It has been too long,
and I have been too far gone,
The person there with you in that cave is a representation,
In some ways they were all holograms, all variants
more valuable but harder to find, although worthless after time.
No, I have been here in this pit, surrounded by the remains of beasts,
their insides form rigid diagrams of their power.
I went to the past looking for proof of something: validity, authenticity, power (I forget)
and wound up mesmerized by the mammoths and their implied sway.
I thought about them lumbering and bellowing,
I wanted to bring them back to life, to reanimate them.
Imagine, parades of these zombie mammoths churning through suburban America.
Fat, beastly feet crashing down on Super Target.
Carts-a-flying, babies screaming, mothers crying, a sea of red,
it would be utter chaos but it was deserved, a necessary catalyst to epiphany-
I am already off track. My vectors are skewed.
I wanted to tell you about tar babies and I end up talking about mammoths.
Don't even send words my way, I'm beyond earshot.
These babes are black and deader, a shield of black muck blocking transmissions.
When I move my arms, they are followed by long ominous tendrils that suck up into my follicles, forming beautiful trails that exist only for me to enjoy.
I want to show them to you,
but what if you don't understand?
Do you see my piles? They are all so random, so ambiguous.
I have surrounded myself with this random disordered junk to create a semblance of a whole.
All these bits and baubles, collages and drawings,
beads and twigs and fur and meat - to you they don't mean a thing.
But they mean something to me, and they mean something to her and they mean something to him.
But, that's another subject for another time, these piles and their meaning is secret.
It is much more fun that way. It should help you understand my frustrations, my fears.
Not what they are, but that I have them.
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I am neck deep in this black muck tar pit now.
I flail when I get scared and this causes me to sink.
So I am still. I am thinking that I have devised a plan:
There's a channel, a long circular groove that rises up along the rim of this pit.
I must find stone or a file, something to sharpen my fingertips,
to form them into sharp icy hot knives,
and tap something out, send you some vibrations that resonate up through the sky,
broadcasting to let you know that I could use some assistance.
You should bring some fire, something hot to burn this tar off my skin,
then we shall burn all these bones to make a great pile of dust,
if we mix this dust with water, we should have some mortar,
and we can build a structure that is even stronger than before
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PS: I SHOULD HAVE POINTED THIS OUT A LONG TIME AGO, BUT DIDN'T - IT IS A PICTURE OF PAUL NEWMAN(R.I.P.) WITH A PINK TRIANGLE ON HIS HEAD, NOT JAMES DEAN. EAT IT.
ALSO, TAKE A MOMENT TO CHECK THE SMALL PRINT ON THE "ABORTION SUCKS DICK" DRAWING.
WERE YOU TOO AFRAID TO GET UP CLOSE TO THE ARTWORK OR JUST TOO ANGRY?
PPS: SOMETIMES, I WISH THERE WAS SUCH A THING AS "ALLER CAPS"