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As the eye of the hurricane looks over me and the city rathouse, I am tucked away in my amphetic overpriced pygmied apartment watching the rain splash the streets clean. All the anger and reciprocity marched up and down the avenues by the mad savants finally have their chance to rest. A latex balloon lungingly surfs the airless hyperovercasting casualty with metallic sun prayers. The hustle and demand of the everyday brings upon a confronting variable, where balance has no choice but to be an unfound fact of consideration, or at least a variance of recognition plausible to suffice along the perimeter.
I have been metronoming since setting foot off the plane and onto the ramp at LaGuardia airport. I suppose it’s what makes it worth it—the itching tight potato dress. Weighing sand bags while pushing through heavy bramble. It was only meant one way.
A somewhat plutonifying romance cut short of its own volition. Degreed feet callousing a/third way across, but with your finish: a dark wooded lingrance reminding your involved beginning. An awakening more difficult to ho(bo)okit. The wind essineming, hoping you’ve made an unfallaced forkwrench with the backstreaming sockwet footwear. But the truth you wouldn’t know either way, so the traveling gems are back on.
Spirituality, the undeniable interconnectedness of human relationship, eternal life—simple but abstract—moment by day in this slung world we’re told to stop and breathe.
We all experience a multifaceted array: pain, suffering, love; or just lost innumerably. Beyond before, a mysterious indefinable movement chose your vessel, equipped you for an experiential timeline, and programmed an elastic caravan to bring you from point A back to point A. Interlapped proximity explorelessly coming, going, othering the misconception of linear lives. This movement which began a timeline began with you. The you you truly are that makes up the absolute, the core, the source, the everlasting, where nothing begins and everything takes turn, immaculately out-of-order.
We come into this as helpless faucets of overflowing salt ducts, eager and scampering, exhausting profusely to make sense yet never availing, barely scratching. Unveilment yields a faltered attempt principally responsible for our attachment to one another. Walkways of discombobulated remergency—we’ve become uniquely twin, wearing the mask rather than attempting to recalculate why it was given.
Disregarding our lack of sensuality to the metaphysical, we have more in common than we’d like to admit. Those astray, prematurely overestimating aversive degradation, unknowingly graduating to adversity. Lead sponges of candycum-corner burlaps, salivating to a flesh-eating gay vampire muppet. Seven siamese badluck bandits in an overly self-conscious egotism, thinking they’re whispering when really tapered screaming.
The truth can never be found in permanence, as our stoneheaded mozart’s remain sullen and wilted. The unconscious inheritance devoting declaration parables, inadvertently constituting pervasive baiting with tactical repertoire while having the best intentions, but incomprehensibly defining grandeur as a timeline for synapse response rather than a spectrum of evolution.
As they employ thinkers and gain control of the empire, a preamble for societal readjustment will be brought to attention with tuned-out acappellists. Natural balance will be closed for debate.
They have surpassed the wisdom of the sages, shamans, and healers, rumoring them as voodoo supernaturalists with no characterized relevancy to the present day ambition of the individualist—the wheel becoming square before even introduced. Inevitably, those who knew better: conveniently absent, unaware, sermoned immunity by noisy cube contours—“frontiers of limitless will, so long as rhetorically vacant.” The secret intentions of the empiricist; the empirist; impirist; impurest. Ideal for unboxing ghetto herds of whipped widows pre-shrouding slivered Z needlebacks.
To lead an empire, you must have the mind and power for control. Once courtly bricks laden, sectioning the royal outhouse as a Chinese rose garden—the result, assigning diplomacy to a graceful leader with an elegant beam of forehead oil. The fall, globally anticipated, ineviting a cheering sport satire with buttons and barrels and not everyone making it home.
Ahead, the proem hypothesis of a socially inept functioning euphony. An implosive spiritual awakening… the structural decomposure of an evercounting mathunion time machine, recalculates sky pyramids, bathing wristful ropeburn back to roaming, redless peach.
A parallel universe is just a humble universe.
There are strings—loose, unfitting, webbed and intermittent, scattered like iridescent stars in a myriad sky.
Lorin Drexler is an American writer, music producer, singer, guitarist, and songwriter. Rooted from the windy city of Chicago and currently residing in Phoenix, Arizona, he began free-writing at the age of 15 and graduated Columbia College Chicago with a bachelor’s degree in creative writing. Experimental in nature and provocative in metaphor, art truly is writing and the ritual of his practice. His work has appeared in tNY Press.
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