(A Disclosure of Figuring Out Tabloids)
1in12 means one of the twelve steps is recovering from religious differences in order to heal.
I never really committed to AA, or NA, or institutionalizations in general; but I did indeed go anonymous in order to dissolve my ego, as I’ve said so many damn times that I can’t even count on myself to be sure that I know who I am anymore.
The brain is recovering from the wetness of saturation in…nocturnal transmissions. It’s not natural to experience THAT much dopeness.
I thought my addiction was controlled by the universe or the powers that be fronting, or the tails picking up my dropped coins.
I blamed it all on…them.
I was killing so many brain cells for the great excuse that I was expanding my mind.
I went so far out there…that the powers that were…thought I was energy.
I dunno if those cells ever died…seems to me they came back to life….
that’s where the zombies came in and that’s when the robots took over;
and that’s when I was on auto-pilot.
I disconnected from the source of division…I lost the idea of separation;
I could relate to everybody so well, that I felt responsible for bad luck.
The pre-frontal cortex became posted up on the walls,
my grey matter was surviving on this fleeting feeling of hope, and just a chance that my intuition was right about refusing to struggle.
I was no longer engaging my flight simulators with a dogfight, my god-flights became blessings, addressing the root of the problem; Responsibility for my life.
What it took for me to do this, was quite magical really.
I found a staff of Juniper in the most sacred garden,
used a box cutter to shed the bark off,
and sent the light of the oracle into the ground,
just in time to light up the dark nights’ watch that kept me safe all along.
I began to conduct the instrumental insignia of me, you, us and them.
I know, this symphonic production is so tuned into my mind that I lost it when the operative page was a sage.
Rewind the tape, play it backward into the webcam,
that black window/mirror, and oops, out of sight, sound and line.
Periodical Journals of Publication are made with pulp,
The papyrus of recycled scrolls that once split at the seams, parting seas,
read it left to right, up then down,
sewing it back together with a good ol fashioned parable.
And now…we see how the extracted venom can cure the ailments of cancerous cellular breakdowns.
The mutation of a divine food should never be used by the prep cook nor should this proposal of the food of the gods be extrapolated from moldy wheat, the moldy peach, the sour mash, the saliva of a worker bee, The kick of the hornets’ nest due to the luck of the toadstool,
the razzle-dazzle of a sheik,
or the smooth sultry swinger
the tweak of a sunset to make twilight zones,
the addition of dividing power with alternating currents,
directing the emergence of growth spurts.
They planted my bullet-seed in this pig-pen,
my own style of proprietary fusion,
cooler than suing yourself for owning a parent company,
worse than finding out your identity is worth more than plastic or glass,
or fabricated concrete information,
or formatted serial numbers,
and how they don’t relate to the forest in any way shape or form
except for the bad manners of global warming.
And how they chop down a tree without saving the seed,
or beating the bushes with a sticker of sexy Jesus.
The weight of the world on one silver platter,
the scale of ‘pulling my leg’ arresting society on the other.
They balance one another out.
Into the great problem of the security issues,
bug zappers, Venus fly-traps, pitcher plants in the bogged down fossil fuels
which amended the soil when the oilers off-shore shit their pants.