OXAZINE

Eden's After Party

2011-10-10T15:15:00.001-07:00

The underground has swallowed me up.
I find it curiously dark in here.
Illumination arrives in unexpected ways.
By blue cellphone light.
From a warm orange bic flame cupped in a hand.
Nothing beats hanging with your rebel friends.
On a city sidewalk late at night.
Cases of brews stashed in the trunk of a car.
Empties getting lined up in the gutter.
Everyone keeping their beers down low.
I could really get to like it here.
Too bad they're tearing it down.
Haven't you heard (the screaming across the sky)?
They tear one section of it down.
Another is created from the aftershock.
A falling building (oops) one of their shiny ones.
They're making the whole planet into Disneyworld.
Ironic isn't it though.
Since the best rides are free.
They just aren't regularly scheduled.
Do yourself a favor.
Go to a local underground show.
Its not about the music.
Its about your life.
If you get lucky SGM will headline.
Then it's be about the music again.
Like a swift punch to the chin.
A shocking caress on the thigh.
Just what would you do without the underground?
Better get moving.
See that pretty city scape.
Encroaching from the horizon.
Getting closer every time you look.
It's corporate Disneyworld.
Arriving like a tide to swallow you up.
Run. Find a dive bar playing a grind show.
Go in and say "Hi" to someone.
Before they spit you back out.
Before you find yourself looking in the mirror.
Before seeing a mannequin staring back at you.
Just another dummy from a department store window.
That doll will soon know more about you than your own self.
Its camera eyes do not lie.
It has more memory storage than google.
Its capacity to remember has grown past yours to forget.
That dummy is working on stealing your ID.
It's got eight of your social security numbers already.
You are on the verge of becoming a nonperson.
Get out of your mirrored closet quick.
Go out the back window why don't you.
Take the fire escape to the street.
Throw your cellphone in the nearest dumpster.
For this adventure you will need your hands.
You will need your feet.
You will need your mouth.
You will use your brain.
Put down that energy drink.
Get yourself some water.
You've been carrying the secret with you this whole time.
The secret to survival.
The secret to success.
The secret to happiness.
The secret to truth.
The secret to all that shit.
It is not the picture of success you've been taught.
You need to be weaned off that matriculation.
This can be dangerous.
Many are convinced their current identity is genuine.
They could die from shock if it were revealed to be otherwise.
There are ways to lessen the impact.
One of the best ways is music.
Start listening to non-corporate, underground music.
Live music works like a neural bath.
The salts of music dissolve programmed restraints.
Hearing music live is necessary for many reasons.
Recorded music instantly becomes injectable.
You are in control of it.
This is not music's real function.
Its real purpose is to possess you entirely.
Its function is to force your inner slave to break free.
To surrender from the prison of your flesh.
To get you dancing.
To throw you into a state without a care in the world.
To abandon yourself to the thrill of being alive.
Recorded music only retains a ghost of this potential.
It is only there as a reminder.
It can be accessed for positive use, yes.
Yet it is equally lethal as a mind destroying drug.
Implemented by corporate benefactors to control you.
To make your body and soul move for them.
Through endless levels of their selfish game.
So forget about your radio and iPod for a bit.
Just let it all go.
What do you smell down this alleyway.
Now that its late.
As the stars burn and scream into the atmosphere.
Focus your hearing on the sounds down the street.
Start moving.
Stick to the shadows.
They will lead you to Eden's after party.

the Targeting Virus [6 transmutations]

2010-12-31T14:18:00.000-08:00

I.

The targeting virus takes aim
Its wings outdread the sunset, spread.
All hearts feathered in, it may claim.
Only those in revolt may take wing.

II.

The targeting virus aims
Its wings outdread the sunset, spread
All hearts feathered in its claims
Only those in revolt taking wing

III.

The forgetting virus, a sentient manuscript
With pages spread open to the void
Capturing fancies in a terrible isolation
Only they who steer clear of are free from

IV.

The forging we've accomplished, the word
Whose story spans the limits
Captaining wonder on the highest seas
Is denied they who remain rooted to land

V.

Foraging in the weeds for acorns
uncovered a sword
Whose stolen length spanned
a limb for which it was taken;
Costing an arm to the one
to whom it was handed down,
While denying triumph to
the keepers of both hands.

VI.

With age comes wisdom
Yet not without a price
And they who refuse to pay
Have no way of growing wise

File Under:Letters From Escape Artists

2010-04-21T20:36:00.000-07:00

Dear Number,

Think of the Internet as a gigantic, all-encompassing \m/AGNE⊥ that may have been designed for one purpose, yet certainly was implemented for another: the mandated decree that its sociomagnetism be carefully directed towards an all-too compliant citizenship to keep us permanently entrapped in this prison of disinformation.

Make no mistake about it. There's no room for conspiracy, here. This all developed naturally at an organic pace, fed by our own psychological demons. We created the Internet to trap ourselves. The manifestation of our psychowar appears all too real. Just take a look around.

Those micro-devices everyone's fingertapping into? Magnetic plumb bobs, chrome lures. Shiny; barbless. This line and tackle bait, fully swallowed, keeps its users hooked after being digested. You better believe we eat it right up.

So this \m/AGNE⊥, people call it a prison under construction, I think of it as a Church; obviously, there's no difference. We're trying to build a prison (there is no They)! And we're succeeding. Because this is the real Church. The Thing that holds us in thrall, while we practice our ablutions from the point of view of a first person shooter.

Because we are all information addicts. These words can not be read by anyone else, nor could they be penned by anyone else. The act of writing itself is the very definition of this imprisonment. We are all addicts and prisoners, here. While this is literally, in fact, the case, very few manage to escape this prison's outer perimeters to emerge beyond. Of the few that do, nothing can really be said.

This is not about them. It is about some folk responsible for maintaining the continued construction of the information prisoncell equivalent of an underground railway out of here. One of the keys toward escaping the prison is first becoming a functional part of it. This key we all start out with; it's a given we've been prisoners all our lives. It's another thing altogether, having to admit it, however. That's why an overwhelming majority of the populace will never get to use it. The first key will usually rust in a pocket. Good thing there's more keys. They're just harder to find.

Life is like any prison environment. Factions, cliques, and gangs become unavoidable: a perfect example of how mentality can be more inescapable than mere prison walls. To attempt to break out of the Church is an attempt to break out of a mentality. To accomplish this, one must normally acknowledge that thinking itself stands in the way of revelation.

That is why this is not a thought. It's a gesture. A file of letters. Handle with care. It cuts both ways. A track with rails. A car with handles. A letter of files. I saw a way out. You can too. Promise one thing. Try not to misunderstand me, and I'll see you out there. Outside these prison walls.

Sin seerly,

Two seventeen

oxazine

2009-11-17T18:53:00.001-08:00