Scoochathustra

On the Puff of Clouds

“I can’t help but remember you motherfuckers looking down your noses at me.”

Scoochathustra lies in a ditch, among ditches, not nearly the deepest.  But dark none the less.  His head bobs from the sober nausea of absent toxia swelling within.

“The moon would creep it’s way in here, like lovers choking each other, she’s convinced she wants my company.  But I’m not so bad off.  Simply, my light patter in the puff of clouds has sent me hugging the bottom-dwellers sick crease.  That tight corner, you know, where not breathing is because you’re dying.”

Scoochathustra wiggles his way around the dark crevices of the dry terrain.  Another land in another land on his way to the unknown.  Where once he sang of battles and fortresses, now has he forgotten his direction, his faith. By no compass for no compass, the passing months gleam red moon rays on the bloodied worry of our crawling light-corpse.  This man among men.  

“For all men are cowards and I am a coward.  Does this mean I’m afraid?  What do broad chests have to do with love?  Not edging, nor carving through the cages of hearts, nor width for my girth, for my leading chin, nor my grinning despairing cause, nor my flexing forearm, nor my curling twisting pit hair and all things evil grimacing, nor ugly mugging fucks — for my growling mistakes falling and crumbling, deepening the cracked earth — you massacre!  for I know great death! my fleeing honest spirit, while I chatter worth.  Forgive me my mother, you Earth, I forget how I breathe.  My selfish hyperventilating, my greed and lust for greed and hunting and killing and breaking all embracing and gazing, my stagnate cold dull stare, forcing my wasted selfish rage.  Not fresh breathing, my true love’s rage, this is nothing to do with justice; see how it praises the silence of others.  My sorrow grinds at me, in the back of my vision, a pounding, breaking heartache, for piss and spit, and long mindless boring words shared.  I know all there is to know while knowing nothing is the only knowing I’ve chosen to know.  I don’t want to be alone, verily is speaking my ripping, shredding throat, and my blood craving on and on my identity!  My constant fleeing, the lashing wind none forceful nor powerful anon to sway tears.  Not by pity you clean beast, you fucking liar, you’re not yourself, you’re a fucking    r  a ttt  I fucking know.”    

“Stay sharp, stay sharp, stay your course or run and hide because you promised him you would never leave him but you can’t stay

                   because you’ll die.”

Scoochathustra drags himself out for straightening his aching back.  He walks by the moon over the cracks, stepping over the moaning ascetics in the crevices below.  He picks up his pace, to jogging, to leaping, to sprinting and staring upward.  He tumbles over into his elation.  He lies on the Earth and stares at the moon.  His spirit dims in his diminuendo.

“Have I stumbled upon your great art — you follower.  Should I climb lower?  Should I indulge my hatred further?  You’ve discovered nothing. At all.  You’ve done nothing.  At all.  To die like this, to die is simply not to live, it is not a discovery, it is selfish and cowardice.  Like the Grim that sows by never reaping, for the dead are no longer dying.”

Scoochathustra stands and brushes himself off.  He finds his direction once more.  And once more he finds and finds and on his seeking ends by finding.  He gazes toward the giant piercing the clouds.  Such is the peak of giants.

“A mountain stares back at me from the distance, are you listening disease?  Trembling is for clawing and whimpering by the knees of the Earth, below and below.  But I’ll see myself kicking off the top of that mountain.  When I deceive plummeting.  Gravity, you devil, loose grip of me.  You must, I was not meant to chew on dirt forever.  All flowers must some day come up from the ground.”

Scoochathustra looks once more into you.  The same companion whose abandon is fraught with promise.

“Move on, you wind, or hither and carry with me these seeds for planting.  For anarchy and spirit, and all the unapologetic love. Let your love be unforgivable.  Let them bend and break, bring their faces to their feet.  Then, maybe, they’ll see the crushed flowers in their paths.”

He gathers himself and staggers in his forward steps.  A creeping bending gathers at his neck, such is the wariness of long travels.  He runs his finger along the wrinkles in his palms.  The crevices in his memories.  

“You artist seeking to destroy, destroy yourself, wipe away.  Create beyond and beyond.  Create from your skin, be sure you are bleeding, don’t steal red ink and call it blood.  Forget to see, remember to know.  Rally well and recall, how they tore your eyes from your head; it was only in darkness that I learned to reach out.  My wisdom born from within the former of the light without.  The nostalgia of old tastes moves me for new flavors.  No longer condemned to the limits of willfulness, I’m free.  I walk away when they brag they have my eyes.  I drag my fingers along the walls, I find my way out.  This crescendo deserves the world’s applause.  Stand and cheer for the only constant and forever—my love I sing to thee I pray thee I sing to thee—

Liberation, or nothing at all.”

Thus spoke Scoochathustra

On Us by Name

“There is no time, the world is just turning and moving.  The sun will be back.”  

Scoochathustra weeps as he sits on the top of a mountain.  And all the world below, and all the world below his feet.  

“‘Unto the white upturned wondering eyes of mortals who fall back to gaze on him.’  Aye me.  But Juliet, when I listen, you do not speak of life, or of the depth, or of the deepest of all thought.  You speak of tenderness, and in your caress, you flee.  Your boredom is suffocating but, when I say god, it is because I miss you.  Because I knew you once.  I walked with you.  And I held your hand.”

“But do not, world under my feet, do not move.  Do not end by going.  For when I say god, it is because I love you so much.  But time, on ending, on grabbing and slipping — I smile into my exhaustion, deep into my exhaustion.  I know you remember me, the brave do not forget.  And when I should find some peace I cannot so easily give it over to you.  Surrendering is for serenity, for not by war does one lose their warring.  The wolf watches me from caverns now.  She’d rather consume me in nights of sleep than days of waking.  A hunter of cowards is she that would not want me open-eyed.”

“Enough for you introductions, enough for the impressing and the sinking and the drop.  Pace yourself listener as you would for rhythm.  For when your soul hits the ground, this song would carry your feet from you.”

“I see it in the distance — the great impenetrable fortress, guarded by giants.  All tales of giants, they lift themselves beneath themselves when they stand upright, their knees bend like all cowards.  While the fortress they guard is as a temple, one praised to by distant lands, across vast oceans.  One that, for many, may not even exist.  But I can see it, over these mountains.  They think themselves living in a temple, though their enterprise denies the spirit.  What temple would do this?  Thus would I shake their ground and crumble their walls.  But life and patience, for now, I pace my journey.  All travellers know searching as finding knows travelling.  This fortress, guarded by giants, they would be the mouthpiece for voices to be spread across the world, they go on and on about it.  While they lie I crawl, I’ll die trying to break…it’s walls.  I’ll die.”

“They gaze out at the rest of us, false glory, as giants without gods.  Verily, we are all giants and gods, would that they hear the many footsteps that shake the world.  I would know, for I’ve killed giants before.  Their guards are nothing new to me.  And not by fear, for all giants were once small.  But their walls are high.  Not by climbing does one breach them, but by falling.  And sacrifice?  Is this the final fortress, or the one of many and the many of many?  If I cheat death, they would only be interested in my ghost.  They wouldn’t believe what I can do, I’d sworn it to myself as a child; The Secret Still Rests.  Some artists try as some artists do as some artists are.  The cursed ones are.  But what do I know of art?  My worn heels aren’t yet enough.  My feet will be bones by the time I reach them.”

“I can smell all the war in this land — the stench is nauseating.  But I sleep best in war.  Verily, war steals children from their childhood.  As if the fight were some choice.  Why are we here if no one sent us?  I’ve been training for this all my life, never knowing why.  Some child still dwells within me, climbing trees and loving everything.  But he cries when he thinks of scarring, he sees the wound in my chest.  But when I say god, I fight.”

“I’ve fought monsters, the groaning, disgusting State.  I’ve fought giants, the defenders of their own virtue.  I’ve fought gods, the devil is one and he seduces me still.  For all gods, and giants, and monsters, they war in cunning ways.  I remember the first god, he bullied my mother, he became Capital.  He bullied my brother, he bullied all the world.  He chained my father by his throat.  I remember, for when my father could not breathe he could not speak.  And I know you Capital, I know you devil, I see you both a liar and the mightiest of all hope’s love.  But I’m not the deceived, I love life too much.  I stood at the cliff of giving in.  I was young, I defended the world against that devil.  Too young to know my enemy, but I held against his strike.  He wanted my shield down, but I held it up.  And I crouched, I remember, just before my knee.  But I never knelt.”

Scoochathustra looks away from the distance ahead.  He looks beside him — nothing but jaggedness and cliffs.

“Of romance, for that love I feel to the empty air.  This air has been empty for so long.  Air should not be empty, it is matter, it should feel different.  But this air is empty.  I know it by my deep breaths.  Nothing fills my lungs.  Nothing fills me.  Where is the blame?  My dishonest lungs in my over full chest?  Or is it you?  Did you lie to me when you said you were free and floating about as a speck?  Remember?  You said the breeze moved you, for you were dust.”

Scoochathustra swipes away the pebbles nearby him.  As a child by frustration, he moves to change only that which he can.  And with only pebbles moved, all else remains unmoved.

“Another shift, and the shadows reach to me, but I don’t like to hide.  They promise darkness.  Darkness promises silence, whose time promises light, whose promises promise promise.  And fervor follows, it always follows me, it prefers me moving.  The light bends by my eye, a perfect gentle secret that now I can see, that’s how I remember to open my eyes.  Until the next shadow, until I am nothing but shadows.  Would that I slip well into the darkness, and deny promise the virtue of knowing me.  But what about you?  When I say god, you shrug and chatter and lie and pretend.  I know romance as I know art.  Too well.  Believe me when I say god, for I know love, and we’ll perish by our truth before long.”

Scoochathustra breathes in, his face full by the sun.  The sun that moves too slow for his speech, and feigns ending before the darkness.

“Come now loneliness, you must still have some courage in you.  You must.  You fought the devil when you were a boy.  You must know warmth within this chill.  Don’t let 

     them steal you from me courage.  It’s me.  Connor.”  

Thus Spoke Scoochathustra

On the Coldness and the Fire

“Every town they smile and cry at me, all at once.  My eyes search and search, begging, pleading for fire.  Burn this down.  Burn this down!  This can’t be it.  Burn it down.”

“Why are you only in the cracks?  Both you gods and demons.  I’m sure your subtlety plays its role, while its game makes martyrs of friends.  These dull fucking souls.  What is wrong with me?”

“I cannot dwell in my resentments, I’m not ready to die yet.  One man spoke to me, in the town that smiles and cries, every town, all these towns, of a distant place.  A place where all people united, in mass, against everything; for all things are now corrupt.  They fought back, if fighting is to sake for sake.  In their shouting they clenched their fists, but I swear their fists never left their side.  But by all tedious tales and accounts overgrown, my longing eyes averted, too many distant tales.  None close enough.  And I shift back and forth, waiting, training, gritting my teeth, shattering my teeth.  My skin is always in my way.  My bones break too easily, my chest breaks too easily.  I remember the thought, when we practice rhythm every day, are we not flawless when we move?  When we dance, when we fight, when we kill.  My steps stumble, a thousand times they stumble.  Of-course not — am I fighting alone?  My old friends coddle me with jokes.  And we laugh.  But I don’t fucking cry when I laugh.”

Scoochathustra stumbles out of a town.  The same that winked and seduced him by society, by audience.  His eyes are not his own, they want.  And so calms the constant piercing darts of longing.  His eyes settle into the darkness of the woods.  The forest only there by promise, the fixation a compromise and love for the minute and insignificant.  For all insignificance is everything and significant.

“And while I wander I reach to my side.  I’d like your feet to stomp on my own in this awkward shuffle along.  For bruising my feet teaches me how to walk with you.”

“But for the sickness that has me now by my throat.”

“As I spin, as I dance, I see you Mara.  Thus would this slow dance become a brawl, thus would I have of all my conversations.  I see you Mara, you lurker.  You’ve shamed me by my shadow.  You told me it was love.  And now a drunkenness plays at my wavering eyes.  God you sweet sickness, god you illness you coldness and death.”

“Would you take me from my family?  My friends?  My dreams?  You are the coldest of all cold monsters.  So my teacher spoke and stole me from my rest.  Thus he ended and denied his virtue.  Virtue you lie.  There’s more to me, and to us, and as long as we speak in us, we stay by nothing and are kept from beyond.  I release you Mara.  You cunning suicide.”

“All is not lost.  I’ve not lit the torch, I’ve not burned this town.  It stands.  I know it by the chattering and whistling and nothing and going behind me.  Behind me.  Sharp forest tear my skin as I walk once more into you.”

Scoochathustra walks away.

“I love you screaming.  I am present most in you.  Society quiets me, calms me, slows me down.  Stares at me in odd ways.  Stands distant, remains curious, but distant.  My swelling and aching is not for shame, not for sneering and applause.  I was once surrounded by a lover of life.  Ah unto the lovers of life.  Ah unto the flames that burst from me.  Ah unto flames and all stars that burn bright.  For births in ashes and warmth.  Scorch the stagnation, and in your vastness, something new.”

Scoochathustra walks towards the tree, so many trees, and he walks to the one.  The one that impales him.  The branch breaks his sternum, it tears open his heart.    His chest wide open.  For days, it is wide open.

He, again, opens his eyes.

“I know love.  And freedom.  I know peace.  Peace is quiet, as a cloud, and it rests over the world.  It does not deny the world.  It floats, and rests.  It will fill and pour before long.”

Scoochathustra sinks into the branch.  Further and further he presses it through his chest.

“My grandmother, a lovely woman, she knows where I am now.  My uncle, a brilliant man, he knows where I’ve been.  My family is alive, in different towns, far away towns, and for me, nowhere near.  I walked away from them.  As I walked away from the chattering behind.  I speak of people you don’t know, but we’ve all known all people.”

“I am the culprit, I set this branch through me.  If I pull away, I will bleed out.  But fire.”

Scoochathustra strikes flint, he sets the tree ablaze.

“Fire only knows to burn what is not fire.  For stars are fire and I am fire.  It burns inside me now.  It burns around my heart.  All our lives are saved, when ashes are all things.  You call yourself an anarchist?  Will you bleed for it?  Or will you sink as all souls as no souls and nothing?   You cry compassion, but want nothing to do with its defense.  Nothing to do with truth and love.  Fervor and justice.  For your revolution should bring your knowledge to everyone, and your uniqueness should die in the war for equality.  But in your power inadequacy, you escape into fear by that same chiding unknown easy romance.  That nihilism that promises you victory by knowing the truth and dying.  If you know it, give it back.  The revolution is free.  And your humanity, it asks you to move, to question, and to sacrifice your cunning nothing, wiping the glaze from your eyes.  There’s a reason your change looks the same.  The new freedom is sacrifice, is without comfort, is without sanity.  If you believed in your freedom becoming common, you would know you can not stay above or below.  For you would share your love, and in giving, perish.”  

“I love this faith that wants me dead.  To die for something greater than yourself, I shake, I hunger, would that the honor were mine.  That which is original and beyond, for these new paths, can you imagine?  Can you create?  To speak of this, this is the world to me.  For when I draw blood I will see the world drowned in it.  Fuck old guns, I want revolution.  And I carry a knife in my pocket.”

Thus Spoke Scoochathustra

On the Old Summer

“For nights are days and life is mine.  And chances are choices, for groaning and mistakes I am the first from the hill.  Leaping from my passing, my eyes are lies – telling me and finding me for every cloud that makes its sound by passing!  Float on!  I make my way by skies and hills and fields and rivers are mine I make my way.  I’ve not moved for weeks.  This thick fucking mud.”

Scoochathustra makes his perch on the top of a hill.  The tallest in the distant, crowded land.  Towns and lights wink at him over the dark horizon.  The sun has gone, and so the night’s forest crowds the exposed shoulders of our bending man.  He hunches over himself to see it all better.

“Why call you upon tastes and flavors?  All spices, for you, are of the same root.  But poetry.  My words miss the dance.  For when we were kicking off mountain tops at such great heights.  And when I fall my landing will be stomping.  And the earth that shatters and the world that resonates by the universal chord, and the moon and the stars for dragging on and on for gratitude and our light – blinding while it shines.  In darkness.  Am I the rise or fall?  For when heels make paths like these, what new cliffs will the wanderers climb?  What oceans will steal the rain?”

“But for battle by walking in the world.  For crooked economies by all economies being crooked.  For brutalizers and all things lastly and ending, I’d rather be a warrior.  And wait to forget you.”

“I’d rather die here, screaming with my mouth shut.  My enemies mock me when my back is turned.  They laugh at my pace, my awkward gait, my small frame.  When we circle, I’ll not meet their eyes, I won’t want them in my dreams.  Their death is sooner than mine.”

Scoochathustra stands, his eyes above the sky.

“Be not gone from my aching.  Our visions are not so distant, you and I.  You wolf, you lion.  Let me sink in the ocean.  For it was my heels that dug it.”

Scoochathustra leaps from his perch.  He collapses into a momentum.  He rolls down the hill, colliding into rocks and brush.  His momentum slows and he kicks up to his feet.  Hunched over not by frustration, now for humility, he spits the blood from his teeth.

“I miss the taste of  blood in my mouth.  It reminds me how I fight.  Fucking relentless.”

Scoochathustra stands.  And walks.  And smiles into his exhaustion.  Deep into his exhaustion.

“Find your strength by the north.  For when I look up I see all and none.  For what I cannot see that pulls me upward.  God be with me.  For these stories that never end.  And for our ghosts, that make tracks by our heels, and play and nip at our elbows, I love you for your passing.  The new freedom calls upon loneliness and discontent, for new change only knows enemies in a sea of old friends.  It caresses their romance that never climbs.  Their romance that sits and stares, and cries nostalgia and cries the end.  That’s not for us.  The lonely ones.”

He wipes the blood from his cheek.  The scar under his eye. 

“Look at the dark horizon.  Have you ever seen light that does not move?  We will make even the shadows dance.  When we change the world.”

“For the exhale that remembers, for the inhale that ripens my soul.  Never forget me old summer.”

Thus Spoke Scoochathustra

On the Nothing and Going

“I could die for you.”

“The eyes of the gods part from me, forget me by my hatred.  Revenge.  For I do not bow by gods for I do not bow by men.  For when my humility has broken my knees I will know the dirt by its warmth.  Take me, take my anger, take my disgust.  Swallow the dirt for your loathing Scoochathustra, you will know death before too long.”

“These children dance around me as butterflies and lost and forever they will dance.  But their beauty fades, darkens, becomes shamed by their lies.  I hate the discussion of truth and lies, you perspectives, not but perspectives.  I know you liars, for cowards blot out the sun with their cloudiness.  Ah the blue sky and bright sun, where are you?  Would that they spill out, these clouds, into wretched earth, the dirt would swallow you along with me.  That is where we belong.  Heads on sticks, these playgrounds are battlegrounds.  Are wars are games are chides and chiding.  God for the coming and going, nothing in the coming and going.”

“But for waste for all things unmoved, free me, I take leave of these tiny relationships.  A greatness makes tracks in the distance.  I was born with unfathomable love, and when you gave me knowledge, I swear, if I had it my way, all you motherfuckers would be dead.  For treachery in this wilderness, that cunning resentment and suffering and moaning, I will live and for all things unmoved, you that seek to tire me, my blade will open you.  I look back, a sickness and empathy dulled.  If I had it my way, grab me by the throat and kiss me, that my breath were stolen and mouth were shut.”

Scoochathustra scrapes his teeth along the rocks in the mud.  His feet glide steadily in the air.  For his head that drags through the mud, must his feet be above and without gravity.  The earth would see him swallowed for his digging.  Thus does one walk among the coming and going of friends and strangers, thus does one defy their facts by dreaming.  On the creation of truth, not for coward empirics by nothing objectivity, there is no gravity, none.

“Have you seen my fists in the sun!  They break the spirits of tyrants one and more and all are none for my fists!  For all war do I crease by my thumb, an instant is a mere instant when all truths lie prostrate in war.  If I, wave, my hand, all the cities wipe away.”

Scoochathustra lands to his feet.  He sprints through the trees.  He sprints toward the end.  For the god that peeks at him as the sun blinking through branches.  Tears flee Scoochathustra’s eyes, they are gone as they come.  For his speed, old desperation, he sprints to the end of the trees.

“To the end of the trees!  I could die for you.  Revenge, god revenge are you with me?  What wisdom robs you from me, have I learned to live and not die.  For life must I, go under, and for that must I, beyond romance, leave you.  I have left, I am gone.  I knew when I was a boy, beyond the end of the trees, of all things beautiful, of all things love.  I was alone when I knew, I remember, no one was there.  Or were there all and none at once?  Were they shadows or ancestors with me?  What could I ever know of loneliness?  For mothers and grandfathers that hold my trembling heels in the mud.”

Scoochathustra runs faster, kicks harder.

“I see none but an endlessness, just curled roots and twisting trees.  Just trees.  My soul aches by the beauty, the perfect chaos, the design in the leaves.  The wind and the sounds, the wisdom and peace.  For hollowness is not emptiness, rather a shelter for living.  Thus does one do more than sleep.  Verily these days my heart cannot find its way out of its cage.  Why is it always my chest?  For it is my chest that I move I swear.  This forest moves me.”

“If I reach down now, the world will shift by me.  As I grab the earth, it is clear to me, that the world will move.”

“Have you, silent passenger, come with me this far?  Can you hear the buzzing in your ear?  Can you hear the rhythm?”

Scoochathustra stops dead in his tracks.

“Look at the bouncing sunlight ahead.  See how it prances through the branches toward me.  For us does it dance.  Do you believe me intolerant?  I find myself the same too often these days.  You must know there is more.  I know there is.  And so long as it remains art, we are all kept in.”

“But why would I close my eyes now?  Breathe.  Not for revenge, hold, for more.  Revenge is back there.  This is frenzy, comes to silence and reflections, reflections are always boring.  I dash from my limbs as the murder of all innocence in industry.  Their farms and commodities make useful pivoting and parallel.  My breaths become weak, this fatigue is sabotage.  I can still taste the dirt in my mouth.  I may have swallowed too much this time.”

“What is my howling and clawing for blood?  Where does that come from?  I have left these secrets behind long ago.  Do you think that I caress my words for passions and floating about?  Am I the liar of liars whose throne’s taste has gone sour.  For liars that kiss the feet of king liars know the taste best.  The eyes of animals beam still from me, as they did when I first met my enemy; humanity.  Not by softness does one remove a sword from their chest.  By the weight of age do I know, how exposed I’ve been and remain to be.  For these days do I strip my armor, do I strip my clothes and my skin from my bones.  In comfort, I know my truth that wants me dead.  What quality of life?  You would not believe my gratitude for anger, as those in padded cells whom tear away to the cement behind the cushion.  They embrace their chaos while others sleep in their tomb.    Would that original freedom wash the dried blood from my fingers.  Reveal my scars I take leave of heartlessness and knowledge.  This scratching turns to chewing, turns to battering, turns to brokenness.”

Scoochathustra looks down.  He reaches for the earth.  Once his palm is firm and flat, he motions for its movement.  He looks up to see if the sky has moved.

“What dream am I in now?”

He gets down on his knees.  His jaw rests, his eyes fill, searching, gazing outward, to the end of the trees.

“Be with me now.  Something beautiful comes our way.”

A lion joins him by his side, and sits.  Scoochathustra rests his head in the golden coat of his companion.

Thus Spoke Scoochathustra

On the Wolf and the Whale

“Would that my heart be the stunning attention of all things in this, the aggressive displacement of illusion.  For you I cannot, for the world I can, verily, am I the fool, the unknown and desperate.  The one who by the Earth sinks, this aching distracts my romance.”

“Would that I gaze outward while the beasts moan.  The beasts!  They promised me attention and hopelessness all at once.  Their attention is hopeless.  They chide and caress, shattering all destination, all gravity sworn as quality and appeal.  These cuts and bruises make for tasteful dining, you hounds and howlers, perhaps by haps my mistakes take graves as friends.  A dancing thoughtful tone abhors itself cold, ruthless, and cunning, it begs of me to lose me.”

“I do not know how to love what is not great.  Never is anything great enough.  I do not know how to love.”

“By nights I am the aggregate of some resounding momentum.  One that I cannot forget.  One that I do not understand.  It takes me under I swear it.  Not by choice does one lose everything for nothing.  This nothing stands bewildered and ashamed, it is only a verse and not a song.  Not but for cheating, it steals all intentions and offers unwanted truth.  I curl into the arms of my fleeting sanity, the arms of my distant displeasure, verily, serenity is crushing heart break.  Thank god.”

“All reason begs my attention.  ’For you I protect,’ thus it sounds, ‘for you that have died, I protect you, I am a friend.’  And for it, and for all, give me peace, and in that by freedom, give me solitude.”

“Solitude from reason.  Solitude.  What age did knowledge exit me?  For the bored and full-stomached would I pretend to display myself as tragedy.  But for all callers, those lovers of life and lovers of love, ah unto the aging fathom of one another.  It’s all absolutely absurd.  What is happening?  What is happening?”

Scoochathustra knows the road by its eager quiet pace.  He drags the heaviness of his legs, as they paint mountains by intention, and pitfalls by forgetfulness.

 ”Their eyes make for sharp revenge.  I can feel them digging into the palm of my chest, the moment when this energy yearns and denounces its aim.  I speak on the great unseen, the connected and the longing, by hopes and dreams, these smiling dreams.  No eye forgives me, not one that has met my own.  This I know by the frown hiding in the peak in its corner, it must be confused, or some shape of fear makes a window to their pain.  By peering memories do I pretend to know anything, I collapse by misunderstanding, thus does my hypocrisy want my humility.  While elsewhere, I gaze outward, an unknown shade of darkness stares back at me.  It promises me loathsome sentiments and lonely death.  I welcome all that knows me best, and thus, do I love the shade for its darkness.  Not for the absence of light, but rather, the empirics that exit as the blind eye relinquishes trust.”

Scoochathustra comes to the edge of ocean, once again.  A beach he’s never known and always dreamt of.  When out of the dancing specks of the sun glimmers an image he’s never met.  For in the ocean floats a wolf, on the back of a whale.  Such is the loud hunger of our man.  

“When I was a child, I am a wolf.”

“The wisdom of a wolf sings to me as the calm hero after her fight.  Thus do all wolves intend for this friend of whales, they whose survivalism is beyond nature.  Beyond want and pleasure, or meager or the petite expression.  Wolves the keen murder of mockery and discompassion.  I can tell by the wit in their eyes.  Thus do their howls make men’s violence shiver by thunder.  Whales the serene beauty and grand life.  I can tell by the calm in their eyes.  Thus do they move the world by their glide.  For these travelers at once gestures hugs and smiles into my own, they tell me of their ocean.  Or so would I plead universality with their wandering.  That all things there are similar to all things on the dry Earth.  Not that social, relentless turning out of my stomach’s laughter, not by games - not here! - but by our enraged resilience for life and fervor!  You the wolf, you know of this war, I am a warrior and a lover of war.  Thus love my war or do as others do, and soak in the stench of arrogant peace by no subtle distance.  Verily is my broken foot my cripple, by condemning the failed movement, while I stomp as do children when they see what we’ve done.  Shun me not by my limping.  You the wolf, you the whale, you know of me so little and verily does one pine.  While impatiently, for this little that you know of me by hastened moments have you understood me.  As do our souls as do stars.  In so forth, we speak of spirits by moments.  For these spirits dwell by hiding in the chattering discourse, the nothing and going.  They hide in the pauses, the beats, the glances.  And when some truth has made its way into the nothing and going, they glide through us and they breathe us they breathe us!  This wolf speaks to me, loves me, welcomes me and exits.  Such is the kind of wolf that would make friends with the epic whale.  Such are those that move the world.”

“Are you with me absent listeners?  Know that all stories have truth and tales and tales have lies and jest and distort.  All perception is your own to conquer, and by my brow, do not exhaust your sweat.  Save it for the race, the endless parade of the fortunate, you consumers and liars.  I love you.  Though I know nothing of how to love you.  I must.  For the wolf that leaves me after the morning has gone.  I must.  I could sleep forever in your absence.  For I know you exist.”

“The world has not ended, but for me, I will know it I know.  Sweet end, sweet overcoming.  When will the fight be enough?  For when all fighting goes over, I am the lion whose faint tracks it lusts after.  By lions for lions, for wolves and whales and all creatures gone under.  And for you beasts!  What creature are you!?  What form have you taken!?  What have you become?  I’ve asked you here a thousand times.  I would have it here in my chest!  I would dig your sword deep into me!  Break past the skeleton you cowards your blade dug deep through me until I am not but blood and unrecognized!  End me!  You are fruit, and you hang by your birth!  I know!  I was there, I know your art, I am the fucking roots.  God I am the roots.”  

Thus Spoke Scoochathustra    

On the Sky

On the Pregnant Star

“I met god in the rain last night.”

Scoochathustra has found himself a river. He is not alone. And so he drifts. Gazing upward.

“Words bent on promise for hope and reason decry on empty stomach. No chests, nor voice, nor inspire, nor fathom unto the passions. The masses groan and drag their hearts. I am pulled outward by my virtues, a cancer and a dear friend. The animal flesh in their mouths, the fashion on their backs, the capital in their palms, the ego in their throat, the hatred in their vision, the disdain in their taste. The intellect stampede eclipses this light into darkness; I love my enemies for their lessons. The austere grandeur, a flight of synapses into silence. A deaf melody dances these tears from me.”

“As I fear sanity, as I drown in it, my lungs swell by open eyes. A slow crawl, a truth by default. For when I hate my revolution, I hate my truth. Ah the nation, the capital, the society; the nightmare. Histrionics have some purpose for the bored and full-stomached, these dreams sleep in them. Dare not to wrinkle eyelids and stretch out your gaze, you the whimsical dandelion choking on purpose. You in the sea of yellow flowers, you that would grow highest and beg mercy from storm. Would that we reached down to our roots, and find them entangled, and find ourselves ancient lovers.”

The river has become shallow. And so sinks our man. And so he rests on the riverbed unmoved by his clenched breath, the waters running over his face. The cold, restless current knowing peace better than his quietest sleep.

“How curious, the night has frozen all around me. A child, a complacency has taken my love within its hands. And I am grateful for the storms and sunburns. The deserved memories, the aches that rest. Ah strength bursting from my chest.”

“Ah my peace that whispers in me for war. By serenity I will never forget the atrocities. A fate by slow flood. No victory and so this without bests my ego; all souls forgotten. Lost in the impossibilities of justice. Their white teeth embolden my violence. Their crooked, bleeding laughter. The gut-stench of their fear. A disease, a loyalty to sickness. A pride in the nothingness that starves them. A hunger with swollen bellies full. Verily, an originality deviates from our unity in resistance. A unity I’ve never known and always loved. An originality I will die for.”

“Nor, you crumbling mountains, will I ever forget to live. For my company whose lips sooth my face. By whispers and kisses, by mocking solitude, by songs that banish routine. And for my dreams, my secret momentum. And for Artemis, for her unbridled courage echoing into me. For those that journey with me, the puddle the thorns and the fly. For the tiny footprints I see behind me moving ever closer to my own; they seem to hunger after my wandering.”

“For my brother who has freed me. For yesterday he grabbed me by the throat and stared into me. He told me I am full of poison. He showed me where the fangs entered me with venom. He was calm and steady. He breathed in deep and filled my collapsed soul. For lions do not fall by snakes.”

“We shall see to the bottom of this dark well.”

Scoochathustra stands and gasps for breath. He looks to the moon that is hidden by rain clouds. He looks over to you. His blank stare full.

“A greatness is in us. The moon and I. We tug on each other. A madness claims me by hope. Death the crescendo. You will know me by my gravity. You will forget me by my flight.”

Thus Spoke Scoochathustra

On the Wide-Eyed

“The night walks on me. The day’s hope crashes to my feet. My fight, their settling, my gut thunders and turns. The fury routine dwindles and empties. The day comes and I am once again at the whim of the all. A curse hacks and claws at my shoulders, it stands on me and smiles.”

Scoochathustra walks in the mist of an empty rain. The clouds chiding at the faint, blinking sun. He has turned from the town behind him. He has been asked to leave.

“The pious want and concern after the nothing. Critiquing the living as dead while the illusion of the dead lives. Forced and moving, thralls of nothing climbing the hills after the commodity hero. The golden fields, the sun blanketed wheat waving in the wind, covered in the blood of false enemies, drowning in claim wars, ego and tradition. The great kingdom, the sword, the quill, the tale, the scar on my face. These story’s conclude our own, these outcomes are not ours. Your living turned to learning turned to listening turned you mute. The account of logic, your denial rationalized, hailing mystery, and lying you down in the morning before the day. The united misery, the forgotten lessons. The false vulnerable, the endless sleep, O how we impress our fear by mocking our truth.”

Scoochathustra collapses to weep. He looks up to the solitude of his road. He sees the field surrounding him offers no path, no company. He sees nothing in all the possible.

“Great confidence, born from falling off the cliffs of the soul; given up, verily does one move forward. Exhaustion drags out the spirit from the beast, washes its hands and caresses its sores. A humming purpose whispers in my ears, that childhood destiny resounding and brilliant. A wind beckons me by champion at my back. You belong in the painting, you belong to the art. You the hero, you the all-too-human, you the dancing soldier. I stare into myself. All my past lives fought and died for, of martyrs, they scribble, should one’s own self be loved. Of cause, they scribble, we will soon forget this freedom. And in the recollection I fathom. I feel the warmth of my eyes sooth into tears. Ah the untamed, wide-eyed sensation, compromising disdain, and pleading momentum. All tricks for words, no ears makes for fruitful nudity. Romance. I belong to you. I belong to the lions, I belong to the sun. Across the field a greatness gazes back at me. You with your fist at your chest. You are beautiful.”

Scoochathustra stands up. A song fills him. An ancient one. He looks at the dried blood on his wrinkled fingers. The cracks bruising and sore. He smiles and walks.

“They won’t have it though, they won’t have us painting visions. Not until the consumption parade achieves alternatives as relief; not until the clock, the whistle, and the race break their legs.”

“There’s no time to lose, all has been lost, all will be lost, we must move. We must move into the next loss. The modern propose on bended knee, the ancient propose in kisses and longing. I am awake, and I see death all around me. Ah wisdom, impermanence, breath. Of all the disenchanted forgotten, the innate survives, and breath keeps rhythm; the chest fills and empties. The future is a myth.”

“And I still believe in us.”

Thus spoke Scoochathustra.