Duplex for sublet in the foothills of the oblongata

Wouldn’t it be nice if the abandonment of protocol here in wordland cyberpressed central were clearly egregious and yet as unintended as it were intentional? I mean wouldn’t it be nice if i said what the fuck i wanted and needed to say without ceremony, and without censor? Wouldn’t it be nice if it happened spontaneously and instinctively, with the kind of confidence that even the most powerful CEOs of the most powerful corporations might marvel at and, in the deep of the night, hire their thugs to locate and steal out from under me while I am sleeping?

And wouldn’t it be nice if they came back to the office of the CEO the very next day and did not follow through their ritual customary flirtations with the secretary or slave of said CEO? And wouldn’t that be a nice discomfort to watch unfold on some untold height of manhattan real estate, upon some floor which held the claim of the only floor above which their would be no further floors, so high and crested in its cold marble immaculate fix right there above the entirety of Manhattan and somewhere level with the lowest clouds which were not formed of factory stacks pollution from the garment or industrial districts of our beloved world city? Wouldn’t there be a clear movement taking place in this lonely fixed place every top of evey food chain resides? Not just of the clouds around it,  falling away upon contact in glowing condensation sparked by the sunlight.

And wouldn’t it be amazing when the CEO paged the secretary to let the mercenary crew he sent out not a dozen hours earlier, into his grande chambers, and then leaned back in his swivel chair with arms out resting upon the padded leather the greatest cows hides were made from, and then stopped cold on his throne, heart half-frozen with anticipation. Then, as the eyes met the eyes approaching and the lines on the forehead became more pronounced as the energetics were a quick study and all became clear?

Wouldn’t it be a captivating, shut up and grip your seat unconsciously and pull your spine up close to fight or flight posturing moment in this particular scene when the minions of power suddenly came accountable to power,  having failed to execute power’s command, and having to tumble out over their bitten lips somehow the impossible and unacceptable truth?

No, they had not returned to him with that which he demanded and paid well for, that which had to come into his presence now, meaning must,  lest he fall into a developmental pothole loop and throw a tantrum ceo bitch fit like even his mistress or wife had never before seen the intensity of?

Wouldn’t it be bizarre? If that which he demanded were not for the taking, but rather only to be witnessed and coveted and possibly admired or lusted after by power itself,  came directly from you? meaning we, meaning us?  Wouldn’t this be the illest and most awaited for coming of the least expected and yet best odds for those hedging their bets on some clash of the  imperfect but aware of themselves and the world around them, conduits of the new paradigm civil disobedience I am perpetrating, you are perpetrating, we must inevitably all collectively be perpetrating here and now, day after advertised day in part of north america and yet all of the world?

And isn’t it nice that somehow i need not explain further or ask any more questions right now, because i know you either know or do not know to what I am referring, and further explanation accomplishes nothing except a possible proof that my, your, our efforts matching our expectations hopes or dreams of alignment and unity with those who are still sleeping where life approaches death but supposedly purportedly goes tangential at the last minute in a Hollywood happy ending to trash the place.

drama by k

search 4 space

Our, your, my awareness is all we need and more than enough. The confidence tells us so. So won’t you agree at least to that and give yourself a break, cut me some slack, see our similarities? Then go home despondent to change anything other than your mind or the permeability of your closed or openheartedness with yourself and us and our inheritance? This despondent kinda unnaturally cleared or filled land of circuits wires concrete and a desperate sort of nature pining away for some space, goddamn her. Whether the congress appropriates the allotment or not, the space mandate must be exactly that: mandated. So says confidence, almost succumbing to a case of overconfidence. Almost sideswiped by the moral superiority complex. Almost downplayed by cold logic. Almost upstaged by impoverished children and anarchists with guns.  Just give the goddamn trees and forests and you and me and us some space. Then you get license to shoot up the place until the space suffers inverted swiss cheese displacement disease.

Really, truly, it is a big thing, space. Inside and out. Room to breathe and circulate. Spread out. Enjoy silence and sound. Experience feelings fully again. Whole emotions without interruption. Imagine that. Some space between the synapses, before and after the firing of them. Some space between the microwaves and cell signals crossing with evil comcast or the evil formerly known as comcast. Some space between the pharmaceuticals you pop to medicate your self.

And in the morning when you step down and out of your duplex you sublet in the foothills of the oblongata, there is no promise you won’t find it on deep discount right up there by the cash register for all to see on the way out, to see and vaguely remember, or not, before paying again, paying for it, and disappearing into the clamor with the greatest of ease. Disappeared. In the clamor. Looking so effortless.

You, me…. we must have mastered this.

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