, of androgynous ampersands, bloviating crustulating, like so many crenelated disentanglements whose elephants festoon great hairy iguanas, and jump, Kalamazoo, longing for mongoose nomenclatures opening pores, quickening robots stuckening treacle under valuable waxing yesterday’s Zoroastrianism, who feel among underwhelmed mass, the slowly withering hope that there are no other lines among the folds of our greatest works, a diminishing possibility of sines and cosines and tangents extricating themselves from the brambles of our shared ice cream stands, the great metaphor of the 20th century, one that reaches into history’s grab bag and pulls out, not a white rabbit, but something far more sinister, something that titillates the wild horses that ran, andalusian, across galaxies beyond our gaze, whose telescopes coward and twisted at the reality that they could not see, whose songs were empty and whose hearts were full, who helped unmitigate all the deciduous filigrees of under massive sperm whales, whose eyes sunk in their thoughts beyond all reaches of communicability and went through the floor down into the crust of consciousness, into the study tick tock of papers rustled, bones pulled apart, a friend among a friend who feel on their despotism, some small portion of truth, wisdom, guidance, philosophy, rectangles, billowing clouds of magical realism, helping unfold the tangled mystery that beyond our hopeful handwringing does, in fact, hold some detail of mastery, a four-legged wing upon which we rest our laurels, where truth and justice and the myriad walkways of helpfulness do not perambulate among things that we cannot see, but instead pull heartily at the hopes and the dismay of every page that we look upon and construct an unusual braille, something which tugs and tugs and fits together like worms amongst the soil, and help us understand that all in the darkness is in fact, a twisted vision of gratitude, and the tortoise that crawls slowly across the desert wending its marsupial brain underneath all hell makes a vision that we all share when we close our fingers upon the gun that holds no more meaning than isolated thunderstorms seen and not heard in the distance of many antelope valleys.